Read Online No Light by Michael Costello - Free Book Online

as usual, irresistible. She laughed often and completely entranced me with her deep blue eyes and thick raven hair.
    “Do you sing Paul?”
    The boys laughed.
    “He is French mamma they do not know how to sing.”
    “But he is also Jewish and they do”, she replied softly.
    My first reaction was to agree with the boys. I looked at Camille for support but she said instead,
    “Sing the song you heard your mother sing before you were born. You promised to sing it for me when we met in the cafe.”
    I was embarrassed that she had remembered. Now they all encouraged me to sing. I swallowed hard and made a few dramatic adjustments to my posture before beginning the song. I was nervous and hoped I could remember the words but when I began I heard my mother’s voice,
     
    The voice of my beloved is coming,
    Leaping on the mountains,
    Dancing on the hills
    It is the time of love,
    O bride come into my garden.
    The grapevine has blossomed,
    The pomegranates have flowered.
    We will rejoice and sing.
     
    Isabelle reached over and gently took my hand.
    “I feel your mother is with us now”, she said.
    I was sad to leave them. As we sat on the train to Paris I noticed Camille was quieter than usual.
    “Are you unhappy?”
    She tried to smile but I knew it was difficult for her to leave her family.
    “Maybe we should talk about leaving Paris.”
    She looked concerned.
    “Why? Your father needs us and you have the shop. I also have my teaching.”
    She was right of course. Father was becoming more dependent. He loved having Camille around the apartment and they had grown close. She had taken to reading him poetry and often walked with him to the synagogue.
    We sat huddled together on the train watching the countryside pass us with increasing monotony. Occasionally the train stopped to allow passengers on and off and we always took this opportunity to step on to the platform. During one such stop I remembered the first time Camille came to my shop.
    “Can I ask you something?”
    “Of course”, she replied.
    “That picture by Nathalie Kraemer. I asked you if you were acquainted with her and you said you were more than acquainted. What did you mean?”
    “Did you not recognise me?”
    “The painting was of you?”
    She smiled and nodded.
    “But the hair...it was black.”
    “I asked her to change the colour as I wanted to hide my identity.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. I met Nathalie when I first arrived in Paris. We shared an apartment together.”
    “What was she like?”
    “I loved her. She was intense and passionate and deeply spiritual. When I first met her she was writing poetry but she preferred painting. She asked me to sit for her one day and I agreed. I was very shy and didn’t want anyone to recognise me so I asked her to change the hair colour.”
    “She definitely succeeded. I never noticed a likeness.”
    “I liked what you said about there being truthfulness in the painting. Maybe you recognised something deeper in it.”
     
    *
     
    In June 1940 Alex’s prediction came true. Camille and I watched German soldiers march triumphantly along Le Champs Elysees. No-one applauded. A few cried. Our army had capitulated after only four weeks and we now found ourselves at the mercy of Hitler and his Aryan ideology. The soldiers looked nervous as they paraded past. Occasionally a few looked at us, their young eyes scanning our faces. I gave one of them a weak smile. He turned away immediately. Was our life about to crumble?  I hoped not but if it were I hoped some remnants of our culture would survive. Camille was more positive. She claimed that the Germans would not want to completely destroy French society.
    “Why would they? The war will eventually end and when it does we will return to exchanging ideas and trading with each other. Anyway, you are an artist and artists do not owe allegiance to governments or politics. Art is their master wherever that may take them.”
    We returned to the apartment and