THE PENSION OF MADAMe CONCHEWritten by: Story Teller

Music: Charles Aznavour, “La Boheme”

It was my second trip to Toulouse. To southern France’s beautiful city of sunset red. This time I was going to stay two nights, and I had not forgotten to bring the “No. 48 Alfred Dumeril Street,” address of the pension where my father lived years ago while working on his doctorate…

Arriving in the city late at night, I immediately settled into a small hotel. The following morning after I completed my business appointments, Toulouse was beckoning me at last to discover her for an entire day and night. In order to satisfy my curiosity as soon as possible, I jumped into a taxi and headed to the street named after Alfred Dumeril, the founder of the Toulouse Faculty of Literature. Even before I got out of the taxi I felt goosebumps on my arms. It was as if the street were frozen in time and nothing had changed for years. All of the two- and three-storey row houses had brick facades, quaint balconies with geraniums, and tall, narrow windows, most of them with painted wooden shutters in pastel colors. When I came to house No. 48, I stood facing it for a long while. Then, to observe more, I walked to the head of the street and back again. The area was deserted. The house where my father had lived years ago was no longer a pension. Obviously there were families living in the house now. At the entrance, names were written by three of the doorbells but none by the other three. This building in the old part of the city had been preserved to appear as on the day it was built.

The historic texture of this area in the heart of Toulouse had remained unspoiled. After tarrying for awhile at the building entrance, I was about to depart when a young girl arrived and was putting her key in the lock. I approached her immediately.

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle. I believe you must live in this building. With your permission, I would like to ask you a question.”

“Of course,” she answered. Her green eyes looked directly at me and she seemed quite curious about what I would say.

“Well, uhh…uh…,” I stuttered. “Perhaps you are not aware, but during World War II this building was a pension for university students. My father also stayed here during those years when he was a student at Toulouse. Now, after so many years, I got curious and came here. I checked the names on the outer door but could not see the family name of the former owner, Madame Conche. I wonder if you would know. Does anyone from that family live in one of the flats that have no name written by the doorbell?”

Surprised, the girl first studied me up and down before deciding to believe my story. “Yes, Monsieur. Conche is the maiden name of my paternal grandmother. Madame Conche, the mother of my grandmother, was proprietor of the pension you mentioned. Both of them are no longer living. Unfortunately, a year ago my father Alain Moulin was also taken from us. However, if you would like to get to know my mother, do come in and let us offer you a coffee,” she said.

This was a development I had not dared hope for. “Thank you very much,” I said excitedly. “To drink a coffee in the house where my father passed his youth is a big thrill for me, I cannot refuse your invitation.” When I followed the young woman through the pastel blue, ornately carved wooden door, I felt as if I were on a time trip. We entered a large entrance hall. There were black mosaics in geometric shapes interspersed on the cream-colored floor tiles and a thin bordering of this mosaic covered the edges. The walls were white plaster, and carton pierre in a floral design extended all around the ceiling. As I passed by the wooden postal boxes on the left wall, I noticed “A. Moulin” written on one of them. An old black-and-white photograph in a large frame hung in the center of the right wall. Within that single frame the past condition of the building had been captured, and it was even possible to decipher “Pension Conche” on a sign on the entrance door.

After we passed through the semi-darkness of the entrance hall lighted by the opaque light of a ceiling lamp, we proceeded through a second door and came to a narrow staircase with a wooden balustrade and worn-out steps leading to the upper floors. This old photograph, the wooden staircase, the smell of the place, all seemed to be reminding me of things I had experienced long ago.

As she led the way, the young girl spoke to me: “This way, Monsieur. Our flat is on the second floor. My mother is going to be very happy when she sees you. It is too bad that my father lost his life only a short time after retirement. Now my mother has started to live in the past. Since you also come from a family that knows about this building’s past, it will be good for my mother to meet with you.” As she opened the door to a flat on the second floor she shouted, “Mamaa! Look, we have a guest who’s come to have coffee with you.”

I hung my coat on the solid walnut portmanteau by the door and entered the salon. The late afternoon light filtering through the tall, narrow windows could barely penetrate the dark room. I sat down in one of the winged chairs near the windows and began to observe the surroundings while the young girl went to fetch her mother. The Moulins’ was a typical and simple French home.

The subject of one of the two small oil paintings on the salon walls was a stormy sea and the other was magnolias. In one corner stood a walnut dining table with ornately carved legs, eight chairs and a buffet; in another corner, a set of armchairs for six people, a large bookcase, silver ashtrays on side tables and a few brass figurines.

After a short while, Madame Moulin entered the room. She was a slim and tall woman, with red hair, hazel eyes and penetrating looks. Though her pale face bore a melancholy pallor, she was virtually brimming with excitement. “Welcome, Monsieur!” she said as she shook my hand. I introduced myself. At that moment she paused to catch her breath, then asked, “Would your father’s name happen to be Mehmet Tolga?”

This surprised me. “Yes, but how did you know that?”

“I had hoped that you would come one day. Oh, if only you could have come while Alain was still living!” She sat down in one of the winged chairs and said nothing more, but took a cigarette from a box of non-filter Gitanes lying on the side table, lit it, inhaled deeply, and leaned back. With a look of disbelief in her eyes she stared at me for a long time. I began to feel quite strange.

“Madame, I couldn’t understand exactly. What was it you were trying to say?”

“Please, do be seated. While we are drinking our coffee, I need to explain to you something that I learned shortly before my husband died. But first, perhaps you would like to catch your breath… And then, please tell me where you got the idea to come here.”

“Nothing really! I was simply curious after I learned about this address from my father’s memoirs, and wanted to come and see it. But your words have made me even more curious, so now, please proceed to explain.”

“Come. First let me show you a few old photographs,” Madame Moulin said. After removing an album from the bookcase in the salon and placing it on her knees, she motioned for me to sit next to her on the sofa. As she lifted the cover I saw a black-and-white family portrait centered on a gray page. “Alain’s Album” was written in white ink at the top of the page. Under the photograph a handwritten note read:

“Alain’s first picture – with his mother and father, three-and-a-half months old.” On the inside cover of the album there was a photograph under the words, “House where he was born,” which was the same building as the one I had seen in the photograph at the entrance. On the other gray pages, photographs continued with similar notes under them such as, “Alain posing at ten months” and “Alain at one year with Mother, Father and Grandmother.” The album finished with Alain at age ten. The last few pages were empty.

“Now I am also going to show you a photograph of Alain in his youth.”

As she said this, Madame Moulin removed a chain from around her neck and opened a gold, heart-shaped locket. Inside there were two tiny pictures facing each other, a man and a woman. I assumed the locket was a keepsake from the years when she and her husband were newly acquainted. But when I took a closer look at the young man’s picture, suddenly it was as if I were seeing my father. I became agitated and broke into a sweat. I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my forehead. Then one sentence came out almost in a whisper from the mouth of Madame Moulin:

“Yes, Monsieur, as you have guessed…” The red-haired woman fell silent for a while… That silence seemed to last an age. After a spell she spoke two more short sentences, again almost in a whisper:

“I too learned this, just one year ago. Alain was your elder brother…” I took a deep breath. My mouth was dry. I mopped my brow again. As for her, she relaxed after telling the big secret. Just about then the young girl entered quietly and placed the coffee on the side tables. Her mother continued to explain:

“So it seems that Alain was the fruit of a secret love affair between your father and Réjane Conche when they lived in this house during the war. Réjane became pregnant the same week that your father left Toulouse. He never knew about it. In wartime no one knows who is going to live or who is going to die, and it was practically impossible to exchange news from afar in those times. Réjane joined the National Resistance when she was two months pregnant. Toulouse had been invaded or was about to be…

The Nazi army was taking over all of France step by step… In the midst of great danger all around them, a close relationship developed between Réjane and the head of the underground resistance movement – that is, Jacques Moulin. While struggling for their country in a time of war, when they had no idea what would happen to them from one day to the next, a great love blossomed between the two. After this period, or rather exactly seven months later, Alain came into this world. Two years later, in 1943, without ever seeing France’s victory, Jacques Moulin was killed by a Nazi agent in a midnight ambush. Réjane, left with a child in her lap, accepted defeat and quietly returned to her mother’s pension and waited for the war to end.

“As for Mehmet, whom she had not heard from for years, she did not want to look for him. She decided to establish her son as the child of Jacques Moulin, one of the national heroes of France. But she was determined that her son would become a jurist like his real father. Your elder brother Alain, just like his father, completed his studies at the Toulouse Faculty of Law. When he was in his final year, I had also started at the faculty. I became acquainted with Alain in the library. After your brother graduated, he decided to pursue a career as a judge.

“On the day he received his first salary, he gave me a white rose and asked for my hand at the Brasserie Le Bibent on Place de Capitol. We were married right away. And now I look back at how quickly the years went by. Two years ago, speaking with tears in his eyes at a farewell gathering in his honor at the Toulouse House of Justice, he began his retirement from the profession in which he had maintained his good name and was held in the highest regard.”

There on the couch I continued to listen, coffee cup in hand, not making a sound, frozen like a single huge bronze statue sitting in the middle of a park. Madame Moulin, reliving those days, continued her story:

“After Alain retired, he took interest in reading books and writing his memoirs. He would spend an entire day going over old photographs and documents. One day, while sifting through a pile of photographs, he found a letter enclosed in a sealed envelope addressed to him. When he opened and read it he was shocked and speechless. I should read that letter to you.”

While listening to her mother, the young girl, who had been standing amazed, wide-eyed and breathless and gripping the back of a chair next to the dining table, sat down in the chair silent as a ghost as Madame Moulin retrieved a mother-of-pearl inlay box from a drawer in the buffet, then removed a letter and began to read in a shaky voice.

My dear son Alain,

I hesitated a lot about whether or not to write this letter. But I decided to write it before my death and put it in a place where you would discover it later.

You have the right to know this secret! When you learn this you might be shocked and distressed, my son! But I believe it is necessary for you to know. Alain dear, my child, you are the unique fruit of my passionate, hidden youthful love affair.

Your real father is a Turk. He was a law student in Toulouse during the war. Under the difficult conditions of those years, we got separated from each other. His name is Mehmet Tolga. Until this day of your finding my letter, you have known Jacques Moulin as your father. I too loved Jacques very much, and I thought that it was a correct decision to raise you as his son. But maybe I was wrong and have done you an injustice. Jacques knew the truth. He loved you as his own son, accepted the situation and gave his name to you. I did not settle for depriving you of an honorable name and raising you as a fatherless child. I hope you will forgive me and think that I made the right decision, my son.

With her heart that beat an entire lifetime for you,

Your mother… * * *

“There you have it, Monsieur! Inside the envelope there also was one of the photographs of Réjane and Mehmet together; March 1941 is handwritten on the back. Look, here it is… In my opinion Rejane made a correct decision. Alain was only 18 months old then. After the war, Alain as the son of a national hero was taken care of by the state and retrieved a good education. As for Réjane, who was devoted to her son, she operated the pension left by her mother and chose to maintain her life in her own corner, holding onto her memories. This is a very touching story, Monsieur! See, your eyes too are moist. But we are not strangers. Delphine, my daughter who has brought you the coffee, is your half-niece. We suddenly lost Alain but now we have found Alain’s real brother. You just had different mothers, that’s all.”

I turned toward my lovely niece with the green eyes. Tears like pearls were coming from those beautiful eyes. I went up to her and touched her shoulder lightly. She stood up. We hugged each other tightly and our eyes flowed like two fountains as we started to sob and cry. * * *

While I was absorbed deep in my thoughts, a young girl was turning her key in the lock.

“So you are saying that he lived in this house and it was during the war – how interesting!” she said smiling. “I figured that you were interested in this building because it is up for sale.”

“No, no… I just said let me come and see the place where my father lived for awhile as a student. Looking from the outside it appears not to have changed much… Don’t you have any information about the former owners of this house? Their last name was Conche!”

“No, there are six flats in this building but there is no family by that name. I think the building must have changed hands years ago.”

“Really? Oh God, I came here with a thousand and one ideas in my head… I am sad to hear that there is no trace of the old owners. May I ask a favor of you? Would you just let me take a look inside when you open the door?”

The girl seemed wary but then said “All right!” When she opened the door I saw a wide hallway. There were aluminium mailboxes on the left wall. The ceiling, floor covering, walls and the section leading to the second hall had all been completely redone in a modern, cold, metallic style. Nothing was what I had anticipated. I thanked her and left.

I started to walk down Alfred Dumeril Street. After walking for awhile I saw along the opposite sidewalk a park named Jardin des Plantes. The park was obviously older than my father. Inside there were ages-old plane trees, pines, an artificial stream in which mallard ducks, gray spotted brown ducks and large white geese were swimming. The city of Toulouse had beautifully arranged the park to give the impression of a nature preserve. A small waterfall wound down splashing hither and thither from the top of an artificially created elevation in the middle of the park. The stream flowed in a circular pattern and a circular plot of land caught up in its coil had become an island. The waterfall flowed between the rocks on top of this little island. I started to climb the path up the hill amid dense thickets and trees. At the very top there appeared a bench covered by a shelter where lovers could sit. As I approached I saw that it was occupied by two young people. Not to disturb them I headed back down the hill on the other path. Suddenly I heard children singing in the distance, so I walked in that direction. In a corner of the park, small children were seated on the horses of a small carousel. Lovely tunes coming from the whirling carousel blended with the sounds of children’s chatter and joyful shrieks.

As I watched them, I lapsed into recollections of songs from my own childhood. Later, as I walked toward the gate at the far end of the park, I began to think about my father again. I wondered how many times he must have taken the two minute stroll from his home to reach this park. As I approached the gate, I noticed at the edge of the park a marble pedestal with a bronze sculpture that had obviously been completed and placed there recently. It was a bust of man in a beret and a scarf over his shoulder. The inscription carved on the marble pedestal read as follows:

Jacques Moulin1901-1943

LeaderToulouse Council of the National Resistance

As I left the park I began to hum Aznavour’s “La Bohème” while strolling toward Place du Capitol. On reaching the square, I took an espresso break at the Brasserie Le Bibent. I got to thinking how sometimes life could be filled with surprises you never would have expected. Who can ever know what tomorrow will bring?

* * *

That very moment, at No. 48 Alfred Dumeril Street, the telephone was ringing in the second floor flat that faces the street. It was the flat’s owner, Madame Moulin, calling to notify her tenant that she and the other owners had come to an agreement and the building had been sold.

Toulouse, November 2006. Written by: Can Özoğuz (The Story Teller)

Öykücü Can Özoğuz www.oykucu.net