Free Shhh by Raymond Federman Page A

again he examines the booklet. And with his finger he shows me a date. 1937.
    1937! Then I must have been eight years old. Yes, that’s how old I was.
    He tells me to wait and disappears at the end of the hall. A few minutes later he comes back with a huge green dusty register. I seem to recognize the register as the one into which I inscribed my name the day of the award of the school prizes.
    He places it on a table, opens it slowly, and starts turning the yellowed pages. He licks his finger each time he turns a page. He does it very carefully as if afraid that the pages will disintegrate.
    The names on the pages are in alphabetical order. He pronounces the first letter of each name as he turns the pages. He arrives at the letter F. And with his finger he follows on the page the names that begin with the letter F.
    Féderman, he asks, with one N or two? The way he pronounces my name, he makes it sound at if there is an accent over the first E.
    One N only, I tell him. And no accent.
    Ah, there it is! His finger has stopped on my name. I lean over his shoulder to look where his finger is pointing. Yes, that’s my name. Raymond Federman. That’s the signature I made more than twenty years ago. The one with the beautiful curls.
    Yes, that’s my signature, I tell him. I remember when I did it. It was during la distribution des prix à l’école de Montrouge. But the old man doesn’t seem to be listening to me.
    May I see your carte d’identité, to verify your signature and make sure you are Raymond Federman, the old man says with a certain authority in his voice.
    When I returned to France in 1958, I didn’t have a French identity card. I had an American passport. I was an American citizen.
    I told in Smiles on Washington Square how I became an American citizen in Tokyo during the Korean war. So I’m not going to repeat that story, though it was a very funny event.
    When the old man sees my American passport he looks at me like some kind of eccentric. For a moment he stands there totally baffled. Then he tells me to wait here and he goes out of the hall of archives with the green register under his arm and my passport in his hand.
    This time I wait for quite a while. I am starting to find the situation amusing.
    Finally the old man returns, but this time together with half a dozen people. Curious employees of the bank who wanted to see this American who came to claim money from the Savings Bank.
    The old man explains that we must go to the office of the director of the bank on the sixth floor. So here we are all going up the grand staircase of this institution. The old man leading the way, me following behind, and behind me a long file of bank employees. The rumor had now circulated throughout the entire building that an American was here claiming that the Bank owed him money. I even heard someone whisper, It’s like the Marshall Plan in reverse.
    We are now in the office of the director. The old man explains the matter. The director examines the register and my passport with his thick eyeglasses at the tip of his nose. He looks at me. Tells me to approach. Again he examines the register and my passport with a perplexed look.
    I should mention that on that day I was properly dressed. I had put on a jacket, the only one I owned, and even a tie. So I assume I gave the impression that I was not a beggar.
    You are Monsieur Raymond Federman? The director asks.
    Yes. Yes, I am.
    And it is you who signed this register of the Montrouge Savings Bank.
    Yes, it was me. In 1937, when I was a kid ... a school boy.
    Well, I suppose we have to pay you your money then since you are the same Raymond Federman who signed that register when you were a school boy.
    I approve with a nod of the head, and thank him.
    But, the director says, I have to ask you to sign a receipt. And he slides a sheet of paper before me on his desk and shows me where to sign.
    I sign.
    He examines my signature. He examines