Trains of Thought From Paris to Omaha Beach, Memories of a Wartime Youth

Chapter 1 THEY CALLED HIM JASCHA It may have been drizzling, as on so many winter days. I do not remember where we took the bus on this expedition to the rue de Provence. Was it at La Muette, close to where Jacques lived, or on the place de Passy, not far from my parents' apartment? All I recall is that we got off near the Gare Saint-Lazare and then walked somewhat furtively to our destination, looking up to check street numbers. Jacques preceded me. After all, he was a year older, and it was he who had all the information. I envied him, and not only for his carefree gait. His father had encouraged him, had given him the address-and the money. The fourteen-year-old boy that I was then secretly hoped that the bus ride on this initiatory trip would never end. We were standing as usual in our favorite place on the open rear platform, which, at every stop and start, bounced up and down. In those prewar days, the green Renault buses in Paris all had a rear platform on which some eight or nine people could stand and from where the controleur signaled to the driver by means of a chain he yanked in an experienced manner that made the pear-shaped handle fly up and then swing for a while. I still see the dance of the chain and smell the unmistakable Parisian bus exhaust that often made me slightly sick-and on this occasion almost quelled my courage. We had been talking about 122, rue de Provence for weeks, planning and postponing, inspired by our disreputable but much admired classmate Pierre Masselli. The problem for me was the money. There simply was no way I could approach my father. That was unthinkable on such a subject. I had to find another way, even if it meant searching in our apartment for some object I could dispose of without it being immediately missed. The appropriation of the silver tea-glass holder that came from Russia and the subsequent transaction at the pawnshop on the rue de la Tour remain foggy, as in a dream. It is the bus ride that is clear on the playback screen of my memory. So are the lengthy discussions on our walks back from the lycee. And now, relived in a repeated present, apprehension gripped me as I followed Jacques, who kept bantering me, on our way to what the English clients, we had heard, called the "One-Two-Two." But here things get blurred. Was it on my first or my second visit that I noticed the softly lit, carpeted staircase on which one felt far removed from the bustle outside? And the large room with mirrors, where multiform graces in diverse attires and poses expected to be chosen as the one-hour favorites of today's budding two pashas? Or was it a later literary association? Jacques and I, of course, never heard the famous call "Ces dames au salon!" which the madam is supposed to utter. But there they were, assembled as on a stage, on display. We made our choice-I did so almost blindly, lifting my hand and pointing in the direction where I had glimpsed a gentle smile. Then another muffled staircase, the pressure of an arm around my waist, tender words no one had ever spoken to me quite in that way. I see myself in a room all softness and silence. Her name was Maggie, and she looked a little like the sad-eyed singer Edith Piaf when she was still known as "La Mome Piaf." There was nothing threatening in her gestures, her poses, the ritual of ablutions. "Is this the first time?" she asked, astride me. I denied this vehemently. But I took no initiatives, letting things happen. Maggie was impressed by my silk shirt, which I had been reluctant to take off, and which she unbuttoned swiftly, examining the breast pocket on which my initials appeared inside the woven image of a pagoda. The shirt was a recent present from my uncle who lived in Shanghai, where he managed the local branch of my father's business. Maggie wanted to know if I had a girlfriend. She seemed curious aBrombert, Victor is the author of 'Trains of Thought From Paris to Omaha Beach, Memories of a Wartime Youth', published 2004 under ISBN 9781400034031 and ISBN 1400034035.