Free Noah's Child by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

intellectuals except for me. My father’s a lawyer, my mother’s a famous concert pianist who plays with all the best orchestras, my brothers and sisters all had diplomas by the time they were twenty. Nothing but brains . . . and all arrested. Carted off in trucks. They didn’t think it could happen to them, which was why they didn’t hide. Such intelligent, respectable people. What saved me was that I wasn’t at home or at school! I was traipsing about the streets. Sole survivor because I’d gone walkabout . . . So, you see, studying . . .’
    â€˜Do you think I’m doing the wrong thing learning my lessons?’
    â€˜No, not you, Joseph. You’ve got what it takes andyou’ve still got life ahead of you . . .’
    â€˜Rudy, you’re not yet sixteen . . .’
    â€˜I know, it’s already too late.’
    He didn’t say any more, but I could tell he too was furious with his family. Even though they had vanished, even though they never contacted us, our parents still played a constant part in our lives at the Villa Jaune. I know I resented mine! I resented them for being Jewish, for making me Jewish, and for exposing us to danger. Crazy, the pair of them! What was my father? Hopeless. And my mother? A victim. A victim because she married my father, a victim because she failed to gauge her own terrible weakness, a victim for being just a kind, devoted wife. I may have felt contempt for my mother, but I still forgave her because I couldn’t help loving her. On the other hand, I was pervaded by a hefty hatred towards my father. He had forced me to be his son without showing any ability to ensure I had a decent fate. Why wasn’t I Father Pons’s son?
    One afternoon in November 1943, Rudy and I climbed up into the branches of an old oak tree that overlooked the surrounding countryside with its great spread of fields laid out before our eyes. We were scrutinizing the bark to find the nests wheresquirrels hibernated. Our feet skimmed the top of the wall around the grounds; if we had wanted to we could have escaped, jumping down on to the path round the perimeter and running away. But where to? Nothing was worth more than our safety at the Villa Jaune. We kept our adventures within its walls. While Rudy heaved himself higher up, I parked myself on the first fork in the branches and, from there, I thought I caught sight of my father.
    A tractor was coming down the road, heading straight past us. There was a man at the wheel: even though he had no beard and was dressed like a farm-worker, he looked enough like my father for me to recognize him. And I did recognize him.
    I was transfixed. I didn’t want this to be happening. ‘Please don’t let him see me!’ I held my breath. The tractor spluttered under our tree and trundled on towards the valley. ‘Phew, he didn’t see me!’ But he was only ten metres away and I could still have called out to him, caught him in time.
    With a dry mouth and holding my breath, I waited till the machine had become tiny and inaudible in the distance. When I was quite sure it had gone, I came back to life: I breathed out, blinked, shuddered. Rudy sensed that I was upset.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’
    â€˜I thought I saw someone I knew on the tractor.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜My father.’
    â€˜You poor thing, that’s impossible!’
    I shook my head to get the stupid idea out of my brain.
    â€˜Of course it’s impossible . . .’
    Wanting Rudy to feel sorry for me, I put on a face like a disappointed child. In fact, I was delighted I had avoided my father. Besides, was it actually him? Rudy must have been right. Could we live only a few kilometres apart without realizing it? Not likely! By nightfall I was convinced I’d dreamed it. And I erased the episode from my memory.
    Several years later, I found out that it was in fact my father who had come so close to me that day. My