The Missing Matisse Page 7

  “No.”

  “Why not?” The tone of her voice softens.

  “I’m staying with you,” I answer more gently, yet still full of conviction.

  She is no longer telling me anymore; now, she is pleading. “This is out of the question.”

  Tata picks up the phone by her night table and dials the concierge. “Madame Bigot, could you please be kind enough to come up to escort Pierre safely into the shelter?”

  The sirens stop screaming. All is silent. The concierge arrives, a little short of breath from climbing the four flights of stairs much too fast.

  “Pierre, down you go,” the concierge states. “One, two, into the shelter, let’s get cracking. Now!”

  When I refuse to move, she slaps me. I turn my back to her and face Tata. Then the concierge lands a perfect shot in the middle of my behind with her foot.

  “I am not going. I will not go! I am staying with Tata.”

  “Obstinate, eh?” she says. A second sharp slap from her burns my other cheek.

  “I am not going, Madame Bigot,” I mumble between my tears. “Tata needs me. My duty is here.”

  “Mademoiselle Escousse, we’d better face it. He will not go.”

  The concierge gives me a knowing smile as she turns to leave. She understands it’s my duty.

  It is dark and strangely silent for a while. Then we hear a faint annoying noise coming from somewhere in the night that grows steadily.

  Soon noisy airplane engines are roaring in the sky—lots of them. Far away, heavy anti-aircraft guns start firing. On a roof close to us, an ack-ack gun begins shooting a barrage of tracer bullets, punctuating the sky with a deadly rhythm. Now the roar of the planes and the blast of the guns become louder, while at the same time we hear the unmistakable whistling sound of bombs falling, just above our heads, it seems.

  “Pierre, my darling, get me a glass of water, please.”

  Tata’s voice is firm, without a trace of fear, while I am hopelessly shaking from head to toe. I go to the kitchen and see that the glasses on the shelves are shaking too. I take one, fill it up, turn around, and spill its contents on the floor, so I go back and fill it again. This time I make it back to Tata without losing a drop. It’s a small victory over my fear.

  “Thank you, dear. Now, come sit here on the bed with me.”

  “No! I want to sit on the chair,” I say in desperation, trying to control my panic and shaking. I know that the shelter would be the safest place to be, but I will not go down there without my beloved Tata.

  “Not on the chair, Pierre. On the bed.”

  Slowly, I obey her. I know that I will shake the whole bed, which, to my shame, I do. Tata takes my quivering hand and proceeds to tell me a story.

  “In 1643, at the Battle of Rocroi during the Thirty Years’ War, General Condé is mounted on his horse, surrounded by his staff of officers. The enemy batteries—much too close for comfort—are firing. Shells are falling all around and coming closer.”

  She pauses, then raises her voice a decibel so that I can hear her over the noise that is getting louder outside. “General Condé’s whole body shakes a lot worse than yours does now.”

  She stops. Something whistles high above our heads.

  “It is a bomb, Pierre.” Her voice is calm as she squeezes my hand more firmly. There is a bright flash, and the windows vibrate from an infernal noise. We hear plates in the kitchen fall from the cupboards, shattering on the floor. Above the pom-pom of the guns, Tata continues her history lesson.

  “Every staff officer is looking at General Condé. He turns to them and firmly states, ‘Body, shake as much as you want, because if you knew where I am going to take you, you certainly would shake even more.’ Then he gives the orders to move even closer to danger.”

  We hear more whistling, followed by explosions and flashes of light. The walls shudder, and more glass shatters.

  Finally, the dreaded engines’ roar fades away. The silence of the night returns. After a few minutes, the siren announces that the danger has passed. We have survived another bombing raid.

  IN THE STREETS OF PARIS, panic reigns supreme. Rumeurs du jour are served all day long.

  “We have been betrayed,” says the taxi driver.

  “There are spies everywhere,” a street merchant tells us.

  “In Belgium, the Boches have bayoneted babies,” the street sweeper states with conviction while leaning on his broom.

  “Their tanks are huge. They run over everybody in the roads,” the postman tells us.

  I join the war effort by putting my artistic talent to something useful. I participate in a national contest to create a patriotic poster. Mine depicts a French couple (the man wears a traditional beret), both dressed in blue, white, and red, dancing on a broken black swastika. I am quite certain I will be the number one poster artist.

  When the jury chooses a different design, I tell Tata, “The contest is rigged by undercover spies who are all over France.”

  We hear contrary news reports from the front lines, all of which are unsettling. Newspapers have big blank spaces in them, officially censored by the French government. Not only is there nothing to read, we can’t believe anything there is to read anymore.

  However, one thing is clear: The war situation is going from bad to worse. The roads all around Paris are jammed with refugees from Belgium and the northern part of France. The refugees travel south in cars, horse carts, and on foot, carrying a few prized possessions. These poor people have the horrors of war etched on their faces.

  Throughout France, an indescribable panic with a capital P rumbles through us all. The desperate hope is that somewhere along this retreat, the French army will stop the Nazis and push them back into their own country.

  Grandfather Milhau sends an ambulance to Paris to transport Tata to his home. I will go to stay with my mother and Gérard. Leaving Tata in her terrible condition is very traumatic for me. I look back at her building and wonder when she and I will be reunited there again. It is truly a miracle that Tata makes the journey safely, and with the Germans coming closer to Paris, it is even a greater miracle we receive a letter to confirm that she does.

  WE HEAR MORE bad news in July. “The French front lines have collapsed. The French government is moving from Paris to the town of Vichy.” Then the radio stations and newspaper offices close down. Paris must fend for itself against the German invasion.

  Air raids are constant now. Maman refuses to be chased into the shelter by the Germans. Every night there is no sleep for Paris. Maman, Gérard, and I ride out the raids in our sixth-floor apartment. I keep my promise to Papa, helping Maman and Gérard to be brave.

  We have had no news from Papa for the last two months. No one knows where he is, and we are all worried sick about his well-being. The rumors are that the casualties on the front are heavy. The Germans are taking French soldiers prisoner by the thousands.

  I console my mother by saying that Papa is very smart and very brave. With these qualities, he will survive anything. If he is taken prisoner, he will surely escape. I am confident nothing will happen to my father. Papa is a hero. Hitler’s men are no match for his cunning strategy and unwavering bravery.

  Finally, we must flee too. Maman and Papa have friends in Bordeaux, the Marrots, who have offered us asylum. It was arranged before Papa left so he would know where to find us if we were forced out of Paris.

  I help my mother pack our big car. On the roof she securely ties the massive antique Spanish table that was her mother’s, her cherished possession. The car is packed with suitcases inside and in the trunk. Our gardener/chauffeur, Monsieur Jacques, has agreed to drive us out of harm’s way. The trip from Paris to Bordeaux is normally a three- or four-day drive. It will take us almost two weeks to get to our destination.

  The roads are packed solid with the remnants of a defeated French army in retreat and a civilian population in the throes of an uncontrollable panic.

  My mother wakes in the backseat. “
Why are we stopping, Jacques?”

  “Over this hill is a small village, and the road is narrowing.” This seems an acceptable answer to Maman as she sinks back against the seat and closes her eyes.

  We move at a crawl up a hill and stop again after a few yards on the top. Less than a mile down the hill is a small village with a main street and a half-dozen narrow side streets. From where we have stopped, we can see all the way to the center of town.

  It is like being in a theater. I see miles of human ants crowding the roads, laboriously moving junk to apparently nowhere. The spectacle is incredible.

  “What are they doing?” I ask Monsieur Jacques.

  “Looting. The village has been abandoned.”

  Now I understand what I am seeing. People are running from one side of the main street to the other, entering stores and houses, coming out with all kinds of things. They dump items in the middle of the sidewalk, rummage through it, and pick out anything that appeals to them. I see people throw away belongings from their vehicles or carts and replace them with stolen goods.

  “They are thieves,” I say to Jacques, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “No, Pierre. They are just patriot looters. If they don’t take it, the German army will.”

  Suddenly, out of the sky, two planes come from nowhere.

  “Look at that!” I say, watching the fighter planes with the black crosses on the bottom of the wings and a smaller swastika on the tail. They dive, following the slope of the hill close to the road. The planes, like everybody else, are heading downtown. Tac-tac-tac . . . We have the best balcony seats for this terrible show.

  Now under fire, the people in the village abandon their goods and run for cover. Ahead of us, halfway down the hill, two soldiers jump out of a small French military truck covered with a green tarpaulin. One pulls out a big rifle with a small bipod attached to the front of the barrel. He rests it on the right shoulder of the other soldier. The planes circle for another strafing pass. They fly so close that I can clearly see the pilots’ heads. The planes fire, and so does the soldier.

  “He hit one! He got one!” yells Monsieur Jacques.

  One of the planes disappears to the east. The other small monoplane rolls sideways, a stream of smoke coming from the fuselage. His motor has stopped. The plane seems to stand still as if suspended in midair, then he glides, finally belly landing in a garden on the outskirts of town.

  For the first time, I wonder about our safety. We’d be easy targets at the top of the hill if other German fighter planes want to pluck off more civilians.

  “He survived!” Jacques exclaims.

  I lean out the window to see. The pilot, apparently unharmed, opens the sliding hatch of the cockpit. But from the little village, the crowd moves like a tidal wave toward the downed plane. In minutes, the small aircraft is surrounded.

  From his cockpit, the pilot is trying to climb out of the airplane. We hear the roar of people shouting and cursing as they reach the pilot. They lift him over their heads, then the pilot disappears inside the circling mob.

  I watch in dazed horror as he is torn apart limb by limb. A French officer shoots his pistol in the air to stop the madness, but it’s too late. It happens so fast. The ants have killed the big insect. I feel sick inside.

  “What is it, Jacques? What’s happening?” Maman asks. I am thankful that she cannot see very well from the backseat. Gérard has slept through the whole thing.

  “Nothing we could help, Madame Matisse. It is the war. An enemy pilot has just been killed.” Jacques is keeping his vow to my father to protect my mother, not volunteering any unnecessary grisly details.

  “How horrible!” she replies, leaning forward toward the window.

  The line of cars in front of us creeps forward at last. I do not look at the downed plane.

  “Clutch in, first gear in, up and to the right, hand brake out, slow on the gas pedal,” instructs Monsieur Jacques. He gives me a wink, hoping to clear the horrific sight from my mind. I wink back. We are partners now.

  “Are we stopping here, Jacques?” Maman asks.

  “I would not advise stopping in this village, Madame.”

  “Only for food and drinks, Jacques,” my mother says, trying to see the village ahead.

  “No, Madame, not here. It is not safe. There is a small town about six miles away. We’ll spend the night there.”

  “How long until we get to Bordeaux?”

  “If we are lucky, one very long day more, perhaps two. At this pace, it’s hard to say for sure, Madame.”

  The road clears somewhat, and we move slowly through the village. Here and there, on the pavement, I see large puddles of blood, a sinister testimony of the victims of the planes’ strafing. Monsieur Jacques makes a wide circle around an old car on fire. The acrid smell of burning rubber, oil, and paint is thick, and we cover our noses.

  On the sidewalk a little girl is crying as somebody cleans the blood off her mother’s face.

  At an intersection, an open truck turns in front of us. My eyes widen as I see two bodies lying inside. One corpse is missing a leg, with the remaining leg dangling pitifully over the back of the truck. As the vehicle lurches forward, a shoe falls off its bloody foot.

  Monsieur Jacques curses between clenched teeth.

  We are forced to follow the truck for some time. I cannot move or speak. Jacques grips the steering wheel even tighter, and I can see tears running down his cheeks.

  This is not really happening, none of it. But it is.

  I hear Maman sobbing softly in the backseat. She is finally aware of the tragedy around us. Fortunately, Gérard is still sleeping. This is good, I think. Perhaps he can remain a child for a while longer. But something has been taken from me in these moments. An innocent faith in people and my personal safety are stripped away. Where is God?

  The question in my mind leaves quickly. I am not willing to relinquish all hope. God must be tending to more pressing needs elsewhere, I reason. Surely He will come soon. As I realize we may not survive this war, I say a silent prayer for Tata, Papa, and all of our family. And I ask God for courage to take care of Maman and Gérard, as I promised Papa I would do.

  Monsieur Jacques slowly navigates the car around a number of wrecked vehicles obstructing the road as we finally put the village behind us. Fortunately, the truck is no longer in front of us.

  “Pierre, tell me about your invention,” Monsieur Jacques inquires.

  “I am not inventing anything today.” I cannot get the images of what I have seen out of my mind.

  “So tell me about your aunt Tata.” Jacques valiantly tries to divert my attention from unpleasant thoughts.

  I think of Tata. I hope her hip is healing and that she and Grandfather Milhau are safe from the Boches in Saint-Georges-de-Didonne—that is, if anywhere is safe from them.

  “In 1917, during World War I, she got la Légion d’honneur,” I mutter. Dwelling on Tata gives me strength.

  “Really! And what was that for?”

  “She evacuated all the children in her school during a bombing raid in Paris, saving all of her students.”

  “Tata must be quite a woman!”

  I cannot help but grin. Behind me, Maman has grown quiet. “She is the best, Monsieur Jacques, the best,” I say. “And she doesn’t even shake when the bombs fall.”

  “Ha! And what about you? Do you shake, Pierre?”

  I glance at him. “What about you, Monsieur Jacques?”

  “Just a little bit, Pierre,” he says with a smile.

  “Like you, Monsieur Jacques, I shake just a little. But Tata, she does not shake at all.”

  “An amazing woman she must be.”

  “Truly, Monsieur Jacques, she is very brave.”

  As we continue toward Bordeaux, haggard infantry soldiers are on foot, on horseback, or in trucks towing artillery guns. I see demolished or partially burned army and civilian vehicles of all kinds in roadside ditches.

  Thousands of civilian refuge
es jam the roads in battered cars, horse carts, bicycles, or push handcarts, the poorest of them walking with nothing but a backpack. The overwhelming majority are old people and women with their babies and children. In one cart, I see a mattress, chairs, a table, and a framed picture of a bride and groom. The army has requisitioned almost every decent vehicle available.

  Gasoline becomes scarce. Eventually, we run out. Not a drop is available in the villages or among the refugees crowding the roads. When we are forced to stop, Jacques tries to make sure there is an inn or bistro nearby where Maman and Gérard can stay, before he and I return to the car and sleep. Somehow the next day, we have gas again, and we slowly merge into the bumper-to-bumper traffic that never lets up. When one road becomes impassible, we find another road heading south to access. Sadly, every person is thinking of his or her own survival, so there is little camaraderie or communication with others on the road.

  WHAT MAMAN DOESN’T KNOW is that our chauffeur is often risking his life to steal precious gas from French military trucks at night.

  One night Monsieur Jacques explains to Maman, “Madame, I need to go look for some information on the best route for tomorrow. I would like to take Pierre along. It inspires more confidence if I have a kid with me.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather wait until tomorrow morning in the daylight?” she asks.

  “No, Madame. Believe me, it’s safer at night.”

  My mother gives me a long look and then agrees reluctantly. Once we are alone, Monsieur Jacques explains and justifies the mission to me.

  “The army doesn’t need gas. They need to stop running and stay where they are to stop the Boches right now, here, in this very place.”

  Monsieur Jacques is talented. It doesn’t take him very much time to find an army truck with the necessary jerry cans. Once his target has been selected, he sets me up as lookout. He hands me some money and gives me instructions. “Pierre, if a sentinel or a soldier comes, run toward him and keep him busy asking if he knows where your father is and where you can buy some food.”

  An hour later Monsieur Jacques is back with a can of gasoline that we carry to the car. The next morning, Jacques makes up a story for Maman of how he was able to get the needed gas for our continued journey. We do this a few times.