Némésis – which Dr Hild, who had been living there, returned graciously and in impeccable condition – I telephoned Rue Richer to invite my family to spend a few days in Andigny. I missed my daughter-in-law. Olivier answeredthe phone. He sounded awkward, and said that he wanted to talk to me face to face first. Ilse and Hermione could come later in the summer – that could wait. So my son arrived alone, by train. He insisted on talking to me in my office, beyond earshot of the servants. I offered him a chair, and listened to what he had to say, or rather to request.
He began by mentioning the law of 22 July: had I heard of it? I had, and had thought of it myself, but I pretended not to understand why Olivier should want to discuss it with me. As you may be aware, one of the new laws enacted in the summer of 1940, laying the foundations for a complete overhaul of the naturalisation procedures in force since 1927, stipulated that French citizenship could be revoked by decree upon the recommendation of a commission whose membership and functions were to be determined by the Minister of Justice. Olivier was visibly worried about Ilse, whose naturalisation in 1935 would inevitably be reconsidered, one day or another, by the aforesaid review commission.
I raised my eyebrow and asked, ‘Do you know of any reason why your wife’s French citizenship might not be confirmed?’
My son looked flustered. ‘No, but …’
I was playing with Olivier as a cat plays with a mouse: one takes one’s revenge where one can.
‘Well then,’ I said. He said nothing. I went on. ‘The law does not specify particular causes for revocation, other than if citizenship has been acquired “for opportunistic reasons” or to rectify past errors. Is there any chance that the commission will learn something about your wife that could prove to be a problem?’
Olivier reddened and mumbled. I felt sorry for him. I had, in fact, already given the matter some serious thought. I knew what had to be done to protect Ilse from the anti-Jewish regulations that I was convinced would soon enter into force, and with a new severity that in any case I approved of in principle. I rose, approached my son, and placed my hand on his shoulder.
‘You know that I’m on good terms with the Prefect of Police, Langeron. He and I are in the same social circle; he reads my books. I will call him and request an interview, which he will grant me. He is a cultured, courteous and conscientious civil servant, and will certainly know how to avoid having your wife’s file re-opened. Even if my efforts are unnecessary, since as you say, there is
no problem
.’
Impervious to irony, Olivier raised a radiant face to me and clasped my hand with gratitude.
‘That’s wonderful, Father! It will be such a comfort to me, when I …’ He hesitated.
‘When you?’ I echoed.
He kept my hand in his and, staring me in the eye, said in an exalted tone: ‘When I go away. It’s all decided, you see. I’m leaving with a friend. We have a connection. We’ll go first to Spain, and then by boat to London!’
So the idiot was planning to join de Gaulle! I asked him frostily if he, too, was determined to be condemned to death. To see himself stripped of the citizenship that he hoped to preserve for his wife, a foreigner. And he, a Frenchman! I trembled with indignation and fury. I ended up shouting that, just as the Maréchal had said, England would have its neck wrung like a chicken! Olivier responded by calling me a fascist. Enough was enough. I bellowed that if he betrayed his Homeland, as well as the wife and daughter whom he was abandoning like a coward, then he was no longer my son. I cursed him. Olivier slammed the door to my office on his way out and found his own way back to the station, without even visiting the cemetery to pay his respects at the tomb of she who had given him life.
That was two years ago. I haven’t seen him since. The next day, I merely called to ask
He began by mentioning the law of 22 July: had I heard of it? I had, and had thought of it myself, but I pretended not to understand why Olivier should want to discuss it with me. As you may be aware, one of the new laws enacted in the summer of 1940, laying the foundations for a complete overhaul of the naturalisation procedures in force since 1927, stipulated that French citizenship could be revoked by decree upon the recommendation of a commission whose membership and functions were to be determined by the Minister of Justice. Olivier was visibly worried about Ilse, whose naturalisation in 1935 would inevitably be reconsidered, one day or another, by the aforesaid review commission.
I raised my eyebrow and asked, ‘Do you know of any reason why your wife’s French citizenship might not be confirmed?’
My son looked flustered. ‘No, but …’
I was playing with Olivier as a cat plays with a mouse: one takes one’s revenge where one can.
‘Well then,’ I said. He said nothing. I went on. ‘The law does not specify particular causes for revocation, other than if citizenship has been acquired “for opportunistic reasons” or to rectify past errors. Is there any chance that the commission will learn something about your wife that could prove to be a problem?’
Olivier reddened and mumbled. I felt sorry for him. I had, in fact, already given the matter some serious thought. I knew what had to be done to protect Ilse from the anti-Jewish regulations that I was convinced would soon enter into force, and with a new severity that in any case I approved of in principle. I rose, approached my son, and placed my hand on his shoulder.
‘You know that I’m on good terms with the Prefect of Police, Langeron. He and I are in the same social circle; he reads my books. I will call him and request an interview, which he will grant me. He is a cultured, courteous and conscientious civil servant, and will certainly know how to avoid having your wife’s file re-opened. Even if my efforts are unnecessary, since as you say, there is
no problem
.’
Impervious to irony, Olivier raised a radiant face to me and clasped my hand with gratitude.
‘That’s wonderful, Father! It will be such a comfort to me, when I …’ He hesitated.
‘When you?’ I echoed.
He kept my hand in his and, staring me in the eye, said in an exalted tone: ‘When I go away. It’s all decided, you see. I’m leaving with a friend. We have a connection. We’ll go first to Spain, and then by boat to London!’
So the idiot was planning to join de Gaulle! I asked him frostily if he, too, was determined to be condemned to death. To see himself stripped of the citizenship that he hoped to preserve for his wife, a foreigner. And he, a Frenchman! I trembled with indignation and fury. I ended up shouting that, just as the Maréchal had said, England would have its neck wrung like a chicken! Olivier responded by calling me a fascist. Enough was enough. I bellowed that if he betrayed his Homeland, as well as the wife and daughter whom he was abandoning like a coward, then he was no longer my son. I cursed him. Olivier slammed the door to my office on his way out and found his own way back to the station, without even visiting the cemetery to pay his respects at the tomb of she who had given him life.
That was two years ago. I haven’t seen him since. The next day, I merely called to ask
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