A Wife to Captain Dreyfus

 

By Alan David Gold 

 

 

Silence was both a mark of respect, and defined the isolation of the family. Even her assembled family, those who had survived the Second World War, was insufficient to disguise the segregation and alienation which she had suffered for most of her married life.

The silence in the room was broken by the occasional sigh of resignation, a shaking of the head, a shrugging of the shoulders. The family looked at each other, and wondered why. But there was no answer. Now there would never be an answer. Yet the private note from the President of the National Assembly had spoken of her as being the reason for the separation of the French Catholic Church from the French State, a woman who had brought down a corrupt government, as the pivotal reason for the foundation of modern Zionism, and as the person who, more than anyone else, had forced the French military to modernize and rid itself of privilege and discrimination. Yet almost nobody had come to pay their respects now that she was dead.

The undertaker, assuming that the crowds would last well into the afternoon for a woman of her fame, had arranged to return for the casket and the body as the day wore on. But there had been no new visitors since the pompous arrival and departure of the Director General of the Office of the Valorous of the French Army, who had come, paid his respects, and left within minutes.

The woman’s children looked at the casket. So different from their father’s magnificent casket when he was buried as a hero of the French Republic. But it was the best that the undertaker could offer. He’d spent the morning apologizing to the family for the privations of the war and the shortage of materials.

They had been silent for hours, staring at her gentle, yet aged face. They tried to remember what she had been like before the troubles, but nobody in the family could remember her when she was young. To them, even when they’d been children, she had always been old; careworn and troubled. There were photographs of a young woman lying on a rug in a field enjoying a picnic, surrounded by hampers and bottles of wine, laughing with her companions at the antics of someone whom the camera couldn’t see. And while they knew it was their mother, it wasn’t the woman they had grown up with, a woman whose life and happiness had been eroded by the oppression of a monstrous Government and the greatest injustice in French legal history. They had robbed her of her youth and her joy, but not her dignity. Throughout all the troubles, she had retained her dignity.

But the losses for their mother and father, and for themselves, had been incalculable. It was the birthright of every child, but carefree vitality, laughter and enjoyment, had been missing from their lives for as long as they could remember. And still they shook their heads in wonder.

A movement at the door startled them. They weren’t expecting any more visitors, most of whom had come and gone within the first two hours. So few visitors. So few who remembered. And fewer still from the Government or the judiciary or the Army or even the newspapers who had bothered to come and pay their respects before she was taken away and buried according to Jewish rite and custom.

The children and grandchildren turned as the door opened and were surprised by a hooded apparition in black which appeared to glide through the entry. It was a nun. The nun looked at the children and the grandchildren, and then at the body in the casket. Instinctively, she began to make the sign of the Cross, but remembered just in time to stay her hand in mid-air, instead smiling and giving them a small wave of appreciation. In silence, the nun walked over to the coffin which was supported by trestles in the centre of the room. She looked down at the elderly woman lying in the folds of cloth and pillows, her white face in stark contrast to the black dress in which she would soon be buried.

The nun noticed that a copy of the Old Testament had been placed in her right hand, and in her left a photograph of a man in the uniform of a Knight of the Legion of Honor of the Ecole Militaire.

The nun bent down and kissed the elderly lady on her forehead. Then she turned to the children and asked permission to pay a respect which all the sisters at the Nunnery in Valence had commissioned her to perform.

            The dead woman’s children gave their approval, and slowly the nun put her hand into  hidden pocket in her habit, from which she withdrew a large black book. Reverentially, she opened it and with great solemnity, struggling over the pronunciation of the inordinately difficult words which had been transliterated for her from Hebrew into French, began to read the Kaddish, the Jewish memorial prayer.
“Yisgadal v’yiskadash shmay rabbah. Ve’alemah d’verah chirusey, ve’yamlich malchusay…..”

 

 

 

 

How would she cope with the plethora of things which she had to accomplish today before her husband returned from the General Staff Headquarters? There was the Gallery opening, the charity lunch for the Wretched Wives of the Invalid Heroes of the Franco-Prussian War, and she’d promised to take afternoon tea with Solange whose best friend was having an illicit relationship, and poor Solange didn’t know how to advise her confidante.

Lucie had discussed the tricky issue with her husband the previous night, when little Pierre and Jeanne were safely tucked up in bed and out of hearing. Just how should she address Solange’s problems? But instead of his usual keen advice or even solicitations at her problems, Alfred had been withdrawn and seemed unusually distracted.

She’d asked him what was the problem, but he’d just smiled and assured her that there were no problems and everything was in order. But she knew, deep in her heart, that it was all because of that silly note he’d received on Saturday, telling him to be at Headquarters on Monday morning for a general inspection, dressed not in his military clothes, but in a civilian suit and tie, and report to the Chief of Staff.

At first, he was bemused, and kept wandering around the apartment, muttering to himself. Then he had become dismayed and distressed. But Lucie assured him that it was nothing for him to be concerned about, and it was probably just his colleagues planning a surprise…maybe even a medal. After all, a Captain in the Intelligence Service who worked as hard as Alfred, deserved a Medal!

But now she had more important things to do than think about Alfred and the funny life he led in Military Intelligence. She rang the bell and told her maid to bring her a pen and paper. It was her habit to write down a list of things she had to do, and then another list of the things she might do if she had the time. It clarified things in her mind so the day could be planned properly. But instead, she wrote a letter…

 

“My dearest Solange, it’s your duty to admonish your friend. A proper wife must be loyal and faithful to her husband,” Lucie wrote insistently. “I know it’s very fashionable for ladies who circulate in our orbit to have liaisons and assignations, but you know the disasters to which this sort of thing can lead. If she’s discovered, it will mean her ruin. And with a Moroccan! Really, Solange, it’s just too bad.”

 

When they met at the café, Lucie handed her friend the note, and after Solange had absorbed it, Lucy spoke, deliberately keeping her voice to a whisper. Even though the Palm Court tea rooms of Hotel Napoleon were overflowing with ladies taking an afternoon refreshment and the room was a hubbub of chatter, the very last thing which Lucie wanted was to be overheard. Gossips abounded in Paris and it was so easy for a lady to acquire the wrong reputation. She took another sip of tea, and waited for Solange’s response.

But instead of agreeing, Solange frowned, and said,

“How can you be so stuffy, Lucie dearest. It’s the duty of every woman to try to make the most of her opportunities. You’re lucky to have a husband who loves and adores you. But my friend Antoinette isn’t in your position. She was forced into a marriage with a man thirty years older than her in order to secure her family’s fortune, and her husband ignores her and spends all his time in his clubs and going to nightclubs with his mistresses. He has at least three different liaisons with dreadful women that Antoinette knows about, and he makes no secret of them. And now she’s become besotted with this Moroccan household servant, and he’s so dark skinned and deliciously…”

“A servant!” Lucie shrieked. The hubbub fell into silence as people in the vicinity stopped talking and turned to look at the table where the two women were seated. “A servant!” Lucie whispered urgently. “Is she mad? If she’s caught in flagrante then it’ll be more than ruin. This will become a scandal of enormous proportions, from which your friend will never recover. She might even have to leave Paris. Oh, Solange my love, for her sake, and the sake of all women, beg her to desist from this madness. If she must take a lover, let it be a man of her own class. Anything else will be unforgivable.”

“But her husband is enjoying a chorus of mistresses…..”

Lucie waved her hand. “Of no consequence. Immaterial. Men have these needs, and women such as his mistresses provide a suitable outlet for their passions. I don’t know who he is, and I don’t want to know, but I assume he has the decency not to involve his mistresses in his own society or to embarrass his dear wife in public. More than that cannot be asked of a man. And society would forgive your friend if she were to take as a lover somebody who is, say, much older and would be a father figure and advisor to her. Provided it was discrete and known only to her immediate circle. But a servant; and a Moroccan!” Lucie laughed. “It’s just too ridiculous. And dangerous.”

 

 

The moment he walked into the vestibule of the Military Headquarters building, Alfred Dreyfus knew that something was amiss. People who normally looked at him now avoided his eyes. Those speaking in urgent whispers on an upper landing stopped talking and looked down at him. Even the junior servicemen whose job was merely to carry papers from one office to another seemed to go out of their way to avoid him.

Did anyone know that he’d been summoned to appear in civilian clothes? Had others been summonsed? And did they also have to wear civilian clothes? He looked quickly around the offices and saw that he was the only man dressed as a civilian. Yet as an officer, he had to follow the French Military Code and be dressed in the uniform appropriate to his rank at all times that he was on duty. He only ever wore civilian clothes on the weekends, though sometimes when he and Lucie walked out onto the Bois de Boulogne she would petition him to wear his full dress uniform just to impress any they might meet along the way.

The Major who had delivered the note on Saturday morning had reiterated twice that Alfred should present himself to the Chief of Army Staff in civilian clothes. He’d even said it one last time after Dreyfus had saluted and as the man was leaving the front door of the apartment.

Since joining Military Intelligence, indeed since graduating seventh in his class of sixty with Honors from the Ecole Supérieure de la Guerra, he had been stared at wherever he was within the French Military establishment. He was always the odd man out, the exception, the one about whom they spoke in whispers, the man who stopped conversation whenever he walked into a room. The Jew in military uniform!

But no matter what they said or did or wanted, Alfred Dreyfus was a Captain in the French Army and a French citizen, and the fact that he was a Jew…and a Jew from Alsace…made no difference to the reality of his position or place within the hierarchy. When first he’d graduated, he had ambitions of rising to the very top echelons of the Service; as a patriot, a Republican and a lover of the greatest nation in the history of the world, he wanted to lead his country into battle and defeat all of his nation’s enemies; but the rawness of anti-Semitism in the military had soon disabused him of such vaunted ambition and he had been forced to face reality. He was the only Jew on the General Staff, and his career prospects would always be determined far more circumspectly than any other officer’s.

Shortly after he’d joined the Service, Alfred realized quickly that as a Jew he would never, could never, aspire to the highest offices unless he left the military and joined the ranks of politicians in the National Assembly. But he loved his army life too well and would content himself with a military title of which he and his family could be proud, even if the rank of General or Marechal was closed off to him. Life had been good to him up until Saturday morning. Up until the arrival of the Major and the delivery of that note.

Poor Lucie. She had tried to make light of it; to joke and tell him he’d be receiving a medal. A reprimand was more like it. But for what? Why was he being asked to attend a general inspection? What had he done which would merit such an interview? He’d been thinking and thinking all weekend, making himself ill with worry, going over and over again and again what he had done recently which might have caused such a reprimand. But he’d analyzed all the projects on which he was working, all the reports, tried to memorize the way in which he’d expressed his comments to see whether something he’d said might have offended some superior…but all to no avail. He just couldn’t think of anything he’d done which might earn a reprimand. Perhaps it was the way in which he looked at a superior officer? Some ill-founded gossip in the Mess? Or maybe he was to be groomed for and entrusted with some secret mission which must be accomplished in street clothes.

As he ascended the stairs, he turned right towards the Senior Officer’s suites instead of left to where he and other more junior officers were dealing with the complexities of the growing arrogance of Prussia and the six-year reign of the deformed little martinet Kaiser Wilhelm II, the saber-rattling German who kept talking about Germany needing a place in the sun.

Could it be an omission in something which he should have spotted? No, he’d been punctilious in his documentation. He never left anything to chance, and reported every snippet of information, every conclusion no matter how trivial, in reports to the General Staff.

Alfred sighed as he knocked on the door of Colonel Picquart of the Army General Staff. Soon he would find out the nature of the problem. But instead of being invited inside, Colonel Picquart opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

“Ah, Dreyfus. Follow me.”

Picquart walked peremptorily in front of him, and Dreyfus followed in his wake.

“Might I ask, Sir, where are the other officers being inspected?”

Without turning, Picquart said, “There are no others.”

They walked down the corridor and up the next flight of steps to the Senior Officers Floor. There they waited before the office of General de Boisdeffre, the Army Chief of Staff. Now Dreyfus’ heart was thumping. Generals, especially Chiefs of Staff, didn’t conduct inspections. What was going on?

The door opened, and to Dreyfus’ surprise, instead of the Chief of Staff, there stood a dour man with a solemn, funereal face who ushered both of them inside.

“Captain Dreyfus, I am Major du Paty de Clam.”

Dreyfus saluted, but the salute wasn’t returned. He noticed that there were three men in civilian uniform standing at the back of the office. Nobody introduced them, but they were watching the proceedings with eagle eyes.

Suddenly the door opened again, and in walked General Boisdeffre. Everyone saluted, but the General merely walked through the room, not even acknowledging Dreyfus by looking at him, and he sat at his desk.

“Begin,” the General snapped.

Colonel du Paty showed Dreyfus his hand. It was covered by a black silk glove. “Regretfully, I have injured my hand, and so I am unable to write a letter for General Boisdeffre to sign. I wonder, Captain, if you would be good enough to write it for me.”

Sick with suspicion and fear, Dreyfus nodded, and sat at a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He picked up the pen, dipped it into the ink well, and squared the paper so he could write the words. But suddenly the enormity of what was happening, the doubt and sinister looks which had traveled between the other men in the room, made him light-headed and nauseous.

Colonel du Paty began a slow dictation:

 

 

Nausea swept over him, and Dreyfus put down the pen.

“Is something the matter, Dreyfus?” asked du Paty. “You’re trembling”

“My fingers are cold. I am unable to take such dictation. Might I have a glass of water…..”

One of the civilians walked forward and poured Dreyfus a glass.

“Pay attention, man, this is a serious business.” Du Paty continued with his dictation until Dreyfus had written out an entire note.

The moment he’d finished writing, General Boisdeffre pounced on the piece of paper as though he were a lion attacking prey. He opened his drawer and took out a second piece of paper, this one already having been crunched up and then straightened out as though it had been discarded and then retrieved. Colonel du Paty joined the General behind the desk as they compared one set of handwriting with the other. They nodded silently to each other, and the General put both pieces of paper into a leather folder on his desk.

“I wonder if I might be informed of why I have been ordered to write that bordereau?” asked Dreyfus, suddenly feeling even sicker than before. He was in the very epicenter of a maelstrom, and he had no idea why.

Suddenly the drapes in the General’s office flew apart, and a tall, thin man stepped out. Dreyfus knew him immediately, and seeing him made the young man feel even more nervous and ill. It was Major Hubert-Joseph Henry, deputy to Colonel Sandherr, Commander of French Military Counter-Intelligence. Dreyfus began to stand, but one of the men in plain clothes held him firmly down in the chair.

Major Henry said haughtily, “Captain Alfred Dreyfus, in the name of the Law and on behalf of the Republic of France, I arrest you. You are accused of the crime of High Treason.”

Pushing the Policeman’s hand from his shoulder, Dreyfus stood to meet his accuser face to face. “On what grounds do you accuse me of treason?” he demanded.

“The evidence is overwhelming. Your own hand is your accuser. Do you deny receiving top-secret intelligence reports on the 75mm long recoil hydro-pneumatic gun which the French Army has developed?”

Dreyfus shook his head, mystified. “Of course I don’t deny it. For the past six months, I’ve have been writing reports about the gun’s use by the Artillery in a future war and the ability of the Army to deploy it on suitable terrain against Germany. It’s part of my work in Military Intelligence. Why do you ask these questions? I demand to know why!”

“You will make no demands here, Captain Dreyfus!” said Major Henry. “Have you communicated any information about this secret weapon to any other person who is not a member of the General Staff or the French Military establishment?” asked Major Henry.

Dreyfus turned puce in fury. “How dare you, Major.”

“A bordereau in your handwriting was found in the wastepaper bin at the Germany Embassy. We’ve just dictated the contents to you, and what you have written out matches what we found. Perhaps you’d like to explain that,” Henry said triumphantly.

Perhaps it was nervousness, or perhaps a sense of relief that the allegation was so absurd, but Dreyfus burst out laughing.

“You think high treason is funny, Captain?” asked the Chief of Staff.

“No sir, of course not. The dictation I took was the first bordereau I’ve ever written. There has been some mistake. I beg you, gentlemen, to desist from these absurd allegations, before my reputation suffers.”

“Your reputation, Captain Dreyfus, is the very last thing of concern to the High Command. The reality is that you are under arrest for committing an act of High Treason. You have sold invaluable information to the Germans. The information is so sensitive, that it might very well affect France’s long-term security. You have sold your country, your colleagues and the lives of countless men and women to France’s enemy. For this, you will be tried, found guilty and suffer the consequences of your malevolence. You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear and to your nation,” said General Boisdeffre. “Take the Jew away.”

The three policemen grasped Dreyfus by the arms, and forced him towards the door. He struggled, but their grip was too strong. His heart sank as he turned and saw that the three men, General Boisdeffre, Major Du Paty and Major Henry nodding and smiling.

“Long Live France,” he shouted over his shoulder as the policemen pushed him ignominiously through the door. “Long Live France,” he shouted as they hustled him along the corridor of the General Staff Headquarters to the astonishment of the dozens of officers who came out of their rooms to see what all the shouting was about. “Long Live France,” Dreyfus screamed as they pushed him into a police cart and the horse clopped over the cobblestones on its way to the Cherche-Midi military prison.

And he continued to shout “Long Live France” until there was nobody left to listen.

 

*

 

It really was too bad. Alfred knew that they must leave their apartment on the Avenue du Trocadero at eight o’clock promptly in order to arrive by half past the hour for drinks and canapés before the entertainment began. And Lucie had been looking forward to it all day. She loved Sarah Bernhardt and was keen to see Sardou's Gismonda at the Renaissance Theatre.

She looked at the clock in the hallway, and saw with annoyance that it was already seven, an hour later than Alfred usually arrived home. Really! Lucie knew that his work was important but so was their place in Parisian society, and it was just as important to be seen at an opening at the Renaissance as it was to squirrel away in his office doing all the top secret things on which he worked.

Even if he came home now, he wouldn’t have time both to change into his evening dress and have supper. Then he’d have to go to the theatre hungry and that would put him in a surly mood.

Lucie sighed at the tribulations of being married to an important Army officer and returned to the dining room where Alfred’s supper had been laid out. A glass of Chablis, two thinly cut slices of roast lamb, some salad smothered in the wine and mustard dressing he preferred, and a delicious compote of apples, sultanas, pears and figs which chef had infused with a rich Madeira. But it would all go to waste as he couldn’t dress and eat and leave the house within an hour. Really! It was too bad!

To console herself, Lucie began to walk down the corridor into the children’s room to kiss them goodnight. Her heart skipped a beat as she thought of them. Pierre was now a big boy who would soon be turning four, and little baby Jeanne was only one, but bright as a button and with a huge smile which lit up a room.

As she walked, she heard a sudden and vicious rapping on the front door. Gasping at the noise, Lucie stopped walking and turned in shock to see what was happening at the other end of the corridor. She started to walk towards the door, but the maid had already run there at the urgency of the knocking. Standing in the doorway full of importance and menace were four men, three fairly junior officers and one Lucie could see was a full Major. They didn’t say a word, but instead stepped into her home, pushing the maid aside. Francine shouted an objection, but still the men marched unannounced into the apartment.

Lucie was shocked to her very core that these men had entered the apartment without offering their names or the purpose of their visit, and stood rooted to the spot as they walked resolutely into her home. She stared at them as they advanced in the most menacing manner towards her.

“Madam Dreyfus. I am Major Henry of the Military Counter Intelligence Service. I have come here to search your apartment. Stand aside, please, Madam, and allow my men to perform their duties.”

“But….”

“Stand aside, Madam,” he insisted.

“My husband isn’t here. He’ll be back shortly. I’m sure he…”

“Your husband will not be back at all. He has been arrested and accused of High Treason. Do not expect to see him, Madam, ever again. Now stand aside or I will have you forcibly removed from this apartment while my men and I search for further evidence of your husband’s treachery.”

Lucie fainted.

 

*

 

She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, but when she woke, her first thought was about the tickets they had to Sarah Bernhardt’s play. Then the pounding inside her head began and she felt how dry her throat had become. She looked around the room, and everything appeared normal. Lucie sat up, and heard sobbing coming from somewhere in the apartment. She felt dizzy and utterly disconnected from reality. She still felt in a daze, and wondered whether she’d taken an afternoon nap and had overslept.

And as she walked on her unsteady legs towards the door, the horror of what had happened came flooding back into her mind. Those awful military men. Their aggressive command for her to step aside. In her own apartment! The hostility with which they’d knocked on her front door.

The sobbing became louder as she entered the corridor. And when she looked up and down, she saw that it was all a horrible mess. The table in the front vestibule had been overturned and the drawers opened; their address book and some street maps were scattered near to the front door. The cloakroom was open and it had obviously been ransacked without any thought to good order or decency; her best coat was on the floor instead of on a hanger.

Lucie turned towards the kitchen and the sobbing became even more noticeable. It was Francine, her maid. She found Francine sitting in Chef Leah’s chair, sipping a cognac and being consoled by her. When Chef and Francine saw Lucie walk into the kitchen, they both stood.

“Oh Madam,” said Chef, “what’s to become of us. Arrested for treason. It’s not possible.”

“What happened?” asked Lucie, her voice deep and sonorous.

“The men,” said Francine. “They saw you faint, they didn’t even go to your assistance; they just stepped over you as though you were a sack of potatoes in the market. They went into the Captain’s study, and took all his papers. They emptied his drawers and stole everything. His books, his papers, even his pens. Then they entered your…..” Francine burst into tears and sat heavily again in the chef’s chair, burying her face in Leah’s apron.

“My what?” asked Lucie. Suddenly her mind was clear and purposeful.

“Your bed chamber, Madam,” said Chef. “They entered your private bed chamber and searched your cupboards, your credenza, your dressing table. They pulled out your undergarments; everything!” Her voice was taut with indignation at the offence to her mistress’ dignity.

Lucie nodded. “And my husband?” she asked.

Both women shrugged. “We tried to stop them. We told them we’d call the police,” said Francine. “They laughed and told us that they were far more important than the police. They said that the police just dealt with murderers and thugs but the Army sought out traitors. The master isn’t a traitor, is he Madam? He’s a good man, isn’t he Madam?”

Lucie breathed deeply and faced the two women. “Captain Dreyfus is the most loyal Frenchman in this country. This is all some terrible mistake. They’ve obviously made some tragic error in their paperwork. Maybe my husband’s name is similar to the real culprit. I don’t know. I have to wait until he returns, and then I shall ask him. We’ll all ask him.”

Chef shook her head sadly, “Madam, the men said that the Captain would not be returning home. That he was in prison and wouldn’t be coming home.”

“Tonight?”

The servants remained silent.

“He won’t be coming home tonight?” she asked again, her mask of control beginning to slip. She looked at Francine and Leah, praying for some relief in their faces, but there was none. “Did they say how long the Captain would be in prison?”

Softly, Francine said, “They spoke so roughly, Madam. We were very upset. Maybe we didn’t understand them.”

“What did they say?” Lucie demanded.

“They said that if his treason had been conducted during wartime, he would be executed, but because it isn’t, he will be sent to a penal colony for the rest of his life.”

               Lucie smiled and then laughed nervously. It was all so ridiculous. “But the Captain and I have tickets for Sarah Bernhardt. Tonight. What am I going to do?” She turned round and walked out of the kitchen. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © Alan David Gold 2010