AWAKENING, CHAPTER 11: LE GRAND FRÈRE

June 1946

The next day at work, Louis phoned his brother. They were in the same city again at last, but at opposite corners, and far too many weeks had passed between visits.

By the time Louis finally came home for good in August 1945, the family had agreed he would take over his late uncle's restaurant on the Île de la Cité and his grandmother's apartment nearby in Le Marais. For months, his days were so busy that he hardly ventured beyond the 4th arrondissement.

Henri, five years older than his brother, had been in Paris all along. Henri owned an airy flat in Montparnasse, and shuttled each day between there and his medical practice in the Champs-Élysées. "A doctor by day and a Bohemian by night" was how Louis jokingly described him, and he was right. Henri and his clarinet haunted the city's jazz clubs every chance he could get.

Henri's profession, more than his age, had kept him out of the service; he was needed at home. Maman LeBeau was grateful; one son in danger, and then in a prisoner of war camp, was as much heartache as she could bear. Henri's act of defiance was to provide free medical care to the Jews, Gypsies and other "undesirables" who had lived in the shadows of Parisian life since the Roundup, and to aid the French Resistance whenever they needed a doctor.

He could hear the urgency in Louis's voice over the phone. "Can you get away to the restaurant for lunch? Dinner? Anything?" Louis asked. "I haven't seen you since we all celebrated your birthday in April."

"Forty years old," Henri said with a groan. "Obviously, the reason you haven't seen me is because I'm too infirm now to get around," he teased. "Of course, mon frérot, I must find time to see you. Are you inviting only me, or am I to bring Jean-Claude?"

"You alone, or both of you—I'm always happy to see him," Louis replied. "But do let him know I have something to discuss with you." Jean-Claude had been at Henri's side for a decade, a pair of célibataires endurci – hardened bachelors. They maintained separate apartments in Paris, but were otherwise devoted to one another. Jean-Claude, an architect, was helping Henri restore Grand-Mère's run-down farmhouse chalet in the Alps.

"Is it about the estate again?" Henri sighed. "Will it ever be settled?" Recovering the family's assets had been a headache since liberation, although it was proving to be worth the effort.

"Actually, I should have said 'someone.' Pierre, my friend from the war."

"You are very fond of that boy, Louis," Henri laughed. "If I didn't know you better, I would say you were..."

They'd sparred over this point, brother to brother, for years. Henri actually had no doubts about Louis's obvious affection for women, but as the older brother he felt it his sworn duty to harass his younger sibling anytime he mentioned a close male friend.

"That's just it, Henri. It seems he is very fond of one particular boy. I need help guiding them both," Louis said. "They both work for me, and Pierre is still only twenty."

Henri let out a whistle. "Did you know this about Pierre?" Henri said, suddenly serious.

"No, it's a new interest. I had questions about him, but I'd always pushed them aside. He's always been a skirt-chaser."

"Hmm. Some men go both ways; some simply need time settle into themselves," Henri said thoughtfully. "Are we meeting with him?"

"You'll meet him, but this is just between us—and of course, Jean-Claude if you wish to include him," Louis said. "I know he'll have thoughts."

"No, no," Henri answered. "For Pierre's privacy, of course it should be just the two of us. Could we dine late tonight? Around 10 o'clock?"

"Perfect. In the family dining room on the second floor," Louis replied. The small suite of five rooms where his paternal grandparents had once lived had been unoccupied for years, but it was still properly equipped and served as a guest quarters and a place for family rendezvous.

XXX

Peter was wiping his hands on the white apron that was tied around his waist over his checked kitchen trousers as he poked his head into the family dining room above the restaurant. There was no mistaking it, he thought as he smiled at the sight of two brothers eating side-by-side, gesturing at one another with forks. Henri's nose was longer and his face narrower, but the resemblance was strong.

Bloody hell, there are two of him. Twice the LeBeaus to boss me around, Peter thought as he stepped into the room with all the confidence he could muster.

"Ah, here is my mon pote," Louis said affectionately, getting to his feet as Peter entered the dining room above the restaurant. "Pierre, come meet Henri."

"Docteur LeBeau, I've heard a great deal about you," Peter said in smooth French. He stepped up to Henri and bowed slightly at the waist. "It's a pleasure to finally meet."

Henri, rising to his feet, stood perhaps two inches taller than his brother; Peter towered over them both. Henri clamped his left hand on Peter's right arm and shook his hand heartily with the right. "Please, you are practically family. Call me Henri."

"Henri, then," Peter said, then bit his lip and stood there awkwardly. Addressing adults by their first names was still novel to him. Plus, he was used to a world where everyone had a rank, and almost every rank was higher than his own.

"Sit, sit, Pierre," Louis said. "Pascal knows you're here, right?"

"He does," Peter replied.

"Pascal!" Henri said with an exaggerated splutter. "You're a cruel man, Louis. He's a task master." He addressed Peter in the next breath. "He gave up on me after he attempted to teach me to chiffonade basil and I pulverized it instead. He sent me off to be a dishwasher."

"You were always hopeless," Louis replied. "Pierre, on the other hand, is brilliant with a knife. You should see his fine brunoise." He inspected his consommé and fished out several tiny cubes of carrot. "Here, look. Tiny and uniform."

Henri shuddered. "Knives, ugh." Then he leaned in for a look at the consommé Louis was holding out. "Nice work," he added.

"Oui, knives, ugh," Louis imitated. He turned to Peter. "This is why Henri is a doctor and not a surgeon. He's afraid of knives."

"Blades in general, actually. That time you practically cut a finger off on the mandoline did it for me," Henri said, attempting to sound bitter while stifling a laugh. "I seem to remember you were queasy at the sight of blood too, after that." He turned to Pierre. "He was ten. He was curious, but he knew better than to try something he hadn't been trained for. Pascal mopped up the blood and lectured me to keep a closer eye on the little mischief maker while Papa took him to get stitches." He stopped, smiled, and turned to Louis.

"I'm speaking much too fast for him, n'est-ce pas?" Henri asked.

"Hard to tell," Louis said seriously, stroking his chin as he contemplated Peter's overwhelmed expression. "I've always maintained he understands more than he lets on." He switched to English. "How much of that did you get, Pierre?"

"All of it," Peter replied, "but I'm still trying to work out what you were doing with a mandolin in the kitchen, and how you managed to cut yourself on it. A little guitar, just your size—where's the danger in that?"

Louis and Henri laughed, and once Louis explained that a mandoline was an ultra-sharp tool for slicing, Peter joined in, shaking his head at the misunderstanding. Louis poured him some wine and pushed some of his chicken and potatoes in front of him. "Eat," he commanded.

They chatted amiably for fifteen minutes. Henri quizzed Peter on what he'd been up to in Paris and what he liked so far.

"It's good to see Louis, of course, and it's good to be back at work," Peter replied. "It's been more than a year since I've done anything productive." He bit his lip, fighting back his feelings about what he'd just said.

"Is it difficult to get a job in London?" Henri said.

"That, and Colonel Hogan didn't want me to take a job j-just yet," Peter said. "He thought I needed more time." He shrugged. "I thought I ought to listen to him after all he'd done for me."

"There was a good reason for not working, Pierre," Louis said quietly. "You needed to regain your health." He turned to Henri. "The Stalag was a very bad place the last few months, and everyone was sick. Some more than others." He laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and rubbed.

Peter was lighting a cigarette as he added, "I had pneumonia and pleurisy at the end. I couldn't catch my breath to climb a flight of stairs until a few months ago." He looked embarrassed by the admission of weakness.

"He was in hospital until August," Louis added. "And even after that, it took quite a while…"

"Leave off, Louis, it wasn't so bad," Peter said. His voice was pleading rather than irritable.

"It was very bad, Pierre," Louis said firmly. He turned to his brother. "In addition to having damaged lungs and asthma because of all the infections, he also has a very hard head."

"Imagine a friend of yours being that way," Henri said dryly. He turned back to Peter. "Is your health better now?" he said, with evident concern.

"Much better, thank you," Peter said. "My chest only bothers me if I get a cold, and I haven't been ill at all since January."

"That's good," Henri said. "You know, there's disagreement as to whether cigarettes help with respiration. There is some indication menthol can aid breathing. But my observation is that smoking seems to do more harm than good." He stopped before acknowledging, "That doesn't mean quitting is easy. But I imagine you know it might be prudent to cut down."

"I know. Working has helped with that, actually. I smoke less when I'm in the kitchen," Peter said. "It was the same when I was in a tailor's shop. You can't smoke indoors when you're working with fabrics," he said. "Or food," he added with a nod to Louis.

"That's good. Well, you've obviously done something to help yourself get better. What was it?"

Peter looked surprised at the question. Had he really done something to help himself? "After I got out of hospital, you mean?" he asked.

Henri nodded.

Peter pursed his lips and thought. "Well, I started going to the Westminster Public Baths every day for a swim," he said. "And kicking my football about. Sometimes we go out to the country at weekends, Colonel Hogan and me. I mean, General; I'll never get used to that. Anyhow, the fresh air helps my breathing."

"Exercise is very important, and swimming is especially good for keeping lungs healthy," Henri said, nodding his head. "Have you been swimming here in Paris?"

"No, I d-d-didn't know where to go," Peter said.

"I didn't know you swam, Peter," Louis said. "La Piscine Pontoise is a short walk away. It's on the Rive Gauche, but very close to the restaurant. We can go anytime. Or you could ask Tomasz."

Peter looked down shyly at the mention of the name. "I suppose I could ask him," he said.

XXX

"He's a very pleasant young man," Henri said. "He wants to be a chef?"

Louis sputtered on his wine. "Pierre? No! He barely understands food. He's English—he thinks fish and chips is a delicacy. No, it's just a summer job for him."

"Something to keep him busy, then?" Henri asked.

"Not exactly—it's a way for him to be useful. He needs to feel useful," Louis replied. Then he added passionately, "Henri, he is the younger brother I never had. He would do anything for me, and I for him. He is working hard mainly to thank me for having him here, to earn his keep, you know? Mind, you, he is extremely talented with a knife, as I knew he would be—I've seen him… well, never mind that. He knows all the classic cuts now, and his decorative work is superb. If he had any real interest in gastronomy, he could be an entremetier, pâtissier, garde-manger—all the beautiful crafts."

"You're very fond of him," Henri said with a warm smile. "And very impressed with him. But something's troubling you."

"He never keeps secrets from me, Henri," Louis said. "We talked about everything. For a time he had a young lady when we were in the Stalag—and no, I can't explain to you how this came about, but trust me, it did. He was completely infatuated and they were adorable together. And I was the one who helped him understand everything. Everything," he emphasized.

"He was open with you about a girl, but he's being secretive about a boy? Well, that's not terribly surprising," Henri said. "Everything in his upbringing is telling him these feelings are fine when they land on a girl, but all wrong when they are focused on a boy."

"But he's acting on his feelings, so how wrong could he think they are?" Louis said. Henri's eyebrow shot up, and Louis clarified, "Yes, I am certain of it, and we have the laundry bills to prove it. They are lovers."

"He thinks it feels good, which it certainly does, whether it's with a boy or a girl," Henri said with a shrug. "But he's not ready to have his interests known. Did you see how he looked down when you mentioned the young man's name? He was blushing like a maiden."

"Yes, I saw that," Louis replied. "He's easily embarrassed. Alright, then, what do I do for him?"

"He is how old?" Henri asked.

"Still twenty, until December. And Tomasz is twenty-five."

"Well, then you must have a stern talk with them about maintaining privacy. Men go to jail for indecent acts with minors."

"I've had that conversation with them. And believe me, I remember," Louis said.

"Poor Germain," Henri said, shaking his head. "His life ruined at the age of thirty-two. Of course, the boy was only eighteen. He should have been more restrained, but he was always ruled by his passions." Germain was Henri's lover for a time when they were both medical students. Two years before the war, he had been convicted of homosexual acts with a minor and although his prison sentence was light, he was stripped of his medical license. He eventually found work performing blood and urine tests in a laboratory.

"What became of him during the war?" Louis asked, realizing he hadn't thought of Germain in some time. He had attended the trial with Henri, showing support for an old friend and hoping against hope for justice, but had lost track after that.

"Jewish and a homosexual? Auschwitz," Henri said. "He was doomed." He shook his head and his shoulders suddenly looked heavy with sorrow. "Many people—French people—were glad to see him marched away with the other 'pédés sales,'" he added angrily. "Thank goodness there is no legal consequence for consenting adults, but that does not mean there is no issue at all. Disapproval is a powerful weapon." He and Jean-Claude did not live together in Paris for a reason; their professions demanded a show of respectability.

"Here in France the laws are progressive, and still Germain suffered," Henri said quietly. "Pierre lives in England, where the laws are vicious."

Louis looked distressed. "You haven't answered my question, Henri. What can I do for him?"

"Short of never sending him back to England? Just listen and ask questions. Let him talk to you. And teach him to be parsimonious with his trust, including with lovers. He really can't let many people know," Henri said.

"I won't need to teach him that," Louis said glumly. "He is very slow to trust."

Note: If you read this previously, you may notice that "Gaston" is now "Germain." I named a later (and slightly more important) character Gaston, and just realized I had duplicated the name! Sorry!