Enough About Love

LOUISE

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JACQUES CHIRAC HAS JUST TAKEN OVER from François Mitterrand as president of France, the UN Security Council has adopted Resolution 986, known as “Oil for Food,” on Iraq, and Louise Blum, attorney at law, has turned twenty-five. A tall young woman who is afraid of nothing and certainly not of having to defend in front of her peers the case which goes by the absurd title “So What’s with the Concierge, Why Is She on the Stairs?”

The Berryer Conference is a test of eloquence set up by the Paris bar. In front of a caricature of a chairman and guest of honor (a writer on this occasion), and confronted with implacably fierce examiners, young lawyers have to come up with something injected with humor and virtuosity. It is a feat of mental agility. Places in the competition are highly sought after and only a rare few are selected: Louise is one of them. She was given her subject — by drawing lots — half an hour earlier; she quickly devised a plan, traced her own logic, made a note of some expressions to slip into her improvisation. The twelve examiners are only too ready to call her out, she has to make it hard for them: Louise wants to conclude on a more serious note (which is traditional), by evoking the vast tower block that is life itself. Because the guest is a writer by profession, she will quote from Georges Perec; mention the tower block in Life: A User’s Manual; construct an elegant parallel between the stairs, which link the various floors, and law, a house that all men share; establish the connection between domestic and civic order, between the concierge who is the caretaker of a building and the caretaker of the nation’s laws.

But first she must get them to laugh. She knows how to do it.

“Mr. Chairman, members of the jury, I know it’s something of a national pastime joking about concierges, how surly, lazy, and pathologically inquisitive they are, but I don’t want to fall down the elevator shaft of cheap humor at their expense, I mean my father, mother, and sister are in the room. I’m afraid so, Mr. Chairman, as the concierge — her again — would say, I’m still tied to my mother’s apron strings. No, I’ll be caretaker of my jokes or this concierge will be putting me out with the trash and so will you. What’s her name, anyway, Janet or something?”

She makes use of bad puns and a succession of verbal pirouettes, the audience applauds, they drum their feet and whistle. Louise’s friends nudge each other: she is off to a good start, at the top of her game.

And she is. Louise holds out like this for a good three minutes. To change tack and win a bit of time, she gives a dramatic flourish of her arms and repeats the question: “Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what is with the concierge, why is she on the stairs?”

Then she stops. The tightly calibrated time of the Berryer is punctuated by a pause. The silence lengthens, her friends look at her, start to feel anxious. She has only a few minutes left.

Louise seems to be somewhere else. Her cheeks have gone pale, her blue eyes drained of life. Something is happening, the silence digs even deeper, an uncomfortable feeling settles in the room, this is not a show anymore.

“Yes, of course I know why she is on the stairs.”

Her voice has changed, shrugged off any affectation. Louise does not consult her notes, the verve of a defense speech has given way to pure tension. Louise is breathing more quickly, no longer aware of the room:

… It is 1942. The concierge is on the stairs and there are two police officers in kepis climbing up behind her

because she’s on the stairs, the little sign hanging from the door handle of her room says that the concierge is on the stairs

and they say, Hello ma’am, please could you tell us which floor the Blums live on? Blum as in Leon Blum

and she says, the concierge says, Fourth floor on the left, the Blums live on the left on the fourth floor

yes, that’s what the concierge tells them, of course

and it’s true that they live on the fourth floor, these Blums

when you’re a concierge you answer if a police officer asks you a question, you don’t resist

so, sure enough, the police officers ring at the Blums’ door

Blum, as everybody knows, is a German word, it means flower

flower as in the Marlene Dietrich song “Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind,” where have all the flowers gone?

and that’s just what the officers do with the Blums, they pick them like flowers

Good morning, ma’am, good morning, sir

French police

You need to come with us

Yes, it’s very early but you’d better bring your stuff, we don’t know, this could take a while

so the Blums get ready

Hurry please

and the Blums go down the stairs, all four floors with the children

the children

Sarah is seven, Georges ten

Come on, kids, we’re going on a journey, don’t worry, hey, Georges, you could help your mother with her suitcase, it’s too heavy

and hey presto we’re on the bus

bus S. It could be S for summer or seaside or sandcastle, but not this time because this one is really bus SS, isn’t it

and on the seats next to the Blums are the Sterns and the Cohens, office workers and tailors and barbers, but this wasn’t some barber shop quartet, oh no, they were all there. I guess here were some lawyers and magistrates too

forgive me, former lawyers and former magistrates

that’s right, the Blums are now seen in terms of the status hat was enacted in 1940

and the judges apply that status, they apply it willingly

a magistrate is like a concierge on the stairs, you just have to ask him and he tells you which floor, straight out. I mean the law’s the law

Next case please. Right, let’s see what this is. Oh, the Fofana case, yet another one without any papers but does he at least have a lawyer? So sorry, Mr. Fofana, you know what they say, justice may be free but it’s not compulsory, ha ha ha

and on to dura lex sed lex

through the corridors of the law courts, and let’s just have a look at those impressive corridors because at the time they were Judenfrei, yes Judenfrei, free of Jews, free of Blums

and of course everyone had sworn an oath to Maréchal Pétain actually that’s not true: everyone except Judge Didier. I always forget poor Judge Didier, a legend. Now he was not a concierge, this Judge Didier, he said, No, no, I’m sorry, I won’t swear an oath, it’s beyond me

he was the only one

but it turns out, ladies and gentlemen, that he made a sacrifice of himself, it was symbolic apparently, there were plenty of others who put up resistance

there really were, really

let’s agree on that, can we?

Anyway, in the end everything has one

an end, I mean

and one fine day it all comes to a stop

the good win and the bad lose and that’s it, the war’s over and everything’s just like before, everything, really everything

look

lawyers are back pleading their cases in the law courts and the judges are back judging in the law courts too and they’re even judging Pétain, the old Maréchal, even him

true, he’s old but he still has to be judged to make the point, and who do they come up with to judge him? who do they come up with? nothing but magistrates who swore an oath to him five years earlier. Dear me, that’s not pretty, but then dura lex once again

and Pétain is condemned to death and then he’s granted a pardon

and what about the two police officers you ask. Well, the two police officers are still at the station and one of them, the shorter one, was even made a sergeant. Good morning, Sergeant, oh dear, doesn’t anyone salute anymore?

and the bus, that bus S, or SS in fact, it’s gone back to the depot and they’ve repaired the tire because it was giving off smoke, ha! smoke, ha! that’s right

and the concierge, she’s still on the stairs, yep

but now the Lamberts live on the fourth floor on the left. Yes, well, the apartment was empty, wasn’t it?

you have to understand the Lamberts have been living there since ’43, on the fourth floor

water and gas on every floor

yes, we know where they all are

the bus, the concierge, the police officers, but tell me, where are the Blums

where are they

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind?

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind?

Louise is almost screeching, her voice cracks and she stops talking but stays standing. There is absolute silence and the creak of chairs makes it all the more tangible.

Louise could step down from the rostrum. But it is not over yet. She comes right up to the microphone and starts to sing the Marlene Dietrich song her mother used to sing to her in German when she was a child, to get her to sleep, she sings very quietly with a very pure accent:

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind

Where have all the flowers gone?

Wo sind sie geblieben?

Long time passing

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind

Where have all the flowers gone?

Was ist gescheh’n?

Long time ago

Her voice is almost a whisper at first. But with every verse it grows and becomes louder, filling the dense air, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. Louise sings on, with barely a quiver in her voice, so slight.

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind

Where have all the flowers gone?

Mädchen pflückten sie geschwind

Gone to young girls every one

Wann wird man je versteh’n?

When will they ever learn?

Wann wird man je versteh’n?

When will they ever learn?

Louise inhales and her breathing is amplified by the microphone. Time is suspended for a moment, a scant few seconds. She instinctively goes up a third for the next verse, as her mother used to, as Marlene does:

Sag mir, wo die Mädchen sind

Where have all the young irls gone?

Wo sind sie geblieben?

Long time passing

Sag mir, wo die Mädchen sind

Where have all the young irls gone?

Was ist gescheh’n?

Long time ago

No one dares sing along at first. But one voice ventures softly, a man’s voice, just humming the tune, then another, and another, more and more of them. A buzzing murmur accompanying her.

Sag mir, wo die Mädchen sind

Where have all the young girls gone?

Männer nahmen sie geschwind

Gone to young men every one

Wann wird man je versteh’n?

When will they ever learn?

Wann wird man je versteh’n?

When will they ever learn?

Sag mir, wo die Männer sind

Where have all the young en gone?

Wo sind sie geblieben?

Long time passing

Sag mir, wo die Männer sind

Where have all the young men one?

Was ist gescheh’n?

Long time ago

Sag mir, wo die Männer sind

Where have all the young men gone?

Zogen fort, der Krieg beginnt

Gone as soldiers every one

Wann wird man je versteh’n?

When will they ever learn?

Wann wird man je versteh’n?

When will they ever learn?

Louise stops singing, and all the other voices with her. Silence returns, palpable, dense. Somewhere in the room a woman presses a handkerchief over her eyelids, but she is too late, a tear runs down her cheek. She is not Louise’s mother. Louise steps down, not hurrying but not waiting for killer questions, which would be customary. There will not be any, they are so dumbstruck, floored, and the chairman — the writer and guest of honor — watches, disconcerted, as this blond little slip of a woman emerges from her dream, dry-eyed and smiling again, and walks toward her friends.

A young man stands up with a loud scrape of his chair, or rather — because he is so tall — he unfolds himself, and he starts to clap, first before anyone else. Some cry “Bravo” but he is crying “Thank you, thank you.” The young man’s name is Romain, Romain Vidal. He does not yet know Louise, he will meet her properly for the first time later, by chance. He came to the law courts to listen to lawyers jousting, for the fun of it. He does not know it yet, but he is applauding his wife.

As for Louise, the only Jewish thing about her is her name. Her paternal grandfather, Robert Blum, was raised a Jew but had little interest in faith, and married a pretty Breton girl, Françoise Le Guérec. Louise’s grandmother was charming but a bigot, and raised her two sons as Christians: in vain, for Augustin Blum, who doubted anyone could really walk on water or multiply loaves of bread, gave Louise and her sister a perfectly secular upbringing. But this grandfather whose name she bears, this Jew originally from Berlin who survived the roundup at the Vel d’Hiv² and died when she was only eight, has always fascinated Louise. Her performance at the Berryer would be the final eruption of his identity.

2. The Velodrôme d’Hiver was a cycling stadium in Paris where, in July 1942, thirteen thousand Jews were rounded up, to be sent to the camp at Drancy.