38 ALWAYS KEEP A SECRET
38
A LWAYS K EEP A S ECRET
“I left dinner. It was late. I saw a handful of missed calls. I’d been closing the deal with the Norwegian editor, and it ran longer than I thought it would. After we finished our last drink, I called back this unknown number I didn’t have in my contacts. It was from the hospital. They said I was the emergency contact for Jasper Repp. Bad luck, I thought. ‘Ms. Barbara Hébrard, we’re calling to inform you ...’ When you hear that verb, you know the gravity of what’s to follow. ‘Tonight, two minutes before midnight, Jasper Repp died.’”
“You should have told me.”
“And what could you have done? There’s nothing more we could do.”
“Keep you company, at the very least.”
There was silence.
“It’s also true that—” She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t want you there.”
Barbara didn’t feel good hiding the truth, and Roger didn’t want to hear a lie. Whatever it was, Jasper was dead, and the excuse was impeccable. There were no edges.
“I thought it didn’t make sense to go to the hospital. And I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I came home anyway, and I thought the most important thing to do was tell Mamie.”
“Did you go to the residence?”
“I stayed with her. All night.”
“Why the rush?”
“I could have waited until the morning, maybe. But she appreciated it.”
“And they let you in during the early-morning hours? As strict as they are with their visitors?”
She started to worry that her alibi was falling apart.
“I told them it was an emergency. I told them what had happened, and ... deep down, they’re good people at Viviani.”
“Very humane, yes.” Roger’s suspicions were starting to peek out.
“You don’t think so?” Barbara held her breath.
“Of course I do, woman. I’m only saying ... What confuses me—” At the very least, she couldn’t think she was going to get away with pulling his leg. But then he preferred not to continue down that path. “And how did your grandmother take it?”
When Mamie Margaux heard the news, she let out a blunt “oh,” shook her head sadly, and immediately said, “Maybe better that way, poor Jasper.” Then she closed her eyes, conjuring his image. Remembering his voice and the smell of Dutch tobacco on his skin. Just ten days ago, her former neighbor, her fellow widower, Hulshoff’s owner, the writer of her secret biography, had been a man with drive. And in no time, he’d become a heap, with hands that were shells and a weak tongue. And from that moment on, he would only be a memory. Given how it happened, Margaux preferred to not see him after the stroke and to maintain that last vigorous and elegant image—that of a gentleman.
Barbara respected the time her grandmother took to withdraw. A remorseful and serene funerary wake. Her grandmother only opened the door when she heard the breakfast cart approaching down the hallway. Every morning brought the same torturous sound.
Barbara, who’d been sitting on the bed next to Mamie, traced the veins on her grandmother’s hand.
“I’d like to find Jasper’s writing on your life story.”
Margaux cracked a cheeky smile. “You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what? Tell me.”
“Roger told me he already has it and that he wants to surprise you. It’s important, don’t tell him I snitched.” It was her grandmother who was caressing Barbara’s hand then. “He’s a good-looking boy.”
“What’d he say exactly?”
“Nothing. He found Jasper’s folder in his house and planned that every night, you’d read a fragment out loud. One day you would, the next he would.”
“He said that to you?”
“Jasper writes so well. Wrote ...”
“And it’s your life, Mamie. It’s thrilling. And Grandfather Damien’s life is like a movie.”
The nurse said, “Good morning, Margaux,” from behind the cart, opened the curtain with one swipe, left a boring breakfast on the side table, and closed the door with a gust of wind. She left just as she came, with an impartial effect and a trained voice.
“Not everything’s there.”
“I don’t understand, Mamie.” Barbara didn’t know if she was referring to the breakfast, to the room, or what she was talking about.
“Not everything is in Jasper’s story.”
“We already knew it hadn’t been finished. You explained to us what happened after the liberation. Grandfather’s return, the concert dressed in his Buchenwald clothes ...”
Mamie Margaux swung her head. Barbara didn’t know what she was referring to.
“There’s an episode missing from years after the war. Jasper and I couldn’t agree on how to tell it, and we decided to leave it to the end.”
“The last chapter?”
“You could say that. To close the story, yes.”
“Come on, surprise after surprise.”
Her grandmother kissed her granddaughter.
“Always keep a secret, Barbara. Don’t let anyone know but you. Only you.”
“I’ll take the advice, Mamie. But can we skip to the unwritten chapter, or do you want to keep me on the edge of my seat a little longer?”
“Jasper played a fundamental role.”
“Poor Jasper? That’s confusing.” Barbara was dying to know everything. “What would you title this chapter?”
Mamie thought about it. She picked up the slab of whole wheat toast and put it back down on the plate. The news of Jasper’s death had stolen what little hunger she had left.
“The day we went to meet André Zucca.”
Barbara became alert. She and her grandmother, they were joined at the hip. As much as she loved her, how could she still be learning new things about her? Barbara prepared to listen to the most unexpected of chapters.
“One day, Jasper and Hilde told me, ‘Get ready. Tomorrow, we’re going on a trip.’ We did that from time to time. On a Saturday, three or four times a year, the married couple took me out on a trip. This must have been in the mid-’60s. I was in my forties, give or take. I wasn’t the weakling I am now. It was a holiday in Paris, but stores were open throughout the rest of the country. I remember because I didn’t have to ask for permission to take leave from the shoe shop I was working at. We left early in their car; they told me we’d be heading in the direction of the Loire Valley and that we’d go somewhere after we arrived. I let them lead me. The plan, based on what we discussed before we left, was to have lunch in Dreux. I don’t know if you’ve ever been. It has a royal chapel and a historic center. It’s beautiful, small, with few people, and was peaceful at the time. Jasper knew it well. He went back and forth for his cheese company, and he met people and ate at nice restaurants. They always took me to places that were worth it. On the way there, Jasper said, ‘I need to tell you something.’ I’ll always remember it. He was driving, Hilde was at his side, and I was sitting in the middle of the back seat so I could look ahead and not get dizzy. I looked into Jasper’s eyes through the rearview mirror. I knew what he was about to tell me was something important just by the way our eyes met. One of those feelings that you notice immediately, you know? And yes. Jasper goes ahead and says, ‘I found him.’ ‘Who?’ I asked. And he responded to me in kind: ‘The man who took your picture. The photographer from the magazine.’ I froze. And I remember saying, ‘But what do you mean?’ And Hilde turned and said, ‘Jasper has spent a lot of time researching it. He’s moved heaven and earth to find—what’s his name?’”
“‘André Zucca,’ Jasper responded. ‘Well, he’s changed his name since.’
“‘If it’s been twenty years since the liberation, imagine how much time it’s been since that day,’ I said.
“Hilde opened the bag she always carried on her legs and took out a horizontal envelope. And inside the envelope was the photo. It was me as a young girl on top of a bike with a high bun. I hadn’t seen it in years. I hadn’t even thought about it. Not the picture, or the photographer, or all the headaches it had brought on the family. I did know that, when the war ended, my parents kept up with what happened to the people from Signal magazine.
“They saw that Zucca had been put on trial and mentioned it one day, but I’d lost the plot by then. I had your mother, Damien was sick, and I had a whole other set of worries. I had practically forgotten it, that whole Zucca nightmare, as strange as it sounds. But Jasper hadn’t. He’d known about our story, and he became stubborn and wanted to know what happened at the trial. He’d recovered some information and had papers and things he told me about on the way to Dreux. He reminded me of details I must have known at some point but had forgotten. After Paris had been liberated at the end of August, they would have arrested Zucca in October. Him and everyone who worked for the magazine. The dossier Signal is what they called the case. They brought them all to trial. Him as well, and he got off unscathed. They accused him of being a collaborator. He swore in front of the jury that he ‘was loyal to France despite appearances’ and was acquitted. But they condemned him to the shadows. He was sentenced under national unworthiness, which was a way out that de Gaulle invented to prevent excessive Frenchmen-on-Frenchmen revenge. It was a political punishment, not a crime. He was either lucky or had a family that saved him. It’s true that he wouldn’t have been able to go back to photojournalism and would’ve been forced into an early retirement, as they say. With that information, Jasper must have somehow found a way to make it work, because Zucca wasn’t that big. Following the trail farther, Jasper found out that, during the war, he’d also lived in Montmartre. That really impressed me. Knowing he passed through the same places we did ... Hearing it made me shiver. You must think it’s dumb, huh? The thing is, from what Jasper had heard, months after the sentencing, Zucca disappeared from the neighborhood and fled Paris. No one heard from him again. Not from him or his family. They all disappeared. With just that small bit of information, Jasper began to search, stubborn as only he is. The Dutch, when they get a mission in their head, you know how they are. And he decided to shout. He was looking for a needle in a haystack, and he had a good idea. Original, if anything. You’ll laugh now, Barbara, but I promise you that things went the way the Repp couple told me on the way to Dreux.
“The cheese company Jasper managed sold camembert throughout the country. One day, he grabbed his network of businessmen—all kinds of salesmen, who every week visited every corner of every department to sell their cheeses. He showed them a picture of Zucca’s face, a picture in which he had a nice haircut and a pipe in his mouth, and said, ‘I’m looking for this man, help me find him. It’s almost a matter of life or death. All I know is he worked in Paris, he left after the war, he must be around sixty years old, and he’s a photographer.’ And, he added, ‘I’m sure he’s somewhere in France. Look for him, anyone in contact with trusting store owners, cattle farms, and cheese shops in villas, towns, small cities, and cities that aren’t so small. Speak to people. Ask around. Surely someone somewhere will have something to tell you. If he’s French, he must eat cheese. His name is André Zucca. He might be living under a fake name, he might be wearing a wig. Don’t rule out any possibilities. Anyone who brings me a good clue will be rewarded two months of paid vacation. A good prize.’ And they found him. It was difficult, but they found him. Jasper told me while looking at the highway, with Hilde laughing at his side, and my head was spinning. A salesman who worked in the Eure department zone had appeared in his office and said, ‘Monsieur Jasper, I’m not 100 percent sure, but I have a feeling I’ve found an interesting lead. Hopefully, it’s him. In Dreux, in an alley, there’s a photography shop that opened fifteen years ago. A man works there by himself, without an assistant. His name is André. Not Zucca, but André. He takes pictures of baptisms, communions, and weddings. A lot of wedding photography. They’ve confirmed he makes his living that way. He’s very private, and nobody knows where he lives. The person who told me assured me he doesn’t sleep in Dreux. But his shop is there. And he gave me the address.’ And that’s where the three of us were heading inside Jasper’s car on that soon-to-be-nerve-wracking Saturday.
“It was hard to park in Dreux. After so much time spent in the car, we stretched our legs a little. Mine were weak, and I told Hilde and Jasper, ‘Do you think it’s worth it to find him? And what if it’s not him? And if it is him, what do I say? And if he takes it badly ...’
“‘We’ll accompany you. Nothing will happen. They told me the shop is very small, with a glass door and a single window. We’ll be there soon.’
“And we found it.
“The photography shop was in a good location, on a picturesque and narrow street, a hundred feet from the royal chapel. Cars could drive by on a single lane, but I don’t remember a single one passing by. In fact, we walked on the street to see if, from the outside, we could spot him. The store was squeezed between a haberdasher and the most central pharmacy, which was on the corner. It was a good way to lure customers who were on their way to buy cough syrup, who’d pass the window and discover they could also get film developed and take studio photos.
“‘I’ll enter and say I need passport pictures,’ Jasper said determinedly.
“‘And you accompany him like you’re his wife,’ Hilde added.
“‘And you?’ I asked, looking at my neighbor.
“‘I’ll walk outside. These things make me nervous.’
“She opened her bag, took out the envelope with the picture, and put it in my hands.
“‘What are you doing?’
“‘Maybe you’ll need it,’ she said, before heading down the street.
“Jasper and I were left on our own, past the pharmacy. We looked at each other with frightened smiles. Both our throats were dry. Slowly, at the pace of goggling tourists, we approached the store from the side of the pharmacy. Inside was a man, a retail worker in short, rolled-up sleeves who was operating a paper cutter on top of the counter. He looked up when he noticed a shadow in front of his store window.
“‘It’s him,’ Jasper whispered.
“There was no doubt. He resembled the picture with the pipe. A clean face and sparse hair combed back. Older, neither fat nor skinny. He had a friendly face. It didn’t seem like he was worried about getting caught. Inside of my coat, I was shaking head to toe. I pulled on Jasper’s sleeve to stop him. But as soon as I made the gesture, he opened the door, and I don’t know how we were already inside. ‘Bonjour, bonjour.’ Everything was friendly.
“Jasper asked if they took passport pictures, and the shop owner told him to come in, that he’d come to the right place. He took him to the back room. There was a small studio that held a stool, the camera, and a flash with a weakly lit bulb. The two of them entered, and I stayed in the shop area, not touching anything, scared to look around. The establishment smelled like chemicals, development liquid. In the background, I heard men’s voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. He took a couple of pictures, that’s true. Jasper returned to the front of the shop, putting on the coat he’d taken off. He winked at me, and I knew it was a sign of something I didn’t know yet. In the back, the photographer shook a satiny paper, and Jasper’s four identical faces appeared. His wrist moved skillfully. A gesture he’d made thousands of times, I guessed. In that moment, Jasper took his wallet out of his pocket, and with all the naturalness in the world, he spoke a sentence I hadn’t expected.
“‘What do we owe you, Monsieur Zucca?’
“The photographer stopped waving the passport picture and looked at Jasper.
“‘I think you’re confused,’ he said, motionless.
“‘You’re not André Zucca?’
“‘André, yes. André Piernic. Do we know each other?’
“‘Not me,’ said Jasper. ‘You might recognize her.’
“When Zucca looked at me, I wanted to die. If I could have, I would have left the store, fled from Dreux, returned to Paris, put my head under the pillow, and cried to my heart’s content. But I was too late. Jasper took the envelope out of my hands, pulled out the picture of me on top of the bike, and put it on the counter.
“‘Nice picture, Zucca,’ said the Dutchman.
“The man no longer denied it was him. He touched his Adam’s apple, rolled down his shirtsleeves, and looked up at my face.
“‘Is it you?’ he asked.
“I nodded.
“‘I was seventeen. It ruined our lives.’
“‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down. ‘I don’t remember it.’
“And then something unexpected happened. Jasper grabbed the copy of the picture of the bike from the counter, left eight francs for the passport photos, and left.
“‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ he said.
“And there I was. By myself. Face-to-face with André Zucca or André Piernic, ready for an unplanned duel. I wasn’t prepared for that conversation, but I think I put on a good act. The moment before I spoke felt like an eternity. It might have been a couple of seconds before I asked my question. The kind you ask criminals.
“‘Why’d you do it?’
“He sighed. He buttoned his two sleeves.
“‘I was the photographer for the press. It was work. It was only an assignment.’
“‘But you worked for them.’
“‘I wasn’t one of them. I was never one of them. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t deny it. Once the Germans entered—’
“‘You could’ve fled like so many people did.’
“‘And condemn my family to poverty? I couldn’t deny it. The alternative was worse. They had me nailed. They knew I’d been awarded as a French hero in the First World War. They liked my pictures. They sent me to the magazine. They gave me good film, color film that no one else had ... It’s really hard to escape when they grab you and you enter a spiral of fear.’
“‘And you became their accomplice.’
“‘That’s not what it was, ma’am ...’
“‘Margaux. Margaux Dutronc. I don’t have to change my name to go through life.’
“‘Look, Ms. Dutronc. They tried me and absolved me. I was a professional, and the jury understood all that. I was not that kind of collaborator. I took pictures of what I saw. I documented an exact moment in history. That was my profession.’
“‘You—’ Would I say it or not? ‘You used your camera as a weapon.’
“‘Me?’ He was offended. ‘It’s my job. I’m a hunter of images. I showed reality, and that was it.’
“‘You used it as a weapon of propaganda, of course. What was Signal if not a disgusting propaganda magazine? And what were your pictures of? Beautiful girls on bikes in Paris, kids playing at the zoo, the full terraces of Les Deux Magots café, the fashion, the sunglasses, the heels, despite everything going on. You showed the beauty of Paris so the world would think we were happy, that nothing was happening here, that the Germans were doing us a favor.’
“‘I ...’ Zucca shook his head, not understanding. ‘And what do you want me to do now?’
“I didn’t let him interrupt me. Suddenly everything rushed out, without me becoming daunted.
“‘You hid the horror. You didn’t take pictures of the ration lines. Not the deaths, not the refugees. Not the fear, not the cold. An evil thing, mister. It was there, at all hours. The cruelty. Where are the pictures of Hitler’s soldiers parading at all hours like they were kings of the world? Where are the people wearing the star that marked them as Jews, just like you’d brand the pigs on a farm? Why didn’t you take pictures of the Vél d’Hiv Roundup?’ I slammed the table. ‘Why didn’t you publish them with the rest of the pictures? The enemy always came out looking good in your magazine.’
“‘Those were years of political turmoil. We all did whatever we could.’
“‘Yes, but some fought more than others.’
“‘It’s easy to talk about it now. Each family was experiencing something. Everyone endured it however they could.’
“‘It’s true that survival was the primary concern. But there were many who gave it all too. There are some who fought, there are some who resisted.’ I caught my breath. ‘You showed the happiness of people who weren’t happy. That wasn’t showing reality.’
“‘That also existed. And I was just capturing it.’
“‘Yes, of course. To tell the world that we French were so ruined, so committed, so adapted to the new life, and that was the great Nazi victory. I felt used.’
“He shook his head, denying it. It seemed like, for a moment, Zucca might surrender. He only lowered his voice.
“‘That’s not fair. I photographed what happened, what was on the street. I also took photos of the liberation. The Americans entering Paris, the August festival, I documented all of that. I’ve saved all the film in color. I have them labeled. You can see them.’
“‘Many tried to change sides at the last minute, when they saw the Germans fleeing. Those were the worst.’
“‘I, to put it in your terms, worked for the enemy, but also against the enemy.’
“‘Don’t make me laugh now with some spy movie plot. The dangerous game of the double agent.’
“‘What do you want now? That I lay my regrets on the counter for you? I’m not a traitor,’ he said, irritated. ‘My photos—’
“I didn’t let him finish.
“‘If you’re not a traitor, you wouldn’t change your name.’
“He heard that and disappeared. He went into his studio and left me alone without saying anything else. For a moment, I didn’t know if I was running a risk staying there. Through the window, I looked to see if Jasper and Hilde were watching, in case they had to save me. They were on the other side of the street, unaware of me, truthfully. At most, Zucca spent a minute in the back room. He came out calmer.
“‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said, in a cordial tone.
“‘Try it.’
“I didn’t know what he’d come up with. I even thought for a second he’d ask for some sort of apology.
“‘How did you find me here?’
“‘Oh, that’s ... Jasper’s thing. I can’t tell you.’
“Zucca resigned himself and didn’t push it. When he saw my hand on the door handle, he said one last thing: ‘Take your husband’s pictures.’
“‘Sorry?’
“‘For the passport.’
“‘He’s not my husband. Here, no one is who they seem.’”