‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I replied. ‘I hope one day you will be able to sing and dance again. And may I ask how your animals are?’
It was her turn to sigh then. ‘I’ve had to leave them in Marrakesh, I’m afraid. They wouldn’t let me have them in the hospital, and of course Glug-Glug and Gugusse would have caused all sorts of havoc and Bonzo would have been miserable there. But don’t worry, my staff are taking good care of them all and one day soon I hope I’ll see them again.’
We watched the drips from the drinking fountain for a few moments. ‘Look there,’ Josephine Baker said, pointing to where they’d splashed on to the dusty ground. A faint shimmer, like tiny stitches of green silk thread on a blank canvas, was just visible. She smiled once more. ‘You see, the grass is beginning to grow again. And if it can rise again from the dust, then so can we, n’est-ce pas, Josie?’
Another squadron of swifts swooped above us, so low that we could hear the sound of the scimitar-shaped blades of their wings slicing through the air.
Miss Baker roused herself. ‘I must be getting back to the clinic or they’ll be sending out a search party. They are so very bossy, those doctors and nurses, although I know they have my best interests at heart. But before I go, I think you have something for me perhaps?’ She nodded towards the schoolbook in my lap. I handed it over and she glanced at the cover. ‘An A+, hey? Excellent work, Josie Duval. No wonder your papa was always so proud of you.’
I was pretty surprised to know that she’d heard of my papa and me. How strange it is to be famous – even in secret – to someone who is so famous herself.
I sat for a while and watched as Josephine Baker shuffled away along the path back to the hospital. The stooped, wizened figure, with my schoolbook tucked under one arm, looked spectral against the bare twigs in the fading light and for a moment I thought, ‘She has turned into a ghost of herself.’
Maybe that’s what we’ve all become now. The war has taken thousands of lives. And even those of us who are still living have been turned into ghosts of our former selves.
Josie’s Journal – Friday 6th November, 1942
At last we have news that our berth has been confirmed. Our ship, the Esperanza, is due to arrive in port today. We sail for Portugal on Wednesday next week, which is the day after Annette’s birthday. I like the fact that the Portuguese have sent a boat whose name means ‘Hope’。 Perhaps they understand it will be carrying not just refugees but a cargo of hopes and dreams as we look forward to our new lives.
So I have just a few days to finish packing and to say my goodbyes. I’ve put most things in the suitcases already. I’m only leaving out the clothes I’ll need. And I’ll keep my box of treasures and this journal in their hiding place until the last minute, so that I can carry them with me when I go and there’ll be absolutely no chance of them falling into the wrong hands.
It’s going to be a busy few days, I think. I need to buy a present for Annette and return the last of my books to the library. Kenza is planning to bake some special cakes and pastries for Annette’s birthday as it will also be our chance to say our farewells to her and Nina and Felix.
Maman seems to have a little more energy, now that the end of our time in Casablanca is almost upon us. I can be thankful for that at least.
Zoe – 2010
I turn the page, expecting to read something more. But there is nothing. The last few pages of the journal are blank. And then, as the significance of this sinks in, a fear begins to grip my guts. I should have thought of it before.
Why was Josie’s journal left behind? What happened to her and her mother and sister? Surely she wouldn’t have left it on purpose? She’d never have forgotten to pack it. And there’s no way she would have forgotten her box of treasures either. I open it again and take out its contents: the little gold Star of David that she was told by her mother not to wear in case it invited trouble; the carved length of stick that mimics the call of the turtle doves, evoking Felix and Nina; Josephine Baker’s autograph; the faded flamingo feather from the visit to the lagoon on the family’s final holiday down the coast; and most importantly of all, the sliver of jade-green sea glass that the ocean gave Josie in return for her father’s name. She’d never have left them behind deliberately.
My fear gathers strength as I set them all out on the quilt and my sense of doubt becomes more concrete. Something must have happened to prevent Josie from taking them with her. I imagine a knock at the door, a large black car waiting in the street below, men in greatcoats with Nazi insignia on their lapels coming to take the family away just as they were about to leave for safety.