The Storyteller of Casablanca (68)

Felix refused. ‘No, Monsieur Duval. But thanks all the same. It would put your own family at even greater risk if we were here. The baker will shelter us.’

‘Stay a while. Get your breath back. At least wait here until the worst is over,’ Papa urged.

But Felix wouldn’t stay. ‘I need to get going. There are others I need to alert. And then I want to get back to be with my parents.’

‘Be careful,’ Papa said. And then he opened the door and Felix and his bike disappeared.

I ran down the stairs and put my arms around Papa as tightly as I could. He smoothed my hair with his hand and kissed the top of my head. ‘There, there, ma puce. Don’t worry, it will be all right. We’re safe here.’

I nodded, resisting the urge to tell him I’d just heard him say that nowhere was entirely safe. I wanted to believe him. I wanted it to be true. I didn’t want Maman and Annette to know what I knew. But it was very hard to try to be brave then and I felt terribly scared, knowing that the wolves and the sharks had begun closing in and that they were starting to snap up the little white mice.



We were sitting around the breakfast table this morning when the knock at the door came. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary in that, although we were all a bit more jumpy than usual – it could have been someone begging for food or asking if we had any odd jobs that needed doing in return for a few francs – and Papa went downstairs to answer it. But then we heard the sound of a guttural accent, loudly demanding to know whether he was Guillaume Duval, asking to see his papers, and I knew something was wrong. Maman froze, her coffee cup halfway to her lips, and Annette put down the knife she’d been using to peel an apricot and her eyes grew very wide indeed. I jumped up from the table and went to the window, using the folded-back shutter to hide behind.

In the road below were two large black cars, painted with the emblem of the Nazis, and my blood froze in my veins. I could hear voices from the doorstep, Papa’s tone soothing and placatory against the perfunctory snapping of the officials.

Maman got up and came to peer out too, standing so close behind me that I could hear the shallow gasps of her breath. I thought perhaps the pounding in my ears was the sound of her heart beating like the wings of a trapped bird against glass, but then I realised it wasn’t her heart but mine. Instinctively, she put out an arm as if to shield me from what we could see, but I ducked out from under it and bolted for the stairs.

‘Josie, come back!’ Maman’s voice was high and thin with fear, but I ignored her. My mind was racing as I ran down the stairs, desperately trying to think of what I could say this time to help protect Papa. If ever camouflage was needed, now was the moment. But I couldn’t think of the right thing to do to save him.

As I reached the hallway, Papa turned to glance at me over his shoulder. It looked as if the two men were holding him by the arms. He opened his eyes wide when he saw me and I read so much in them in that split second – love, fear, pain and grief. But the most awful thing of all was the look of defeat that I saw there too, a realisation that the game was up.

He shook his head at me, so gently that it was almost imperceptible.

But I couldn’t give up, I couldn’t let them take my papa away. I reached for him, but one of the men stepped between us and pushed me away.

‘No!’ I shouted. ‘He’s done nothing. Why are you taking him?’

The men’s mouths were set in grim lines and they didn’t answer me, they just marched Papa down the steps to the waiting car. I started after them, but Papa looked back at me once more. ‘Stay there, Josie. Look after Maman and Annette for me,’ he said. His voice was low, so filled with emotion that the words sounded thick in his throat.

I was expecting him to say that he promised he’d be back soon: I desperately wanted him to say those words, to make one more promise and be able to keep it this time. But there was no time for him to say anything more as the two men bundled him into the back of the car and slammed the door. Then the driver pulled away and I couldn’t see Papa, even though I tried desperately to catch one more glimpse of him through the window, because the German who’d climbed in after him was in the way.

The second car drew forward, following the first. And then I caught sight of one of the passengers travelling in it and sickness and anger flooded my guts. He was looking straight at me. I recognised the sand-coloured hair, the sunken eyes and the vulture-like hunch of the shoulders, even before Monsieur Guigner opened his mouth in a grin that looked to me like the grimace of a skull.

With an effort, I swallowed the acid bile that had filled my mouth along with the urge to scream. Then Maman appeared on the steps behind me and I collapsed into her arms. She held me tight and I sobbed into her shoulder. And then, very firmly, she pulled me inside and closed the door.

I can’t write any more tonight, although I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. Instead, I’m sitting by the window, watching the moonlight cast its silver shadows on the tiles of the roof where the turtle doves are roosting for the night. I remember the dreamseller’s words: when the moon shines on one hundred bowls of water, every one of them is filled with moonlight. I hope that, wherever he is tonight, my papa can see the moonlight and he can feel my love shining on him too.

Goodnight, Papa.





Josie’s Journal – Monday 6th July, 1942