Noah's Child Read Online Free Page A

‘Why did you say monsieur ? You’re supposed to say Father.’
    â€˜I say what I like. Monsieur Pons knows perfectly well I hate priests. I had quite enough of churches and priests foisted on me as a child and now I’m sick if you try and give me the host. I’m a pharmacist, the first female pharmacist in Belgium! The first woman to qualify! I’ve done my studies and I know about science. So let other people keep their ‘Father’! Besides, Monsieur Pons doesn’t hold it against me.’
    â€˜No,’ said the priest, ‘I know you’re a good person.’
    She started muttering as if the word ‘good’ had too much of a churchy whiff about it.
    â€˜I’m not good, I’m fair. I don’t like priests, I don’t like Jews, I don’t like Germans, but I can’t bear to see anyone harm children.’
    â€˜I know you love children.’
    â€˜No, I don’t love children either. But they are human beings.’
    â€˜Well, then you love the human race!’
    â€˜Oh, Monsieur Pons, stop wanting me to love something! That’s typical of a priest, that sort of thing. I don’t love anything or anyone. My job is being a pharmacist, which means helping people stay alive. I do my job, and that’s all there is to it. Come on, out, clear off! I’ll get this boy back to you all sorted out, nice and clean and tidy, with papers that mean he’ll be left in peace, damn it!’
    She turned on her heel to avoid further conversation. Father Pons leaned towards me and gave me a secret smile.
    â€˜â€œDammit” has become her nickname in the village. She swears more than her father who was a colonel.’
    Dammit brought me some food, put up a bed for me and, in a voice that tolerated no disobedience, ordered me to get some rest. As I fell asleep that evening, I couldn’t help feeling a certain admiration for a woman who said ‘Damn it’ so naturally.
    *
    I spent several days with the intimidating Mademoiselle Marcelle. Every evening, after a day’s work in her dispensary above the cellar, she would toil away in front of me, unashamedly making my false papers.
    â€˜Do you mind if I say you’re six instead of seven?’
    â€˜I’m nearly eight,’ I protested.
    â€˜Well, you’re six then. It’s safer. We don’t know how long this war will go on. The longer it is before you’re a grown-up the better off you’ll be.’
    When Mademoiselle Marcelle asked a question there was no point in answering because she was only ever asking herself, and only expected her own replies.
    â€˜We’ll also say your parents are dead. They died naturally. Let’s see, what sort of illness could have taken them?’
    â€˜A tummy pain?’
    â€˜Influenza! A virulent strain of influenza. Tell me your story, then.’
    When it came to their repeating what she had invented, Mademoiselle Marcelle suddenly did listen to other people.
    â€˜My name is Joseph Bertin, I’m six years old, I was born in Anvers and my parents died of influenza last winter.’
    â€˜Good. Here, have a mint pastille.’
    When I pleased her she behaved like a lion tamer, tossing me a treat that I had to catch in mid-air.
    Father Pons came to see us every day, and did nothing to disguise how hard he was finding it to root out a home for me.
    â€˜All the “safe” local farming people have taken in a child or two already. On top of that, any possible candidates are hesitating, their hearts would go out more readily to a baby. Joseph’s quite big now, he’s seven.’
    â€˜I’m six, Father!’ I exclaimed.
    To congratulate me for that contribution, Mademoiselle Marcelle popped a sweet in my mouth and said grimly to Father Pons, ‘If you like, Monsieur Pons, I could threaten the hesitators.’
    â€˜What with?’
    â€˜Damn it, no more medicine if they won’t take in