Revolution Baby Page 4

  And this went on for a long time. They tried everything to make him crack. Everything, except physical torture. Which was only added to their arsenal after 1937. My father was fortunate to have been arrested at a time when they still drew the line at mental torture.

  Michał shared a cell with thirty or more prisoners. From time to time a guard would come into the cell in the middle of the night with a paper in his hand and go up to each prisoner and ask, “Family name?” The prisoner would give his name. “No, that’s not it.” And he’d try the same game with the next prisoner, until eventually he said to one of them, “Yes, you’re the one. Follow me.” The prisoner would leave the cell and never come back.

  One day it was my father’s turn to follow the guard. “Shall I take my things?” “As you like, it won’t change anything.” They took him out to a truck where there were twelve soldiers with rifles. The truck started up. The journey was spent in complete silence, and it seemed endless. Finally the truck came to a halt in the middle of a forest. A soldier told the prisoner to get out, then he was blindfolded and tied to a tree. Michał could hear footsteps, and the sound of rifles being cocked. He was afraid, but not sad. In his mind there was a great emptiness. Someone shouted, “At the enemy of the homeland, FIRE!”

  Then nothing. Not a sound, not a word. He was untied and made to climb back into the truck. The same route, still in silence, only this time his eyes were covered, no one had bothered to remove his blindfold. Back at the prison he was led straight to the director’s office.

  “Comrade Michał Gruda! Sit over there in that chair. A little vodka? A cigarette? Annushka will bring us some zakuski, you must be dying of hunger.” Michał drank a little vodka, ate something, smoked a cigarette, had some more vodka. He felt his blood gradually warming, his legs going soft. He wondered if any of this was real.

  “And now we are going to finish dealing with your case once and for all. Right, here are your papers, just sign there, Comrade, because next time we take you out to the woods, things won’t end the same way . . . ”

  But none of these strategies worked. Most of the Kiev Poles had signed. And they had been shot. My father’s stubbornness saved his life, and earned him a conviction of three years in the gulag in Siberia . . . where he stayed for six years. Why did they need a signature at the bottom of a fake document in order to execute people? Who knows. Stalin’s mind and his logic remain too complicated for me.

  When the Polish Communist Party found out about the accusation against my father and his deportation to Siberia, the leaders went to see my mother to tell her that her son mustn’t stay with the Krydas, because they belonged to the same family as that traitor—otherwise she herself would be shown the door and asked to leave the Party. As she could not imagine looking after me or leaving the Party, she asked her sister Tobcia in Paris to take me in.

  That was the true story behind my presence in a country where I couldn’t speak the language, where I sat in a girl’s room, my eyes closed, hoping that my letter and a lighter I’d won at the Eiffel Tower would manage to arouse Hugo and Fruzia’s suspicions.

  CHAPTER 6

  Toward a New Life

  One morning after breakfast, Lena said, “We’re going for a drive in a car today. Then we’ll go and visit a fantastic place where there are lots of children your age. You’ll be able to play with them all you want.”

  I definitely wanted to go for a drive in the car.

  “And the children, are they all French?”

  “Yes, don’t worry, they will play with you even if you don’t speak the same language.”

  That wasn’t really what bothered me, it was just that my one attempt to approach a French kid had ended in failure. So I figured I would avoid making faces, maybe it was something they were unfamiliar with here, and I’d wait, rather, for them to decide what to play—I was the foreigner, after all, so it was normal that I make the effort to adapt.

  So there I was at the “fantastic place with lots of children,” full of good intentions. Lena, Tobcia and I went through a park leading to a big white building with ochre shutters. While we were walking in the courtyard, I could hear children shouting, and on a dirt playground on the side of the building I saw some boys and girls playing ball. I wondered if they’d forced the boys to play with the girls. If that was the case, I felt sorry for them. I also saw two boys about my age perched at the top of a tall tree in the park. When we walked by, they tried to hide. Maybe you weren’t allowed to climb trees in this place? And yet there were some huge ones, with very inviting branches that began at just the right height for a kid my size. I stayed on the alert: if the two women with me took their eyes off me, I would find a tree and climb up and hide in it, quickly. Maybe I could shake off my kidnappers like that.

  Lena and Tobcia headed for the front door of the building. We went in. A lady came to speak to us, went away again, then came back with a man. He spoke with Tobcia for a long time, because she was the only one of us who could speak French. From time to time he would glance at me and nod his head. After what seemed like a very long time—I was nervous at the prospect of my imminent escape—the man came over to me, said something I couldn’t understand, took me by the hand and made some gestures, as if he were asking me to say goodbye to Lena and Tobcia. Lena, who hadn’t said a thing since we entered the park, came closer:

  “My darling, you seemed so bored at Tobcia’s, so we decided to bring you here so you can make some friends. I’ll come and see you often, don’t worry. I’ll come next week and bring you some more clothes.”

  For the first time I noticed a little suitcase that Lena must have been carrying since we left Tobcia’s apartment. I didn’t know what to make of the situation. Was the man one of Lena’s accomplices? Should I try to escape? Or was I rid at last of the woman who had kidnapped me? I concluded that she must be leaving me here so that Hugo and Fruzia wouldn’t know where to find me.

  “And how long will I be here?”

  “Well, at least until the end of the summer, and after that we’ll see. If you like it here, perhaps you can stay for the school year.”

  Tobcia and Lena kissed me and left. And there I was among all those people I couldn’t understand and who couldn’t understand me. The man was still holding my hand and now he led me to a dormitory. He showed me one of the beds in a corner of the room, and put my suitcase down on it. He gave me a smile and said something that seemed to end with a question mark. I shook my head. I had no idea what he had said, but since there was nothing I wanted, I answered in the negative. He ruffled my hair, smiled, and went away.

  I was all alone in the big dormitory. I should have been happy: I was free and I could devote myself actively to finding a way to contact Hugo and go back to Poland. But I had a lump in my throat and my eyes were stinging.

  CHAPTER 7

  L’Avenir Social

  So there I was, settled in at L’Avenir Social (AS for friends and acquaintances), an orphanage which took in not only orphans but also children from impoverished families, or whose parents were in prison for political reasons, and the children of communist militants from a number of countries. The AS was run by the CGT, the Communist trade union. The philosophy of the place was founded above all on respect for the children, who were allowed to express themselves freely, and who were being taught to think for themselves. But I would only find all that out much later on.

  The first striking moment of my stay at L’Avenir Social was my meeting with Arnold, one of the instructors, whose principal qualities, or at least those I noticed right from the start, were that he was of Polish origin and could speak my language. He was a tall, slightly stooped fellow with a piercing but gentle gaze, a long face, chestnut hair in a crew cut and—a characteristic that fascinated all the children—three fingers, two fused together, on his left hand. He had a natural joy about him, and took everything with a sense of humor. He was the favorite instructor of
most of the children, and this earned him the nickname “My Pal.” Thanks to him, if I had something important to say, it was possible to do so. I had my own personal interpreter. I could chat with him, listen to his stories, and ask him questions. I was waiting to get to know him better, all the same, before deciding whether I could trust him enough to tell him about my abduction. He was also the only person there who called me Julek, the diminutive of Julian in Polish—to everyone else, my name was Jules Kryda—and I took comfort in hearing my old name from time to time.

  One piece of good news: there were some French children who actually were fun. I’d just been unlucky on my visit to the Eiffel Tower. Some of them even had a repertory of nasty faces every bit as good as my own. With the other “orphans” communication was not a problem: they spoke to me in French and I answered in Polish. We probably lost a certain amount of subtlety, but it was enough to be able to play dodgeball or cops and robbers.

  Only a few days after my arrival, there was an unpleasant incident. We were standing in a line outside the refectory, waiting for the doors to open for the midday meal. Behind me, I heard a very shrill and stupid laugh. I turned around, and saw a skinny little boy with a turned up nose and ears that stuck out. He was looking at me, still laughing. He seemed to be making fun of me. I immediately disliked his stuffed owl manner. Obeying only my pride, I jumped on him, and with all my strength, fists clenched tight, I hit his little freckled nose. After his initial surprise he grabbed me by the neck and tried to strangle me. I couldn’t see anymore, couldn’t hear, I was biting and kicking in every direction. It took two adults to pull us apart and end the scuffle. I had trouble getting my breath back, and I saw that my hands were bleeding. My opponent was sitting on the floor, his head thrown back, and a woman was holding a handkerchief firmly over his nose. Well, his little turned up nose wasn’t so solid after all, I thought, wiping my hands.

  As a punishment, I had to spend the entire meal standing in a corner of the refectory with my back to everyone. The owl got off scot-free. All through my punishment I was fuming. I could understand that what I’d done might warrant a sanction, but I found it hard to accept the fact that the kid who’d made fun of me and almost strangled me had gotten off so lightly.

  After the meal I was released from my humiliating position. I left the refectory, not looking at anyone, and went to sit on my bed. I was disheartened: I still didn’t know whether I’d manage to get back to Poland, and I thought my stay here had gotten off to a very bad start. That afternoon, I realized that the other children were smiling at me more often than usual, and now and again they gave me a wink or a pat on the back. It was always discreet, when there were no adults around. I began to suspect that the pretentious little brat I’d given a thrashing to wasn’t one of the most popular kids around.

  The day after my fight, while I was feeding the rabbits in the farmyard at the far end of the park, I saw Arnold’s tall form coming toward me.

  “Jak tu idzie?”

  “Dobrze.”

  For those of you who don’t speak Polish, let me start again, with a free translation.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I see you’ve become acquainted with our little long-eared residents. Which one do you like best?”

  “The gray and white one. It’s as if he can see me coming from a distance, and he’s always happy to see me.”

  “His name is Smartie, but he isn’t really all that smart. I heard about a little misadventure you had. What happened, exactly?”

  I hesitated.

  “Don’t you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “I know you can’t defend yourself with words yet. But if there’s anything that makes you angry, anything hurtful about the way the other children behave, I’d like you to come and speak to me about it first before lashing out like a lunatic.”

  “I’m not a tattletale.”

  “No, of course not . . . Which is all to your credit. And I don’t want you to squeal on anyone; I just want you to come and see me so I can help you communicate with the other kids. For a start, do you know who he is, this Roland you attacked?”

  “No.”

  “You know Henri, the director, the one who greeted you when you first got here? Well, it’s his son.”

  The owl was the director’s son! In that case, my stay really was off to a very bad start. And suddenly I had something like a flash of insight, and it all became perfectly clear: Henri, of course, was bound to be in cahoots with Lena and Tobcia, otherwise he would have kicked me out after my little squabble with his beloved little boy. But since the conspiracy was more important than anything, he had no choice . . . So I really was in a pickle.

  One week later, everything was in an uproar at L’Avenir Social. All the suitcases were out on the beds, the oldest kids packing their own, and the littler ones getting help from the instructors. I had to borrow clothes from other kids because Lena still hadn’t had time to come and see me. Thanks to Arnold I knew we were going on vacation to an island, a place called the Île de Ré. I was really glad because I’d see the ocean for the first time. And now I had a friend, too: Bernard, a shy boy who was a little younger than me, he must have been five or so. We promised we would sit together on the train. I knew a few words of French now, the most obvious ones like yes, no, thank you, hello, goodbye, please, eat, drink, and of course, merde. And others, too, to describe my life at L’Avenir Social: rabbit, dog, friend, apple, pear, tree, marble, ball, play, run, and the newest one: vacation—but that wasn’t hard, because it was almost the same in Polish, wakacje. The kids made fun of the way I pronounced the rs, rolling them. I practiced really hard with Bernard, trying to say poire the way the other kids did, but for the time being it sounded more like I was clearing my throat.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Truth

  I loved our vacation on the Île de Ré, because of the ocean, but above all because of the huge green lizards I played with the whole time I was there. I would place one over my shoulder then head off for a walk along the beach. I made my decision: later on in life I would be an animal trainer. I also made friends with a fluffy little white dog called Bibi. He followed me everywhere and would run up to me the moment I called him. Since I spoke to him in Polish, and he listened very attentively, the other children came to the conclusion that I spoke dog language. Bernard, given his status as my best friend, even wanted me to teach him a few words of “dog.” I decided not to tell them the truth. After all, it was true that Bibi did seem to understand everything I said to him. Maybe Polish really is a language with which to communicate with dogs. Even Roland the owl was dazzled by my talents, and when he saw me deep in conversation with Bibi, he would watch, looking very impressed. This vacation was the last time in my life that I was able to make the most of my status as a foreigner, because by the time we returned to the orphanage everyone knew that I could understand what they said in French. And that I could communicate in French.

  I had a new friend at L’Avenir Social, a girl. Her name was Geneviève. She was one of the instructors. She was funny and kind, but she also knew how to be strict and demanding. Every time she saw me she would exclaim, “Look at his periwinkle eyes! He’s so sweet!” There was a rumor going around that she and Arnold were in love. It was Roger who was behind the rumor—Roger Binet, to whom we’d given the nickname Robinet (which means water faucet in French, and much later I’d be sorry I’d called him that so often, just to annoy him). I was no expert on love, but it was true that you could often see them whispering together, maybe that was how you could tell when people were in love.

  It was fun talking to Geneviève. For a grown-up she listened to me very attentively. One day she told me that “my mother” would be coming to visit later that day. She was surprised when I showed no enthusiasm.

  “I know this is the first time she’s coming to see you,
but she’s been very busy since she brought you here. She must be very eager to see you again.”

  “She’s not even my mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Well, it was now or never. I’d finally found the right person to confide in, and my French was good enough. So in I went.

  “She kidnapped me from my real parents, Hugo and Fruzia Kryda, in Warsaw. She said she was my mother, but I know that was just a trick so that I wouldn’t run away during the trip. I want to go home to my real parents in Warsaw. I miss them a lot.”

  Geneviève was not the sort to say anything just to break the silence, so she looked at me without saying a word. Her eyes went moist, her cheeks red. I waited for a long time.

  “Jules, my little Jules . . . I beg you to believe me, Lena is your real mother . . . She had no choice, when you were a baby, other than to leave you with those people who looked after you as if they were your parents. And she had no choice, later on, but to take you away from them again. She has done it all for your own good . . . You have to believe me.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “I would like so much to convince you. One day you will see them again, those people who brought you up, but for now it’s better for you to stay here, my sweet. Lena loves you very much, you know. Be nice to her, please. You will, won’t you?”

  I still didn’t speak.

  “Think about it then, a little, all right? I have no reason to lie to you, you know that, don’t you? Think about it and we’ll talk again after your mother’s visit. Come on, it’s time to eat, go and join your friends at the refectory.”

  I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t feel like joining anyone. I went out into the park and I walked, somewhat aimlessly, until I reached the rabbit hutches. I was cold and it felt good. Smartie came over to me, all happy, but I had nothing to give him. All I had for him was my own story, and it didn’t make sense to me anymore. He looked at me with big sad eyes. He wouldn’t want to be in my shoes. I knew that Geneviève hadn’t been lying to me. I could tell. She would never have done such a thing. But for all that, it didn’t necessarily mean that Lena’s story was true; Tobcia surely told them this version when she brought me here, and no one had any reason to question it. That was my one remaining hope. And yet for some reason I felt that Geneviève knew a lot more about my life than she was letting on—and about Lena’s. Smartie nudged his little nose against my hand, as if to say he agreed. But why would Hugo and Fruzia have lied to me? I didn’t feel like seeing Lena. I wanted to run away, and go far, far away.