“So, after the Germans came that day, I would cycle out to the farm just as I had before, as often as possible. Maman and Papa went every day to the square to open up the carousel, but very few people came now. Papa became very disconsolate at times, and kept saying we should take it down, pack up, and move on somewhere new. But Maman argued that it would be the same elsewhere, that the Germans were bound to be everywhere by now, that wherever we went we would not be able to escape them. She insisted that once people got used to having the Germans about—and they would—they would come out again to enjoy themselves. It was human nature, she said, for people to want to have fun, and that maybe they would need the carousel even more now, to raise spirits, to forget their troubles, the war and the Occupation. We had to be proud and carry on.
Every day, if the weather was fair, Maman and Papa would go to the town square, open up the carousel, play the barrel organ, and wait for the families and children to come. I loved to hear “Sur le Pont d’Avignon” echoing around the square. It was our song, a song all French people knew and loved. And that was important now, even to a child as young as I was. I understood what it meant. That song was part of who we were, and the Germans could not take it away from us.
Maman put up posters all over the town, and handed out dozens of leaflets telling everyone that it was half price now for a ride on the Charbonneau Carousel. Still people didn’t come. In the town square now, there were always German soldiers to be seen, drinking in the cafés, strolling in the streets, wandering wherever they liked, chatting to anyone who would talk to them. They were making themselves at home. One or two even came to have a ride on the carousel, which only made Papa even more upset. He told them the carousel was for children, but they just laughed and got up onto it anyway. There was nothing he could do. I hated to see them there too, which was another reason why I was always more than happy to go off to the farm for my lessons, and to see Lorenzo. I longed for my lessons, and I longed even more to be with Lorenzo.
My lessons went on with Nancy right here in this room, sitting just where you are now, Vincent. I still enjoyed them, but I wanted more and more to be outside with Lorenzo. Nancy knew it, of course. She would see me looking longingly out of the window, and sometimes she would take pity on me and cut my lessons short. She would often send me on my way with her book of King Arthur stories.
“Go on, then, Kezia, go and read to him in his Camelot. It is good for your reading practice anyway,” she would say. “He would love it if you read it to him there.”
So that’s what I often did. On the great stone in the courtyard of the ruined castle in the marshes, I would sit and read to Lorenzo. He liked it so much that he never wanted me to stop. I could see him mouthing every word as I read it, living the story in his head. Some of it he really did know word for word, and sometimes would even finish the sentence for me. The words might be garbled, abbreviated, but they were recognizable. He was telling me the story his way. We had magical times together in that place. I always hated to leave.
Every time I cycled home now, I knew I would find Papa ever more silent and somber in the caravan. I sensed also that Maman was tense, and not herself at all. She was nervous, frightened even, whenever she heard voices from across the canal or outside the caravan. She dodged my questions, and, however much I asked, would not tell me what it was that was troubling her. I thought it must be the Occupation, of course, the constant presence of the German soldiers in the town. As I was to discover later, it was much more than that.
So, over the days and weeks that followed, the caravan became an ever more sad and difficult place for me to come home to. Out on the farm, with my other family—as I had come to think of them by now—I felt free and happy, with no thought of the Occupation. I just wanted to stay there with Lorenzo in his Camelot for as long as I could, and so would try to find any excuse to put off cycling home until the last possible moment.
On the day it happened, there were gray clouds gathering over the marshes. I told Nancy that a storm was coming in from the sea and that I could be blown off my bike on the road home, that maybe I should wait awhile and not go home yet, not until the storm had passed. But Nancy knew my game. She said I was right, that there was a storm coming, which was all the more reason why I should go home now, before it got any worse. I never argued with Nancy—I never even tried. I liked her too much, and anyway I knew I would not win.
So, whether I wanted to or not, I had to go. As usual, Lorenzo walked me down the farm track a little way. We said good-bye, and he pushed me off on my bicycle as he always did, and ran along beside me till I was going too fast for him. It was the same every time.
Lorenzo loved everything to be the same, even good-byes. Good-byes, hellos, sausages, and songs, he loved what he knew, never wanted anything to be different. The trouble is that things do change, whether we like it or not. And for Lorenzo any change was always difficult. It still is sometimes.
A mistral wind is wild and unpredictable, Vincent, and treacherous too. There was a strong and gusting wind on the way back, but I had an easy enough ride along the canal, for awhile. The track is quite protected there. Then, quite suddenly, I found myself out of the shelter of the high rushes and on the open road, with nothing but wide lakes on either side of me, at the mercy of the sudden fury of a vicious gale that was roaring in over the marshes. There was no hiding place. I just had to put my head down and pedal hard. I cycled most of the way into a headwind so strong that time and again I was forced to get off and walk. The water in the lakes was being whipped up into white-capped waves—I had never seen it like that before.
Cycling became impossible. I had to walk the rest of the way. As I came over the bridge just outside the town walls, it was all I could do to keep upright in the wind. There was driving rain with it now that was stinging my eyes if ever I tried to lift my head.
I knew something was wrong as soon as I reached our field. The door of the caravan was open and banging in the wind. Honey was in the field, but I could not see Maman and Papa anywhere. I called for them. No one answered. I looked inside the caravan. No one was there. So they had to be at the carousel in town. But in a storm like this no one would be on the rides. Maman and Papa would have shut it down by now. Maybe they were still busy doing it. It was the only place left I could think of to look for them.
I left my bicycle, and set off on foot, running. As I came into the town square, I saw at once what had happened. The great plane tree in the middle of the square had been uprooted, and had come crashing down right on top of our carousel. It lay there in pieces under the branches, crushed, flattened, destroyed. A huge crowd of people was gathered around, Maman and Papa amongst them. They were standing side by side, Maman’s head on Papa’s shoulder, looking down at the wreckage of their lives.”