The People in the Photo (10 page)

I know you sometimes felt he was distant or irritable with you, and you’re right. But it wasn’t his fault; you reminded him so much of Natasha, it was hard for him even to cuddle you or look at you. What’s more, he was consumed with guilt, blaming himself (quite wrongly, in my opinion) for the accident that deprived you of your mother. Through no fault of yours, he felt your very presence as a silent rebuke against what he believed to be his own worst actions. Some days, it was too much for him to bear.

As for me, I had Natasha’s last words going round in my head and was haunted by the knowledge that I had pushed her away when she most needed me. She had asked me to take care of you, and you were now half-orphaned. On a more selfish note, my loneliness
was becoming harder to bear, time was passing and my biological clock – as it’s called nowadays – was ticking. I wanted someone to come home to, a companion, and for you to be my little girl. So I agreed to marry your father on one condition: that I be allowed legally to adopt you. The papers were signed the following year. Michel also laid down two preconditions: we would never talk about your mother and I was never to address you in Russian. I kept my side of the bargain too. You must think us monstrous and calculating, and no doubt it was our sense of guilt that inspired the vain hope that blocking out the past might make the pain go away. But I promise you we both sincerely believed it was the best thing to do for your sake. And when, a decade or so later, I began to wonder if we’d got it wrong, it was too late to go back without accepting the prospect of you turning against us and pushing us away. We weren’t willing to take that risk.

You know what happened next: our life together, the three of us. It wasn’t all bad, I don’t think. Yes, your father still had the odd temper, and he never came to terms with Natasha’s death. But he had ‘started over’, as the expression goes, and firmly closed the lid on the past. He had distanced himself from his parents, who for all their devoutness never took the slightest interest in you. He, on the other hand, had turned his back on religion entirely. Yet he continued to visit Thiais every 19 November to lay flowers on Natasha’s grave, and I would go with him. I took you there once without
telling him, one spring afternoon when you were eight. I couldn’t tell you why. I just wanted you to be near one another, at least once. The last time I made the trip with Michel, when his health was beginning to fail, we passed an old man, tall but frail, walking back along the path through the cemetery on the arm of a younger man the spitting image of him at the same age. It was Pierre Crüsten. He didn’t recognise me. It had been thirty years, after all.

Time passed happily enough for us, in spite of your low periods and recurring nightmares about accidents. You were our daughter, the most adorable child, and you always remained so, even when you were fifteen and dyed your hair green, your bedroom reeked of cigarettes smoked in secret and you called us ‘a pair of old right-wing reactionaries’ (your words exactly!) for not letting you go to the cinema on school nights. And in the end you grew into the beautiful person you are today.

In 1973, I had received a card from Jean Pamiat, who had left his job at the newspaper to set up a small commercial photography studio in Lausanne. Things seemed to be going well for him, and we saw each other three or four times over the next few years, whenever he was in Paris. But the weight of Natasha’s memory hung heavy between us and we stopped meeting once I was back in touch with you and Michel. I suppose this tacit split was a way of severing the one remaining link
with the past, and thereby protecting you from it.

If only it were that easy. For your fifteenth birthday, you had your heart set on a camera. At first we tried to tell ourselves it was a passing craze, but once we saw how much time you were spending developing pictures up in the attic room, it was clear you really had a passion for it. Then you announced you were going to write your master’s dissertation on family photo albums in literature, and it seemed to me we were seeing the first cracks appearing in our wall of silence. And when you took up Russian seven years ago, Michel and I understood that all the outward calm had been deceptive; you had never stopped questioning where you came from, trying to find the part of you that was missing. You had an incredible instinct for unearthing your history, in spite of the fact we had erased all the material clues that might have shown you the way. Repeatedly failing your driving test, as if afraid of replicating your mother’s fate, was the most obvious example. I also sensed the sadness we had striven to ward off rearing its ugly head once more. Many years later you told me that the idea of having children terrified you and that you had just left Hervé, who was desperate to have them, for that very reason. That was when the scope and depth of our mistake really sank in. I was on the verge of telling you everything when your father fell ill. I had no choice but to give him my undivided attention.

I have no idea whether all that I have written will help you to see things more clearly. But I have every faith
in you. Like Natasha, you are drawn to the light, and we have done nothing but surround you in shadows. It may be late in the day, but I am urging you now to brush those shadows aside, to find the strength never to let them descend on you again. I don’t know what you will think of us now that you know the truth. You might hate us for all the lies we told, and if so, I would understand. But I’m old enough to know that hatred is a poison that harms the person who feels it the most; something Michel learned through bitter experience. Even if you cannot bring yourself to forgive us just yet, please keep a place in your heart for the three of us – your mother, your father and me. And more than anything, try to remember that everything we have done, even the things we did wrong – especially those – we did out of love for you,
solnyshko
.

Be happy, my darling Hélène.

I love you with all my heart.

Sylvia Hivert

Hawaii, 17 March (email)

Dear Hélène,

It was immediately clear to me from your letter that the woman who brought you up was an exceptional person. Mistakes, clumsiness, I grant you. But what love in those silences, in those ridiculous efforts whose hopelessness she herself realised. The simple fact that she had the courage to write you that letter is a mark of extraordinary affection.

I too owe her a great deal, indirectly. How would I have known, otherwise? Reading about my father’s past, the past I was unaware of, was deeply upsetting but also reassuring, in a way. I have always been convinced, even though I found it hard to explain, that he had two different personalities. This account touches on his other side, the one that Philippe and I glimpsed only briefly: that of a free man, an adventurer, passionate about his art, a man in love, the man in the portrait of 1971. There’s something cruel in the thought that we, his family, represented the flipside of that life, but what can we do other than accept it now?

After Natasha’s death, he must have grieved for her
and, worse, grieved without being able to talk about it, which is appalling. Now I understand why he avoided us as he did, why he found it so hard to bear the presence of others. He must have wanted to shut himself away with his sorrow, ultimately the only thing that remained of her.

It was your mother he went to see in Thiais cemetery, I’m certain of it. And I bumped into your parents, that day, even though I don’t remember them. When Pierre and I were already on our way back to Geneva, you must have been waiting somewhere for them. Our destinies, yours and mine, could have so easily continued unaware of each other, dearest Hélène. I find that retrospective thought almost unbearable.

I am with you, more than ever.

Stéphane

Paris, 18 March (email)

Dear Stéphane,

For my part, after all that time desperately seeking the truth – searching, questioning, poring over albums – I’m left with an overwhelming feeling of emptiness. Is that really it? Can a life be summed up in the dozen pages of a letter? Thirty years of censorship overturned by 110 photos in an album? I will never know any more about Nataliya Zabvina, unless Jean’s diary brings some revelation to light. But at this stage, I can’t imagine what it could tell us that we don’t already know. I feel all at sea tonight. The thought of you is practically the only light shining through these murky waters.

Hélène

Hawaii, 18 March (email)

Hélène,

In three days I’ll be home. And if you come to England, in four, we’ll be together.

Stéphane

Paris, 19 March (email)

I’ll be at Heathrow, waiting for you.

H.

Paris, 19 March (email)

I’ve come back to the computer because on my return from the museum this evening I had a visit from Boris, the Russian lecturer. He had come to give me the translation. We had coffee together in the kitchen. He couldn’t stop squirming on his stool and he asked me again if I knew the people mentioned in the diary. When I told him, as I had Vera, ‘Ya doch Natalii Zabviny,’ the colour drained from his face and he said, ‘Then you must not read it.’ He said the diary tells of unhappy events I am better off not knowing about; I reassured him that we were already aware of the essence of it. Boris stayed for dinner and, with the bundle of paper sitting on the counter within arm’s reach, we had a long conversation about secrets. I tried to explain how hard it had been for you and me, and why we were both so keen to try to piece together the story of what happened. Boris, who had a grandfather caught up in some denunciation scandal, told me that contrary to what you might think, in most cases the truth is crueller than anything you had imagined. He said, ‘You know, afterwards, you won’t be able to get it out of your head.’ On his way out, he
tried to give me back my cheque and take the translation and diary with him, to ‘shelter’ me from them. I refused on both counts.

Even so, I’m not sure I want to read it. It’s too late, anyway; everyone involved is dead now, or almost. Natasha has already begun to fade from memory. If it wasn’t for those scattered old photos, which could just as easily have been lost or destroyed, who would remember her face besides Vera and Jean? I’m torn: part of me wants to put the whole thing to bed, the other isn’t quite ready to consign my mother to oblivion.

Meanwhile, I’ve inherited the recollection of a turquoise dress and the location of a gravestone. In a sense, that’s more than I’ve had to go on for the last thirty-five years. But it’s not much of a memory bank to draw from in years to come.

Hélène

x

Geneva, 25 March 2008

Dear Hélène,

Stéphane has told me that you are piecing together our parents’ story, and I’m taking the liberty of writing to you directly.

I enclose a photo that Marie and I found this weekend at Interlaken, in the chalet. My father left it there, among his papers. I couldn’t find the negative so I photographed it and enlarged it, and made a print for you.

Hélène, you are the spitting image of your mother. And since Stéphane looks very much like Papa, I initially had the impression that it wasn’t them, but you two in the photo. You must admit it’s easy to be mistaken!

I don’t know what my brother, to whom I have also sent the photo, will think of it. Between ourselves, Papa’s memory is a very sensitive subject over which we do not always agree.

Unlike Stéphane, I had a stormy relationship with my parents until the end. But this photo doesn’t make me angry, nor does it hurt me: in a way I find it comforting to know that my father was sometimes alive during his
lifetime. The last ten years have at least taught me to stop hating him, and to show a little indulgence towards those who were my family, despite everything.

Marie sends her regards.

My very best wishes,

Philippe Crüsten

Paris, 28 March (email)

Dear Stéphane,

I don’t suppose I’ll ever manage to commit another slip as blatantly Freudian as leaving the translation behind in Paris. I’d rather tell myself it was the right thing to do, because it allowed us to enjoy four days of total bliss together after too much time apart.

Back to reality: here is the scan. I have to admit I haven’t yet read the original.

I think of you all the time and I can’t wait for you to come to Paris. You won’t have to sleep at Le Jardin Secret this time, as long as you don’t mind being woken up at the crack of dawn by a hungry mog. If not perhaps even earlier by its owner.

Hélène

xxx

Diary of Jean Pamiat (1972–1973)

14 October

Natasha is pregnant by Pierre. She told her husband. He worked out the dates and realised immediately that the child could not be his. They argued, he hit her and threw her out of the house, saying he never wanted to see her again. She didn’t even get the chance to kiss her daughter goodbye. She turned up here yesterday night, in shock and without any luggage, after a full day’s travelling. The worst of it is that Pierre hasn’t taken things any better; she called him at the studio to tell him and he put the phone down on her. She tried to call back but he wouldn’t answer. She sent him a telegram to let him know that she was on her way and would be arriving by train and staying here, but he didn’t show up. I am flabbergasted [he says he is angry but can’t bring himself to believe it:
Boris
] by his reaction. Tomorrow, we are going to the studio, and I hope he will at least agree to speak to her. In the meantime, I shall try to get her to eat something and sleep a little.

15 October

The visit to the studio was a disaster. I stayed on the doorstep while they argued. After five minutes, Pierre started shouting things like ‘It’s out of the question! How could you?’ Then they lowered their voices and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But when Natasha came back out, she was ashen. In the car, she told me he was scared to death, and terrified of Anna finding out. He won’t hear a word about a divorce and wants her to go back to her husband. As she spoke, her voice was filled with bitterness. I’ve never seen her so dejected [very sad]. She looks ten years older than she did in the summer at Interlaken, yet it was barely a few weeks ago.

16 October

I went to the studio to try to see Pierre again, but he wouldn’t let me in. I know he was in there; I could hear him moving around inside. I slipped a long letter under the door that Natasha wrote last night. The question is, will he read it?

24 October

Michel Hivert has given formal notice of his wife’s desertion of the marital home and is asking for a divorce. The letter arrived here this morning; Natasha had given my address to Sylvia Makhno, who forwarded it. She’s
beside herself at the thought of her parents finding out and wants to keep the whole situation from them. ‘It would kill them,’ she said. It’s true, I can’t see Dr Zabvine taking a particularly philosophical view of things, let alone Daria, who spent every spare moment at Saint-Serge when they lived nearby. Still no news from Pierre.

26 October

I went with Natasha to see the lawyer, Maître Niemetz; she is desperate to see Lena at all costs. He is not very hopeful. He said that considering the circumstances and the fact Natasha has moved out, her husband will certainly be awarded custody of the little girl and she will have to be very patient to have any chance of seeing her. Nevertheless, he has written Michel Hivert a letter proposing a reconciliation [conciliation?] and a return to the marital home. Natasha said nothing while we were in there, but as soon as we left the office, she had an asthma attack which lasted over half an hour. She came home and went straight to sleep (I think she’s taking Veronal

She’s stopped eating, hasn’t had dinner all week. She says it’s down to the morning sickness, but I think it’s because she’s given up hope. Pierre called this evening while she was asleep. He didn’t want to speak to her. All he said was, ‘Tell her I can’t.’ Can’t what? Take responsibility? Leave his children? Clash with the
Krüger clan? When I hung up, I was filled with sadness at the thought of the message of betrayal he was asking me to deliver.

7 November

Michel Hivert has turned down the request for a reconciliation. It is now twenty-five days since Natasha last saw Lena. When I asked her yesterday what she was going to do, she replied flatly, ‘Croak [die like an animal]. That would be best for everyone, wouldn’t it?’ I don’t know what else I can do. I rummaged around in her bag while she was asleep and confiscated the Veronal.

9 November

Yesterday I took Natasha to see Séverine Crüsten in Besançon. I couldn’t think who else to turn to. She took us into her kitchen and made us a coffee, even though it was late. Nataliya broke down and told her everything. When she had heard the whole story, Séverine flew into a rage. I don’t think it was us she was angry with (I think she had guessed some time ago that Tasha and her son had begun seeing one another again and secretly approved), but Pierre, for letting down a woman who was carrying his child and had been thrown out of her home. She left the room to call his number in Geneva at midnight; I don’t know what they said to one another
but it quickly turned into an argument. ‘Peter hung up on me,’ Séverine announced when she came back downstairs. Then she asked me to leave the room, so that she could speak to Natasha in private. Their conversation went on for much of the night.

We met again at breakfast this morning. Natasha was red-eyed, but she seemed calmer. Though Séverine can be rather brusque, she treats Natasha with great kindness, like the sick little kittens she takes in from the wild; she has always been very fond of her. After we had eaten, she left us on our own, saying she had things to do. Natasha told me the gist of what they had talked about. Séverine asked if she wanted to keep the child. She said she would be there for Natasha whatever she decided to do, but she had to make up her mind quickly.

Poor Natasha … she doesn’t know which way to turn. In her heart, I think she would like to keep the baby. She’s completely besotted with Pierre and it would be her dream to raise a son or daughter who looked like him. But she’s afraid: jobless, facing a divorce, scared of hurting her parents … Pierre’s rejection hasn’t exactly helped matters: she’s realistic about the fact he won’t be coming to her aid. But what scares her most, what keeps her awake at night, is the idea of never seeing Hélène again. So she’s hoping that, just maybe, if she leaves Pierre and goes back to her husband, telling him she’s miscarried, he will take her back to live with them again. Poor thing, she shouldn’t be overly optimistic, if you ask me. He’s Catholic, narrow-minded, and
he’d no doubt rather make himself unhappy than give her a second chance. But the alternative for Natasha is unthinkable. She keeps asking, ‘What about Lena? What’s going to happen to Lena?’ and then sinking into one of her endless silences. I think I’d go mad if I were her.

When Séverine came back, we agreed I would go to Geneva for one last attempt at getting Pierre to see sense, and that I would ring to let them know how I fared. Meanwhile, Natasha is to remain in Besançon. As I was leaving, Séverine whispered to me on the doorstep that she had been to see ‘an old friend’ and to make some calls from the phone box of a neighbouring village. She’s being very careful, just in case. She has found a clinic in Lausanne, expensive at such short notice, but doesn’t have enough cash to pay for it. On top of that, Natasha hasn’t a
sou
in her pocket and no means of getting her savings book back.

I told S. not to worry, that I would bring the money back with me and we would pay whatever we had to. ‘You must think me a monster,’ she said wearily. Though her eyes had seen many things in their time, they were brimming with sadness. I think she would dearly love Tasha to have this baby, her grandson or granddaughter, and she couldn’t care less about keeping up appearances or paying attention to gossip [other people’s opinions]; her whole life, she has never given two hoots what people think of her. But she’s under no illusions: she knows society at large won’t be half as tolerant. May
’68 or not, Natasha remains a pregnant divorcee in their eyes. What’s more, Séverine fears what it would do to her sanity were she to be prevented from seeing her young daughter again. As for me, there’s nothing I can do, other than try to stop Natasha dying from an infection [cenchc], which is a distinct possibility if she has a back-street abortion. I shouldn’t be writing all this in here, it’s too risky. But everything is so hard at the moment, I feel the need to get it off my chest, if only to a diary. I hope writing in Russian will protect it from prying eyes.

11 November

I finally managed to speak to Pierre. He gave in and opened the door to end the racket I was making on his doorstep. He doesn’t look too good himself: his hair’s a mess, he hasn’t shaved and there are dark circles under his eyes. It seems he has been sleeping at the studio recently. He told me he can’t face seeing Natasha; that he loves her but there’s nothing he can do, what with Anna and the children. He feels trapped and he won’t leave. I tried to get across to him that the situation is much worse for Natasha; she has nothing left – no home, no money, no prospect even of seeing Lena – but he kept saying, ‘I can’t, I can’t …’ When I told him Natasha was considering an abortion, he made no comment.

For him to simply give up on Natasha, when he loves her with all his heart, is just too painful to watch. I know
full well that his wife has never been more than
second-best
. Yet he must also be afraid of losing his boys and his reputation in Geneva. Of course, to go against his all-powerful in-laws would be tough, but how will he be able to face himself in the mirror after this? How can he go on playing happy families with his wife and kids? Whether he wants the child or not, he can’t turn his back on Nataliya like this, not now. I tried to make him see that if he lets her down, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life, but he sat by the window, turned away and didn’t say another word.

12 November

I couldn’t face making the phone call so I got in the car and drove straight back to Besançon. I spent the whole journey trying to work out how I was going to tell Natasha, but when I arrived, she was already asleep. Séverine says her spirits are sinking even lower. She only goes out for a few hours each day to take a walk to the little chapel, sometimes in our company, sometimes alone.

Though the mild autumn days have abruptly given way to winter, we went out onto the terrace to smoke after dinner. Séverine, normally bounding with energy, looked tired. She said something to me – or to herself, perhaps.

‘You see, Jean, you give birth to your children, you do everything you can for them. You try to give them
courage, you have faith in them. But at the end of the day, you look at these men you’ve tried to mould into decent human beings and you realise they’re exactly the same as us. Always coming up with a million excuses for not facing up to the chaos they’ve created.’

I watched the smoke coming out of her nostrils, two little spirals curling upwards in the cold air. I thought how strange the situation was – the mother, the mistress and the best friend – and I pictured Pierre drifting away from us, as if an impostor had taken the place of the man we all knew. A few metres away inside the house, a tiny spark of life was flickering in Natasha’s belly: would we be its fairy godparents or its Fates? I said to Séverine that Pierre must be terrified, that he probably needed time for everything to sink in.

‘Time is what we’re all lacking, my dear,’ she replied, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray in one swift movement.

13 November

I spoke to Natasha this morning. She took everything in without saying a word. But for a brief moment, the shock and pain froze her face. She has finally decided to have an abortion. Séverine made some more calls and got her an appointment in four days’ time. We’ve managed to scrape together enough cash. Everything should be fine. I will drive her to Lausanne. Now that the decision has been made, we’re all feeling relieved. I called the
paper and told them I was ill and wouldn’t be back at work until Saturday. Luckily, Kreyder owed me a favour and has agreed to cover my most pressing assignments.

I can’t wait for all of this to be over. It’s not easy seeing Natasha in this state. I don’t know what to make of Pierre’s reaction: part of me understands his fear, but I can’t condone the appalling way in which he has shirked his responsibilities. I used to think he was an artist who had stumbled into a world that was not his own; now he’s acting like a true bourgeois living in fear of scandal. And yet this is the man who ended up with two broken ribs and a split eyebrow, protecting me when some idiots from our battalion in Castelnaudry got hold of an iron bar and decided it was time for a bit of queer bashing [he uses coarser language]. Where on earth did that courage go? I sometimes find myself wishing none of this had ever happened, that life could go back to the way it was before, back to the summer of 1970 in Interlaken. But those carefree days will never return.

17 November

Terrible migraine last night. Couldn’t stop throwing up. Passed out. Morphine. Had to let Natasha go on her own. Waiting for the call.

18 November

1 a.m. No news. Natasha never reached the clinic.
I should not have let her go alone, but what was I supposed to do? Sent a telegram to Pierre who replied by same means to say she is not in Geneva. Séverine went to the post office this afternoon to look up the husband’s number. She called, but a woman answered (a housekeeper?) and told her he no longer lives there. I have an awful feeling about this. We’re hoping Natasha just changed her mind and stopped at a hotel somewhere. But why doesn’t she call?