“Maurice Groenberg? Je suis désolée, monsieur.”
“Madame, s’il vous plaît. I’m certain my father lived here from 1924 to 1942. He was a well-known pianist, if that means anything.” I plead into the slits in the polished brass intercom plate. M. et Mme H. Santinelli, the card by her buzzer reads. I look jaundiced and sinister in the bright yellow metal. I should have shaved at the hotel this morning when I arrived on the plane from New York, but I had this burning urgency to get here. Seeing my reflection, I feel ridiculous. It’s not as though I had an appointment.
When I turned forty this year, my father asked me how long I planned to look like a “young t’ug.” (Sixty years in America and he never conquered the “th”.) “Hey, I’m a rock musician,” I said. He laughed. Still, this being France, I should have spruced up.
“You have the wrong address,” the intercom spits and crackles. Mme Santinelli’s voice ricochets off the grey marble lobby walls.
“That’s impossible. Look, he died recently in America. I came all this way to see the house he grew up in. It would mean a great deal if you could give me five minutes.” Now I do feel thuggish, because this will take a lot more than five minutes. I own this apartment, though I’ve never seen it. After my father and his parents were arrested during the Vel d’Hiv round-up on July 17, 1942, someone took their apartment. I’m here to take it back. Or try.
“That’s enough!” Mme Santinelli is no pushover, though she sounds quite elderly. August is burglary season in Paris. “Leave immediately, or I’ll call the police!”
At the word “police,” the concierge throws open the door of her loge. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I retreat to the street. Squeezing myself into a splotch of shade under a balcony, I pull the envelope with my father’s will out of my backpack. “To my only child, Paul Groenberg, I leave the family apartment, 3rd floor, right; 33, boulevard Flandrin, 16th arrondissement, Paris.” The address is carved into a garlanded stone oval.
My grandfather, a real estate developer, built this building as an investment, reserving the best apartment for his family. In our two-bedroom in Queens, we barely had room for an upright piano. My father would talk about the palace he’d grown up in and the grand piano he played. “Un Pleyel, Paul, tu t’imagines?” Pleyel was Chopin’s piano maker. “File for restitution,” I suggested a hundred times. “Too complicated, too late, too painful,” he’d say. He left it to me. What did he leave? An apartment or an ordeal, like in those fairy tales where the old king sends the princes on hopeless missions to avoid handing over the kingdom? No documents, just a key, which he somehow preserved. I assume the lock’s been changed a dozen times. I have it in the envelope with the will. I pull it out. It gives off a smell like old pennies in my sweaty hand.
I also brought some photos I found in his drawer. In one, a small, serious boy in a sailor suit leans against the building. His head brushes the bottom of the oval. “Maurice, 6 ans,” someone had written in the margin.
The next was taken in the same place. My father’s a teenager here, his arm slung coolly around a pretty girl. He has thick black hair like mine, Jewish hair. She has the crinkly blond hair and the pale eyes you often see in Vienna or Budapest, but the knowing way her neck curves as it emerges from her turned-up collar is all French. A skinny boy—his beaky nose and jutting cheekbones make him look like an undernourished eagle chick—scowls in the background as if he’d been asked to move aside. The back reads: “Maurice et sa copine, Chantal Goldstejn, 1941.” His girlfriend. I wonder if she heard him play at the Conservatoire when he earned the Premier Prix. If they’d gotten married, maybe their child would have stuck with classical. (My father always said he liked my rock songs, though.)
The last time I saw the building was thirty years ago—in 1973. It’s in much better shape than I remembered. The stone has a blonde glow. The balcony railings are black and solid. The roof has all its slats. I was eight when my father and I flew over for the funeral of his Tante Camille. She had hidden in a convent the night the Gestapo took the rest of the family—and never left. Soeur Bénédicte, as she became, left us just enough to come and pay our respects. The rest of her money—quite a bit, it turned out—went to the Church, which made my father very bitter: My mother was already sick, and we barely got by on his ballet accompanist’s earnings. “A rich nun is an obscenity!” he said when he hung up with the notaire who handled the order’s earthly matters. Still, Camille was his last French relative. During the funeral mass in Saint-Eustache, he insisted on wearing a yarmulke. I remember the nuns’ grey wimples flapping like skate wings as they turned to stare at him.
Afterwards, we stood in the street beneath the flying buttresses. “Can you show me where you lived as a little boy?” I asked.
“No,” he retorted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?” I stomped my feet to beat the chill.
He sucked the last bit of smoke from his cigarette and ground it into the greasy cobbles. “It might be different…or gone.”
“You might never come back,” I said.
“Tu as raison,” he said.
We took the Métro to Porte Dauphine. The apartment was two blocks away. It started raining, so we parked ourselves under the awning of the Arab grocery across the street and watched the drops pelt the sooty façade. The sight seemed to warm my father. He pointed out which windows had been theirs. We danced around, trying to see through the gap in the long, gauzy curtains.
Suddenly, I had a thought. “Papa, remember the beautiful grand piano you had then?”
“Of course, chéri.”
He rubbed the black bristle on his neck.
“Maybe it’s still there. You could get it back! Look! Someone’s there!” A woman parted the curtains and peered down at us.
“That’s enough, Paul!” He practically dragged me to the métro. He never returned.
When I came to Paris ten years ago on vacation, he asked me to check on the place. I put it off until my last night. On my way there, I passed a bar, heard music, made friends with the band, sat in on a set, and met a girl named Marine, who had crazy hair. I never made it to the house. Papa didn’t hold it against me, though. “You found someone. Enfin. That’s the most important thing, even if she isn’t Jewish,” he said.
My father’s will gave a contact, Bernard Malestar, Notaire, at 150, boulevard Flandrin. When it was opened last month, I asked Papa’s lawyer in Queens if he thought I had a chance of getting the apartment back. He said he didn’t know bupkis about French law, but it was worth checking out: “Look, if you have time and money, anything’s possible. You read in the papers every day about Jews getting stuff back. Even the Swiss banks are coughing up, the bastards.” Money I didn’t have, but I bought a ticket.
Marine was whacking pork into cubes when I returned from the lawyer, plane ticket in hand. I squeezed into our tiny kitchen to watch her cook in her halter top, frizzy hair caught up in a scraggly-chic topknot, eyebrows knotted above her pointy, freckled nose. She rested her cleaver. “Alors?”
I cleared my throat for gravitas. “He thinks that given the potential value, it would be prudent to see the property and consult with local counsel.”
“Stop talking like a lawyer. It sounds so phoney.”
“Seriously. It’s worth a shot.”
She rolled her eyes. “Time, you have.”
“That’s bitchy—”
“It’s true. You have your weekend gigs. Between, I’m not sure what you do.”
“I rehearse, Marine. I compose. Jesus. You know that.”
“Why is it worth a shot?
“Whoever lives there may have no claim. They may be squatters.”
“They might be ninety.”
“They were our age, maybe younger, when they moved in. Anyway, their kids may live there now.”
She set the meat aside and started dicing shallots. Her eyes teared. She rubbed them with the back of her hand, smearing the turquoise line under her lower lashes.
“Marine,” I said, handing her a paper towel. “We could never afford an apartment like that here.”
“You’re not thinking of moving there?”
“We’d have this palatial apartment. No rent.”
“I don’t want to go back to France.” She was almost shouting.
“Calm down, Marine.”
“Look, Paul. I came here for a reason. I didn’t go to a grande école. My father worked for Gaz de France. I want to start my own restaurant. You can’t get loans in France. You can’t fire people…”
“We’ll show them.” I flexed my biceps. A joke. I meant to follow up with a tender nibble on the neck. But as soon as my hand touched her shoulder, she jumped, nicking her thumb. Blood dripped on the shallots. She scraped them into the garbage, then wound a paper towel around the cut.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You can’t even trust the beef…”
“You’re afraid of mad-cow disease? Be serious.”
She stopped for a nanosecond. “Why don’t you get a real job? There’s an idea!” She smacked her forehead with her uncut hand. “We’ll buy a real apartment in New York. And—maybe have a real baby!”
“Marine, this is real.”
“I’m not going to rewind my life so you can live out your bourgeois fantasy.” She peeled off the bloody paper and flung it in the garbage.
“I thought you came here for me—not because you hated France.”
“I’d have left anyway.”
“I was just a green card?”
“No, of course not.” She looked almost tender. “Look, you’re forty. You think the French music scene is going to fall at your feet because you’re Maurice Groenberg’s son?”
“He was a prodigy.”
“Your songs are in English,” she said.
“I’ll write some in French.” I thought she was tidying up papers on the table until she dug out her keys and wallet and made for the door.
“What…?”
“I need a break from you is what!”
“Marine!” I called down the stairwell, Stanley Kowalski, minus the muscles. Her thudding footsteps. I waited half an hour then scraped the raw pork cubes into a container and made a pastrami and Swiss cheese sandwich—which I couldn’t eat. At 8 p.m., I left for my Friday club gigs on 14th Street, then Avenue A.
She came back that night. Two nights ago, she didn’t. We had a fight about health insurance (my lack thereof, her high premiums). I made the mistake of saying we wouldn’t have this problem if we lived in France. When I got back from my gigs at 3 a.m., I found a message. She’d gone to her best friend’s. “Don’t call after ten.” She was subbing for the lunch chef and had to be up early. I tried anyway, but got her friend’s snotty recording. “Leave a message.” Ditto in the morning. At four, I left a note—“Call you as soon as I know something, Love P”—then went to the airport.
There’s no point in standing in front of the building. The concierge will be watching, so I walk up the Boulevard Flandrin to the address of the notaire. The plane trees that shade the boulevard are little help in this heat. It’s the hottest summer on record in France. I’m drenched. I think of Marine behind a restaurant stove for ten hours at a stretch. Tough chick. A brass plaque says Notaire, but the name is different. I ring the bell. The man who answers is puzzled. “Malestar? They closed twenty years ago.”
“May I show you some papers?”
He buzzes me in, admits me reluctantly to his office, after noting my stubble and sneakers. But he listens to my story, skims the will, hands it back. “You want to repossess an apartment in that building? It’s magnificent. You’ll need a deed at the very least. No one would give it up without a fight.”
“How do I get that? You may remember there was a little problem for Jews during the war. Deportees couldn’t take their filing cabinets with them.”
The notaire throws up his hands, as if I tried to pin the war on him. “You can try the National Archives. But they put the files on Jewish confiscations under judicial seal for 100 years. And it’s August. They may be closed.”
“A hundred years? That’s terrible.”
“I agree. But that’s the way it is.” He drums his fingers. He’s not going to be dragged into a sixty-year-old case before vacation.
Still, I hate to leave empty-handed. “Maybe my wife can find something in my father’s papers. She’s French. She’ll know what to look for.”
Ah, my French wife! (Why didn’t you say so?) His tone softens. “I’m here tomorrow. If your wife finds anything, call me. Un petit conseil. Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve seen these sorts of cases. The residents are very resourceful.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He extends a cool, dry hand. “Désolé pour votre père, monsieur.”
I give him my sticky one. “Merci, monsieur.”
It’s lunchtime, and the street has an abandoned look. No. 33 has pretty much emptied out for the summer. You can tell who’s still around from the plants on the balconies and the shutters, loosely latched, to let in air but no light.
An elderly gentleman in a white linen jacket enters the lobby, a panting dust-mop of a dog at his heels. He punches the access code. I pull the door open for him, which gives him pause. “Is someone expecting you?” the man asks.
“Yes, Mme Santinelli. I rang the bell. She must be a little deaf. She’s my father’s cousin. The last of his relatives. I came all the way from America to see her.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but lets me in. He stops to get his mail, and I enter the antique-bird-cage elevator alone and push the button. Through the grill, I see stained-glass insets at each landing, brass bannisters the concierge must polish every day. Marine would be impressed, though she’d never let on. She grew up in one of those concrete suburbs that always vote Communist.
On the third floor, I approach Mme Santinelli’s door. I feel for the key with a wild sense of anticipation, then stop. What will I do if it works? Looking at the shape of the keyhole, I see it might. It seems to be the right type. I slide the key in, and to my shock, it fits. I force myself to pull it out without turning it. I’m not a burglar. I knock.
“Hervé?” Her voice sounds far away.
“Oui, c’est moi,” I say into my sleeve, breathing so hard I can barely speak.
“J’arrive,” she calls.
The elevator descends, clanking. Somewhere below, the concierge starts the vacuum cleaner. The roar drowns out the muted harmony of building sounds.
An elderly woman peers around the door like a child playing peek-a-boo. “Hervé, où es-tu?”
Her smile evaporates at the sight of me. I wedge my shoe in the door. “I mean no harm,” I say, in French. “I just want to look.”
Sweat drips from her earlobe into the open collar of her grey silk blouse. Her cheeks are flushed a deep pink. The newspaper I bought at the airport had stories about old people dying from the heat while their families were at the beach.
“Please, I have some pictures…I’m sure they’ll interest you.”
“Qui êtes-vous?”
Who am I? An American? A Franco-American? A Franco-American Jew? A carpetbagger? A poor schmuck of a musician who thinks this might be his last chance to impress his wife?
“Maurice’s son, Paul,” I answer.
The concierge’s vacuum cleaner cuts off. Now’s Mme Santinelli’s chance to call for help. I try to think of a compelling explanation for my presence in case I have to explain myself to the police. Grief for my dead father, for my dying marriage, for a place I’ve never seen until now. Grief doesn’t cut much ice with cops, generally.
“Bon,” Mme Santinelli says finally and releases the door, freeing my foot.
I limp past her. So this is it. Plaster garlands loop around the ceiling. Gold-framed panels of faded burgundy damask woven in a fleur-de-lis pattern cover the walls. I get this mad urge to speak to my father. If he were here, he’d recite this poem that clicked through his brain like worry beads. “Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage….”
Happy is he who, like Ulysses, makes a great journey,
Or, like that other hero, wins the Golden Fleece,
Then returns, wise and sensible,
To live among his kin, the rest of his days
It was a tic. Drove me nuts. He’d declaim it even after going to the newsstand for Tums.
My father said his parents kept a large antique Chinese urn here in the entryway. One night they had a party, and he hid behind it to watch the guests arriving in their evening clothes. A man stumbled into the urn. It smashed, revealing Papa in his pyjamas. His mother was furious at the man, but he was a guest. Instead, she hauled my father off to his bedroom and spanked him till her arm gave out. The next day, he kept touching his bottom while he recited. All the kids in the row behind him started snickering, so he lost his place. As punishment, the teacher made him write the poem fifty times: Heureux qui… Heureux qui… “I was ashamed to tell the teacher what had happened,” my father said. He never forgot the poem.
There’s no urn now. Just a small oriental rug.
“Hurry up, monsieur,” Mme Santinelli says, angry at herself for letting me in.
“Of course, madame.”
I follow her down the long hallway. The herringbone parquet makes me want to walk like Charlie Chaplin. We reach the living room. A kid could roller skate in here; it’s so vast. (I can hear Marine yelling in that French mother’s voice: “Ah, non, les enfants! Not in the house!”)
Stripes of light leak through the gaps between the closed shutters. Yellow silk couch, marble coffee table, gilded armchairs. A gleaming, ebony grand piano, an antique by the look. Above the ivory keys is the name “Pleyel” in gold. Is this my father’s piano? The lid is covered with family photos. Parlour poses. Babies in voluminous lace christening gowns. A country outing in a horse-drawn carriage. Here’s Mme Santinelli, in a short, veil-less wedding gown, her gawky young groom in uniform. A mayor officiates. Odd. She doesn’t seem the type to make do with a civil ceremony.
Mme Santinelli stands sentry by the window. Chère madame, would you do me the honour—? Even French lacks an elegant formula for evicting old ladies, though compared to fists on the door in the middle of the night… Lucky for my father, a priest persuaded the commandant at Drancy to give up a few teenagers, or they’d have stuffed him in the boxcar for Auschwitz with his parents.
I stroke the piano. Its silky finish reminds me of Marine’s skin. “Beautiful piano. My father was a pianist. A prodigy, in fact. I’m a musician, too, though nowhere near as good as he was. Vous permettez?” She doesn’t say no. So I sit on the bench. For some reason, the only piece I can think of is Schubert’s Marche Militaire, one of the warhorses my father played for ballet classes. I depress the opening chords. Some keys give a sour plunk, others click voicelessly. No one has played this piano in decades.
Mme Santinelli unlatches the shutter. The Arab grocer across the street could hear her yell easily.
“I take it that no one in your family plays,” I say. “A shame to let such a beautiful piano deteriorate. Why didn’t you sell it?”
“It has sentimental value.”
“You’re sure the name Maurice Groenberg doesn’t ring a bell?” I ask, trying to sound kind, like a psychiatrist probing for a breakthrough.
The shutter screeches. A hot breeze rushes in, the white hairs dance around her face. She stuffs them in her chignon, they fly out again.
I reach into my backpack. “Please look at these pictures.” She shakes her head. “Please…” On my third nudge, she takes the envelope.
Her trembling fingers go rat-a-tat against the paper as she extracts the photos. She studies the top one, then turns the picture over and reads the inscription.
I look at the photo and back at Mme Santinelli’s face. The resemblance becomes apparent. Mme Santinelli is the crinkly-haired, pale-eyed girl. Under the crêpy skin, her neck still has that elegant curve. The sulking boy in the background is her soldier-groom.
“That’s you, Chantal Goldstejn?”
She nods.
Across the street, people disappear under the orange awning of the grocery and reappear, poring over artichokes and melons as if there were nothing more pressing in the world at this moment than selecting the perfect ingredients for lunch. Mme Santinelli’s bony chest pumps like a bellows, but no sound comes out.
“Who was the other boy?” I ask.
“He lived downstairs. His mother was our concierge.”
She dumped my father for the concierge’s son? Concierges back then were mostly Corsican. Catholic, anti-Semitic, and notorious informants, my father said. After the war, everyone was a résistant, of course. But in 1942, denouncing Jews was still de rigueur.
“You married him?”
She breathes in sharply. Her eyes burn like dry ice. I’ve grossly offended her, but I don’t even care.
“What about you and my father?” I ask. “It says here…”
A road crew outside fires up a pneumatic drill, a machine-gun assault on the afternoon. Mme Santinelli covers her ears. My father operated one on a road crew when he first came to America. His hands were never concert-calibre after that. The drilling stops. She drops her hands. “Yes, I loved Maurice. But nothing could have come of it.”
“Why not?”
“My mother wasn’t Jewish.”
“My father was never religious. My wife’s not Jewish. He never objected…” (Why am I pressing this disloyal point? If Mlle Goldsteyn had married my father, I’d never have been born, of course.)
“Your grandmother didn’t want him to marry me, and Maurice was a garçon sage, who obeyed his mother.” The words are so bitter, it feels as if she’s been waiting sixty years to say them.
“How did you get this apartment?”
The notches over her nostrils deepen.“Please leave immediately.”
“Not until you tell me how you got this apartment.” I feel like an anti-Semitic caricature, a big-nosed Jewish debt-collector, pressing the gentile. Is that how Marine saw me? She knows that’s unfair.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Yes, it is. My father left me this apartment in his will. I want to live here with my wife. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer.”
There. I said it. Not as hard as I expected. Sweat dribbles off my sideburns. A breeze blows. I actually feel chilled for a second.
Mme Santinelli sobs. “Ça alors! How shameful. Abusing your father’s name to take an old person’s property.”
I see how she got through the war. She has that survivor’s ability to turn a blade back on an adversary when cornered.
“Me, shameful? And you, who married a collaborator and stole my father’s home?”
Mme Santinelli flinches. “You know nothing…”
“Actually, I know a lot.” This is pure bluff.
“Did your father tell you your grandmother brought everything on the family?”
“Deportation? Auschwitz?”
“The Jews weren’t the only ones who suffered in the war.”
“What did she do?”
Mme Santinelli extends her beautiful neck with an air of injured nobility. “It’s true my mother-in-law wasn’t especially fond of Jews, but she didn’t have anything particular against your grandmother until she turned her into the street. No job, no home, in wartime.”
“Why would my grandmother do that?”
Mme Santinelli looks out at the traffic. “Mme Groenberg accused Hervé’s mother of stealing things from the building and selling them on the black market.”
“What does that have to do with what happened?”
“My mother-in-law had to defend herself…”
An anonymous letter: “Monsieur le Préfet, les juifs pour qui je travaille…The Jews I work for…” Any lie would have brought the Gestapo.
“Your husband’s mother denounced them?”
She nods.
“You said you loved my father?” She turns her face. All I see is that neck and her ear. “Then how could you marry him?” I grab the picture in its heavy glass frame and raise it.
Mme Santinelli presses her hand to her throat, her silk blouse rumpled and blotched with sweat. A hairpin dangles from her temple. “Je vous en prie, monsieur…”
I set the picture down and sit on the piano bench. Tears follow the wrinkles like creek beds down her cheeks, into her collar. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, again and again. This is not what my father would have wanted. Outside, the jackhammers start up again. Lunchtime’s over.
She doesn’t cover her ears this time. The sound hammers away.
“A few days after Maurice’s family was taken away,” she says, “I went for a walk by the lake in the Bois de Boulogne where we used to go. I was very foolish. The woods were full of prostitutes, even then. The Gestapo headquarters was nearby on the avenue Foch. A German soldier came up to me. He wanted me to go with him. When I tried to pull away, he demanded my papers. As soon as he saw my name, he asked where my yellow star was. He was about to arrest me—or worse—when Hervé walked up in uniform. He was visiting his mother and had seen me leave. He told the German he’d take me in so the fellow could go on with his business. If it hadn’t been for Hervé, I would have been deported, too.”
Someone is knocking at the door. Mme Santinelli excuses herself. Her slippers thump-thump down the long hallway. “Attention, chéri, we have a visitor,” I hear her say with impressive calm. Mme Santinelli returns with an old man, thin, stooped. “This is Hervé, my husband.” I recognise the beaky nose and jutting cheekbones. His skin’s the colour of raw chicken. “This is the son of Maurice Groenberg,” she whispers.
The old man puts his hand on the sofa arm, works his way to the front with his cane, and collapses onto a cushion with a groan. “Ah, oui. Maurice. Whatever became of him? We lost sight of him long ago. He was a nice fellow, I recall.”
“He made it to America. He died in New York last month,” I answer.
“Ah, bon,” he says. “Je suis désolé.”
“Oui,” his wife echoes. “Nous sommes tous les deux désolés. We’re both sorry.”
For a fraction of a second, I think she’s going to offer me coffee. Instead, she stands there, blinking patiently. My cue to leave. I exit the living room, head down the hallway, Mme Santinelli at my elbow. “One last thing, the apartment…,” I say.
She massages a knobby knuckle. “When Maurice’s family left, the Santinellis moved upstairs. The loge was so dark. No one minded really. After the war, we bought the apartment from Maurice’s aunt, Camille. My husband insisted it was the right thing to do. We had no idea Maurice was alive. I don’t know what Camille did with the money.”
We face each other, exhausted, like a couple who have finally said all the horrible things they never dared say and now wonder how they’ll go on.
“Chantal!” We turn. Hervé Santinelli stands by the living room door. He grips the moulding with his raw-chicken-colored fingertips. “Dis-lui qu’il peut prendre le piano. Tell him he can have the piano.”
“Oui, chéri,” she says.
His wife and I watch him rearrange his hands, his cane, his feet and do a molto adagio about-face. He says to himself, loudly, like someone hard of hearing: “Enfin, c’est fini, cette histoire.” That’s the end.
I step out onto the landing. I watch the point of Mme Santinelli’s elegant nose till the door shuts, then I race downstairs. I yank the front door open and race to Porte Dauphine. The Arab grocer points to his temple. “Fou, celui-là.”
Take the piano. The perfect kiss-off. The last defence of ancient monsters is frailty. The concierge’s son had the cunning of a prime minister. Pauvre papa. He thought he lost her because he couldn’t stand up to his mother. He didn’t have a chance.
I see myself in peyis and a long black coat, dragging the ruined piano like a ragpicker’s cart. I take out my cell phone to call Marine, then put it back. She’s prepping for the lunch onslaught and won’t appreciate the interruption. I go to the curb and hail a taxi. I give him my hotel address. “Then Aeroport Charles de Gaulle.” As we ride up avenue Foch, I feel the small, hard weight of the key in my pocket. We’re coming up on the Arc de Triomphe, merging, circling. I take the key out and toss it into the traffic. I think I hear a clink as it hits the pavement.
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage
Ou comme cestui-là qui conquit la Toison
Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge!
Joachim du Bellay, 1522-60
