Marghanita Laski - Little Boy Lost

So, you start a book which is meant to result in emotional upheaval, and you keep your distance to begin with, but then the book sucks you in, and you feel your emotions getting the better off you, while the writing itself remains simple and straightforward, with almost no sentimentality. And as you keep turning the pages, you just want the happy ending; the fairy-tale happily ever after. And then the book ends, and you're just sitting there holding it, stunned into disbelief by the response evoked by a book less than two-hundred-and-fifty pages long.

It's Christmas Day, 1943, when Hilary, a poet and an intellectual, learns that his little boy, John, is lost. Lisa, his wife who was involved in the Resistence, was killed in Paris by the Gestapo, but before her death, she had asked a friend to look after her baby, who Hilary had seen but once. But on that fateful Christmas Day, a stranger (a Frenchman named Pierre) knocks on the door of Hillary's English home, informing him that his son has disappeared without a trace, and he would like to help Hillary find the boy.

Post-war, Hillary reluctantly heads to Paris upon Pierre's request, in order to commence the search for the lost boy - a search that has already been initiated by the resourceful Pierre. But Hilary is not prepared for the war-ravaged Paris that greets him.

Yes, it was familiar again - until the bus creaked past the bombed factory, the makeshift bridge, the shattered rusting locomotives, and the English in the bus shamefacedly whispered to each other, "Do you think we did that?" and then wondered if there could still be friendship between the destroyer and destroyed.

Simply, eloquently put.

Hilary starts following the trail which could potentially lead him to the son he lost about two years ago - almost unwillingly - for, with time, he's made himself invulnerable to emotions, and is content to live in his memories. The search leads him to a convent in a small town in France, where a boy who might be his son lives. It's not definite, but the age and blood type match. The hope is that on seeing the boy, Hilary would recognise his son.

Hilary visits the boy (called Jean) in the convent, and starts spending a couple of hours each day with the boy, his affection for the slowly mounting, but the uncertainty as to whether the boy is actually his son not really diminishing. The first meeting is confusing, as at first glance, he thinks that's his son, but on second glance, he stares at the child in horror and repulsion, certain that the child isn't his...

...and thus begins the journey of trying to determine if he's found his little boy...

...But then, Hilary is detached, pragmatic and almost like an icicle at times, that one just wants to physically shake him into finding his human emotions - diametrically polar to some other moments where he buys the child expensive gloves, and gauges his reactions, without the child having to say much, if anything at all.

As the relationship evolves during the course of the week, the child transforms from a shy nervous boy to an excited happy one around Hilary. You can make out that he doesn't want to disappoint Hilary, and when Hilary comes across as impatient, the boy withdraws into himself. There are moments where, as a reader, you just hate Hilary, for how can someone be so heartless?

Hilary said nothing. He stood there watching the child, feeling only hate for the creature who had put him in this predicament, through whose interventions he had made a fool of himself. The little coward, he was saying, the little coward.

Jean whimpered, "I want my red gloves back."

You're finding out you can't buy happiness, thought Hilary coldly. Aloud, he said, "You can't have them back. Once you've given a present, it's a present forever."

Jean stopped whimpering, only stood there shaking and staring. You're finding out what desolation means, thought Hilary savagely [...].

But - but it's the absolute last line of the book that makes it so... touching and heart-rending. Just the last line. Honestly, words cannot describe the impact they make.

While the heart of the book is about the father looking for his lost son, Laski pays attention to the rampant corruption existing in Paris at the time, and the black market, which emphasised the difference between the haves and the have-nots, and the whole "survival of the fittest" philosophy. She also highlights the slight disconnect between the locals, as they attempt to determine on which side their counterparts stood during the Occupation.

"But at least the Occupation showed each man what he was capable of. Don't you think it was something to be able to find out?"

"No, why?" said Pierre. "Some found they were better than they thought, some worse. We are finding that out all the time in our everyday lives."

"But we're not conscious of it all the time," argued Hilary. For some reason, this point seemed of vital importance to him. "Surely occupation or battle or something like that brings the whole thing to an inescapable point - a sort of judgment by ordeal?"

If you haven't yet, please do read this book.

I've read two books by Laski so far, and have two more to go (which have been printed by Persephone) - her writing is amazing, and I can't wait to read the others.

Philippe Claudel - Brodeck's Report

If there was ever a book that just made you feel slightly uneasy, a tad queasy, very uncomfortable, but still had you hooked, this would be it. You have Brodeck, who survived being treated like a dog - literally - in a prisoner-of-war camp, in France, during an unnamed war, albeit implicitly it suggests that the war is World War II. He returns to his village, a changed man, and as he goes through the motions of ordinary life, he is still haunted by the past. The growing xenophobia and animosity in the village doesn't really help either.

We had to go down on all fours, like the dogs, and eat our food without using anything but our mouths, like the dogs.

Most of my fellow prisoners refused to do it. They are dead. As for me, I ate like the dogs, on all fours and using only my mouth. And I am alive.

Sometimes when the guards were drunk or had nothing else to do, they amused themselves by putting a collar and leash on me. I had to crawl around like that on all fours. [...] I had to strut and turn round in circles and bark and hang my tongue out and lick their boots.

The book has two parallel narratives (jumping from one to the other): one of Brodeck's present, and one of his past. In the present-day, Brodeck has been requested by his fellow villagers to write a report on the Ereigniës (i.e. "the thing that happened") with Anderer, the Other. Anderer was a stranger that arrived in the village, in colourful robes, on a donkey and a horse, with artistic skills. His name remains an unknown, and the initial friendliness of the villagers soon descends to animosity, so much so that he is murdered. The unmentioned refrain is, it had to be done. At the outset of his report, Brodeck states that he had nothing to do with it, and left to him, he'd never speak of it again.

As he recounts the events that transpired since the day the Other arrived in the village, he takes various unpleasant trips down memory lane, remembering the horrors of his past, and the choices he made to survive. Survival of the fittest mutates to survival of the ones willing to do anything to survive, no matter how degrading or self-abasing it is; and the thing - the only thing - that encourages this complete submission from Brodeck is his adoptive mother, and his lover, and to return to them, safe and sound.

"Those were two years of total darkness. I look upon that time as a void in my life - very black and very deep - and therefore I call it the Kazerskwir, the crater. Often, at night, I still venture out on to its rim."

The writing, the metaphors, the imagery is both, beautiful and poignant. And of course, heartbreaking. The mind boggles, that people can be so cruel, and on reading about some of the events, my stomach churned, and I had to remind myself that this was fiction. To quote Wordsworth, have I not reason to lament what man has made of man?

If you have an interest in WWII literature, I really can't recommend this book enough. I don't know if Claudel has written anything else or not, but I would be curious to read some of his other works, to see how they hold in comparison. Any ideas?

This was read for Paris in July, hosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at ThymeForTea. It's not a cheery happy summer book, but it was a fantastic read, and most of the times, that's all that matters.

Colette - Claudine at School

Written at the turn of the century (i.e. first published in 1900), this delightful and entertaining novel is an intimate diary of fifteen year old Claudine who attends school in Montigny in France. It's scandalous, it's humorous, and it's feel-good. Largely autobiographical (and the first book of a four-part series), this book covers the last year of Claudine's (Colette's) school life, in an all-girls school. Claudine is precocious - flirtatious even - but charming; so full of life, but a bully; accustomed to getting her own way, but still being at odds with the dreaded Headmistress.

It was so long since I had hit one of my companions that people were beginning to believe that I had become rational. (In the old days, I had the annoying habit of settling my quarrels on my own, with kicks and blows, without thinking it necessary to tell tales like the others).

The frank unabashed narrative was quite endearing. Despite some exceedingly scandalising bits, the innocence was a breath of fresh air (specially if you compare it to the school series of today...). You had Claudine involved in a homosexual love triangle, where the other two involved were the Headmistress and her assistant, and I did wonder... when this book was first published, just how controversial was it?

The mannerisms, the way the girls spoke, the freedom, the mannerisms and the ambience - it was all very French (referring to the teachers as Mademoiselle obviously added to it) - and the protagonist did remind me of the title character in Claudine at St. Clares at some points. The way she was used to getting her own way, how people couldn't help being amused by her pranks, her  impulsiveness, how she easily befriended and influenced people, and how she was naturally gifted, with an incredible lust for life.

I am immediately curious to read the rest of the books in this series (published between 1900-1904), and I suspect they will find their way to my shelf before the month is out. The edition of the book I have is age-old though, first published in 1979, and the price at the back of the book is all of £1.25.

I've been saving this book for Paris in July hosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at ThymeForTea. Do pop over and have a look. So many French authors, so little time... I have another Colette and Irène Némirovsky's Suite Francaise on my shelf, both of which I'll hopefully read before the month is out.

Which other French authors would you recommend? Or, thoroughly captivating school stories? There's something about a good school story, which takes you back in time, and makes you recall, with much nostalgia, the stationery shopping, the smell of new exercise books, the exam stress, the good times.