Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Madame Moreau put some more logs on the fire and fetched two glasses and a bottle of brandy. I was enraptured by her story and stunned by its stark realities.
‘So, he saved you from a concentration camp?’ I said, hardly believing the dramatic childhood traumas she must have witnessed.
‘For a time, yes. Maman explained to me that while my father was away, Monsieur Moreau, Pierre, would be like mon oncle. But in public, I was to call him “Papa”. She said it would not be like betraying Papa, because he wanted me to be safe and looked after until he returned. I’m not sure if she believed he would come back, or if that was just for my benefit.
My young eyes never saw any artifice. We lived quietly in ‘zis apartment for many months.
Pierre was a kind, good-natured man. I always remember his funny moustache, curling at the ends and his great mess of dark hair.
As long as he was working in his bakery, he was happy.
Kneading dough, rolling pastry and turning the hot, crusty bread out of the oven was his passion.
‘Bread is a living thing,’ he used to tell me.
‘If you put your heart into the dough, you’ll spread happiness to all who eat your bread!
’ His enthousiasme was contagious and I spent many happy hours working with him in ‘ze kitchen.
He encouraged my love of English, also, and borrowed many books for me from la bibliothèque.
Monsieur Moreau was a very well respected man in the community and when he took us in, most of the locals admired his générosité.
Most of them, anyway. As always, our presence in a town divided opinion …
and one day, when I was in the basement playing with some dough and making little animal shapes, I heard shouting upstairs in the shop.
I climbed the stairs and peered through the doorway.
I recognised the uniforms instantly and to my horror, I saw two soldiers holding my mother.
She looked at me, terrified, then composed herself and winked.
I knew what ‘zat meant – I had to disappear.
In the basement, there is a doorway that leads onto an old underground tunnel – it runs all the way to an opening by the river – that was ‘ow they delivered the flour in the old days, when the boats sailed down from the mill. But it hadn’t been used for years.
Monsieur Moreau had told us that if anything ever happened, we could escape from the building through the tunnel.
Like frightened prey, I ran through the darkness and never looked back.
As soon as I reached the opening, I hid in the thicket along the riverbank until it grew dark.
I was sure no one had followed me, as I kept an eye on the opening, hoping against hope that my mother would emerge and take me back with her. But no one came.
After hours of shivering with the cold, I crept back into the pitch blackness of ‘ze tunnel and arrived back to find Monsieur Moreau in the basement, sobbing comme un enfant.
When he ‘eard my footsteps behind him, ‘e turned and took me to his breast in pure elation.
He kissed my head and my face and cried for joy at my return. But I stood limp in his arms.
‘Where is Maman?’ I asked, though I knew the answer.
‘I tried to stop them,’ he explained. ‘And I will do all I can to get her back,’ he promised. ‘But from now on, you must stay out of sight, Geneviève.’
And so, that was my life until the war ended. I stayed in hiding at the top of the house during the day – in your little apartment – and at night, I worked with Monsieur Moreau in the bakery.’
‘My God, I don’t know what to say,’ I said after some time had passed.
‘There is nothing to be said. War, genocide, it exposes the ugliness that some people ‘ave in their hearts. But I found that it also brought about the most beautiful kind of humanity. Monsieur Moreau protected me with his life. I was just a young girl, someone he didn’t even know and yet he became my father.’
‘Geoff, the English guy who comes here? He took me to the Armistice Memorial in the forest,’ I said, recalling his commitment to remembering the lives lost during that terrible time in history.
‘There was a camp there. That is where ‘zey were taking us – Royallieu-Compiègne. My mother used her wits that day at the train station and we were lucky to escape. But I found out later that is where they took her. It was an internment and deportation camp. Between 1942 and 1944 they deported forty thousand people from there to Auschwitz.’
‘How did you survive? I mean, how did you carry on after that?’ I asked, cognisant of my own struggles after my mother’s death, which in contrast to Mirela’s was peaceful and dignified.
‘Monsieur Moreau,’ she said simply. ‘He saved me in every way. He gave me an appetite for life again. When the war ended, I began working in the boulangerie and learned to bake at his side. We spent every day together, kneading, folding and baking the stuff of life.’
‘Do you think that’s why he’s remained?’ I said, recalling my research online and the inability of some spirits to let go.
‘I don’t care to know why. He said he would always be here for me. Even in death, he stays true to his promise. But it will not last much longer,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It used to be that he was here all the time, day and night I could see him. Now, he stays for just one or two hours, that’s it. It will all end soon.’ She sipped her brandy and let her gaze fall onto the dancing flames of the fire.
I guessed that these residual hauntings couldn’t go on indefinitely, but it seemed almost cruel to think of Madame Moreau and Manu carrying on without his reassuring presence.
‘But what about Manu? He is going to take over some day, isn’t he?
I mean, he is learning from the master, I could see that. ’
Madame Moreau’s eyes shone with pride, then clouded with uneasiness once again. ‘We are being forced to sell the business, édith,’ she sighed, ‘I have to sell the boulangerie.’
‘I don’t believe it. After everything you’ve told me? It’s impossible!’ I had not expected to hear that and couldn’t hide my shock.
‘You think I want this?’ she shouted, her voice full of emotion.
She reached to the mantelpiece and took a letter down.
It was an official one, and when she showed me the letterhead, I saw it was from her bank.
I could guess what the contents were. The Moreaus were in debt and the bank wanted them to sell.
A howling wind had picked up outside and the snow whirled in circles outside the window. Madame Moreau got up with difficulty to close the shutters, her arthritis clearly paining her.
‘I’ve worked hard every day of my life to keep our home,’ she said, sitting back down and looking at her hands in her lap. ‘But now with these useless things…’
I could see her fingers were curled and stiff. This was why she couldn’t go on and why she couldn’t pass on the Moreau legacy to Manu. It was physically impossible.
‘I married a man with big dreams and a false heart.
When he died, he left me with much debt.
He gambled, you see. So when my Gabrielle died, ‘zere was only me left to take care of Manu. The bills kept coming in, books for his school, his clothes, food and the costs of running the boulangerie. I had to borrow a, how you say, hypothèque, on our home and I can no longer make the payments.’
‘A mortgage?’ I said, looking down into my lap. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘They came last month, the men in their suits with pale faces, and avarice in their eyes. It would seem there is a buyer, eager to develop the building into a boutique hotel.’
‘What? But that’s ridiculous; the bakery has been here for years, hasn’t it?’
‘Since 1920, the Moreaus have been baking their bread here,’ she said, distraught at the thought of losing the legacy that had been entrusted to her.
‘Surely the town council wouldn’t allow it,’ I argued, ‘I mean, this has got to be a listed building.’
‘Mais, c’est ?a le problème. It’s expensive to keep up the building and the developers have promised the council that they wish the exterior to remain the same, but that they will restore the interiors to preserve the building for years to come.
These historic societies are very strict about such things – sensibilité to the building’s origins – but they don’t care who is paying for it.
The bank believes a hotel will be more profitable, so they are supporting the deal.
The developers have promised the council increased tourist numbers with an ‘istorical hotel. I don’t see what I can do. ’
I stared into the flames, trying to take it all in. I had no idea when I arrived that their situation was this dire. In fact, I began to wonder, why had they hired me at all?
‘Why did you place that ad online? If you knew things were this bad?’ I felt the heat of resentment rising in my throat.
‘Manu,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘He thinks he knows what is best.’ There was a mixture of pride and irritation in her voice.
I suddenly felt ashamed of myself for bringing it up. Given what they were facing, it wasn’t the time for blame.
‘Anyone can see that baking is his passion,’ I said.
‘Ah yes, he learns well from Papa. But he is just a child. I wanted to give him the home Monsieur Moreau gave to me after my parents died. But now we will lose everything – even him.’
That was when she finally broke down. The pressure of keeping everything together must have been enormous.
I knelt down beside her and put my arm around her shoulders while she cried into her tissue.
Manu’s words in the basement that morning came back to me: ‘Maybe she can help.’ What on earth did he think I could do?
Well, I couldn’t make things any worse, that was for sure. I would have to think of something.