As I reached the hallway, Papa turned to glance at me over his shoulder. It looked as if the two men were holding him by the arms. He opened his eyes wide when he saw me and I read so much in them in that split second – love, fear, pain and grief. But the most awful thing of all was the look of defeat that I saw there too, a realisation that the game was up.
He shook his head at me, so gently that it was almost imperceptible.
But I couldn’t give up, I couldn’t let them take my papa away. I reached for him, but one of the men stepped between us and pushed me away.
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘He’s done nothing. Why are you taking him?’
The men’s mouths were set in grim lines and they didn’t answer me, they just marched Papa down the steps to the waiting car. I started after them, but Papa looked back at me once more. ‘Stay there, Josie. Look after Maman and Annette for me,’ he said. His voice was low, so filled with emotion that the words sounded thick in his throat.
I was expecting him to say that he promised he’d be back soon: I desperately wanted him to say those words, to make one more promise and be able to keep it this time. But there was no time for him to say anything more as the two men bundled him into the back of the car and slammed the door. Then the driver pulled away and I couldn’t see Papa, even though I tried desperately to catch one more glimpse of him through the window, because the German who’d climbed in after him was in the way.
The second car drew forward, following the first. And then I caught sight of one of the passengers travelling in it and sickness and anger flooded my guts. He was looking straight at me. I recognised the sand-coloured hair, the sunken eyes and the vulture-like hunch of the shoulders, even before Monsieur Guigner opened his mouth in a grin that looked to me like the grimace of a skull.
With an effort, I swallowed the acid bile that had filled my mouth along with the urge to scream. Then Maman appeared on the steps behind me and I collapsed into her arms. She held me tight and I sobbed into her shoulder. And then, very firmly, she pulled me inside and closed the door.
I can’t write any more tonight, although I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. Instead, I’m sitting by the window, watching the moonlight cast its silver shadows on the tiles of the roof where the turtle doves are roosting for the night. I remember the dreamseller’s words: when the moon shines on one hundred bowls of water, every one of them is filled with moonlight. I hope that, wherever he is tonight, my papa can see the moonlight and he can feel my love shining on him too.
Goodnight, Papa.
Josie’s Journal – Monday 6th July, 1942
I’m struggling to find the right words to put down what has happened. But I know that if I want to be a writer I have to record everything. And even though I can never again be carefree I have to trust in Papa’s advice to put things in my journal and get them out of my head when they are too hard to bear. So I will try . . .
When Madame Bénatar and Miss Ellis both appeared on the doorstep this afternoon, I knew what they were going to say before they opened their mouths. Their faces already told me the answer to the questions we’d been asking ourselves every second of every day for the past week.
Maman had plucked up all her courage and been to the Préfecture de Police to ask for information about the abduction of her husband, but the stony-faced French policeman behind the desk couldn’t – or wouldn’t – give her any information. He simply said it was a matter for the German authorities and that it was nothing to do with him, even though Felix had told us that the French police had been helping the Gestapo with the round-ups in the mellah the previous weekend. He’d cycled over, looking for Papa, and I think he was as devastated as we all were to hear he’d been taken too.
Maman knew it was too dangerous for her to pursue things further with the Germans. They might arrest her as well and then Annette and me. So she’d asked Miss Ellis to let Mr Reid and Madame Bénatar know, as she hoped they might be able to hold some sway with the authorities.
When the two ladies came to call, Maman showed them upstairs to the drawing room, as if it were a social visit. With all of my heart I wished it was. I wished we could sip cups of mint tea and make small talk about the weather and the progress I’d been making in my lessons. I’d have been happy to make polite conversation for once. But I already knew that wasn’t what they’d come for. I don’t think any of us wanted to speak, because until the words were said we could cling on to a tiny shred of hope and still believe that Papa would come home one day soon.