Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
L’histoire de Madame Moreau
My earliest memories are sitting around a campfire, watching my mother dance.
She wore une robe, a beautiful dress with flowers in yellow and red that twirled with her body.
My grandmother and all the other women clapped, while one of ‘ze men played his guitar and my mother tapped her feet on the dusty earth.
Her name was Mirela; in Romani language it means ‘to admire’, which was right because everyone who saw her admired her.
I remember the warmth of our brightly painted caravan, and ‘ze sounds when the camp stirred at first light, with pots and pans rattling and children laughing.
I know that these are the romantic notions of a child.
I mean, what child would not enjoy ‘ze freedom of a nomadic life? You are not expected to go to school and you live close with all your family, so there is always something to do and someone to play with. It is life from a child’s perspective, but even then I could see the ‘ardship for my parents.
Roma were very disliked by many of the locals and we were chased from one campsite to the next, très souvent.
My family were ‘Manouche’ – a small group of Roma who came to France from Eastern Europe.
We were so very poor, but we were a proud people and did what we could to make a living.
My father traded in horses and he worked sometimes training ‘zem in the stables of the rich.
He spoke many languages and in fact it was he who taught me to speak English.
We learned how to survive and use our skills to make a living on the edges of society.
But there was always uncertainty and our caravans were always on the move.
My memories of that time have become golden; they are so precious to me.
When I think of my mother back then, all I remember are the sparks from the fire lighting up the sky and how her body resembled the dancing flames, swaying and diving and lulling us all into a trance.
She was très belle, with long black hair braided down her back, like one of my father’s stallions.
They said she had the ‘duende’, that she danced with passion and fire in her soul, and people would come from all around to see her.
Things began to change in France, and I could often ‘ear the adults talking about the war.
I did not fully understand what a war was, but I knew that people were frightened.
When France signed the armistice with the Nazis in 1940, I was eight years old.
I thought I knew what hardship was, but life was to become much more difficult.
The Germans made ‘ze French pay for the occupation and the prices for everyday goods inflated.
People were already poor, but now there were no jobs, so people were trying to survive on very little.
With the curfews and the Vichy Regime punishing anyone who resisted ‘ze rules, life in France became intolérable. But the worst was yet to come.
For some time, we ‘ad ‘eard the rumours of German labour camps. Hitler’s regime had begun the rounding up of minority groups considered ‘racially inferior’.
Jews, Poles, Roma, homosexuals and people with disabilities were being sent to labour camps, or they were shot, to protect the Aryan race.
Of course, my family did not tell me this at the time, but I remember hearing about a crazy man in Germany who wanted to take over the world.
It did not seem real to me. Not until my father disappeared.
We were staying in a camp just east of Paris when a small troop of German soldiers pulled up in their army jeeps.
They said the men were needed for work and that we would all be moved to a town in the north I ‘ad never ‘eard of, called Compiègne.
The men had to leave with them immédiatement, and the women and children were to take a train.
I remember feeling nervous and scared, but my mother reassured me all would be well.
She said that Papa was a good worker and that was why he was being asked to go in such a hurry.
He held me fiercely in his arms and told me to be good for my mother. I never saw him again.
There was some excitement getting on ‘ze train because it was my first time, and despite the confusion, I was eager to get moving.
I remember how quickly the landscape moved past, not like our caravan and the old horse that clip-clopped along the lanes.
It was no time at all before we pulled into the station and I noticed German guards all around.
I did not know why at the time, but my mother yanked me up out of my seat and pulled me behind her towards the exit en vitesse.
She must have spotted ‘im as we pulled in, and seized her chance when the guards were distracted, checking papers with the station master.
An ordinary man, dressed in an overcoat with a white apron underneath, stood on the platform holding a large basket of baguettes.
I ‘ad no idea what she was doing, or how she seemed to know ‘zis man, but as soon as we alighted from the train she ran to him and embraced him, desperately, and spoke to ‘im in what I thought was a very posh accent.
‘Chéri, you’ve come to greet us off the train!
’ she said, kissing his face. Il y avait un regard, a look that passed between them then that I couldn’t explain.
A pause that seemed to last just a second too long.
One of ‘ze officers approached and was about to say something, when Monsieur Moreau put down the basket and put his arms around us both.
‘Welcome home, my darlings, how I’ve missed you!’