Read Online Noah's Child by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt - Free Book Online Page A

holiday camp for the summer. Anyone without a host family stayed on in the boarding house until the beginning of the next school year. Instead of feeling abandoned, those of us who were left felt like princes: the Villa Jaune was ours and the long weeks of plentiful fruit went some way to easing our constant gnawing hunger. With the help of a few young seminarians, Father Pons devoted his time to us. It was a constant round of long walks, campfires, ball games and Charlie Chaplin films projected on to a white sheet held taut against the dark night in the covered yard. Although we were discreet around our supervisors, we no longer had to take any precautions amongst ourselves: we were all Jewish. Out of gratitude to Father Pons, we were all unbelievably eager about the only lessons we continued to have, our catechism lessons. We sangwith tremendous enthusiasm in all Christian services and, on rainy mornings, threw ourselves into building a crib and the figures to go with it for the following Christmas.
    One day when a football match had reduced all the players to a muck sweat, Father Pons ordered immediate showers.
    The older boys had had theirs and the middle group too. All that remained was the youngest group, which included me.
    There were about twenty of us playing and whooping under cool water streaming from the shower heads when a German officer stepped into the changing rooms.
    As the blond-haired officer came in we children turned to stone, our voices dying away, and Father Pons went whiter than the tiling. Everything froze, except for the jetting water, which continued gleefully, obliviously showering us.
    The officer inspected us. Some instinctively covered their genitals, a naturally modest gesture which came too late not to be seen as an admission.
    The water streamed on. Silence sweated out of us in great fat droplets.
    The officer had just established our identity. Aflicker of his eyes showed that he was thinking. Father Pons took a step forward.
    â€˜You were looking for . . .?’ he said in a cracked voice.
    The officer explained the situation in French. Since morning his troop had been tracking a Resistance fighter who had climbed over the wall to the grounds as he fled. He was now trying to see where the intruder might be hiding.
    â€˜You can see that your fugitive isn’t hiding here,’ said Father Pons.
    â€˜Yes, I can see that,’ the officer replied slowly.
    Silence descended again, heavy with fear and danger. I grasped the fact that my life would stop there. Just a few more seconds and we would be filing out, naked, humiliated, to climb into a lorry that would take us to some destination I couldn’t imagine.
    There were footsteps outside. Thump of boots. Steel toecaps on paving stones. Guttural cries.
    The officer in his grey-green uniform ran to the door and opened it slightly.
    â€˜He’s not in here. Keep looking. Schnell! ’
    The door was already closing again, and the troop moving away.
    The officer looked at Father Pons whose lips werequivering. Some of us started to cry. My teeth were chattering.
    At first I thought the officer was reaching for his revolver in his belt. In fact he was taking out his wallet.
    â€˜Here,’ he said to Father Pons, handing him a banknote, ‘treat the boys to some sweets.’
    Father Pons was so dumbstruck he didn’t respond, so the officer forcibly put the five francs into his hand, gave us a smile and a wink, clicked his heels together and strode out.
    How long did the silence last after he left? How many minutes did it take for us to understand we were saved? Some carried on crying because they were still gripped with fear; others were rooted to the spot, speechless; still others rolled their eyes as if to say ‘can you believe it, can any of you believe it?’
    Father Pons, his face waxy and lips white, suddenly slumped to the floor. Kneeling on the soaking concrete, he rocked backwards and forwards uttering