They sat in silence for a few minutes. Claire patiently observed the vague gestures, lost look, and constant sighing of this stranger to whom she had offered refuge.
Amanda already found it hard to recall the journey from Hamburg to Haute-Vienne, the long wait on the railway platform. Whether or not she had fed her daughter, or even if they had drunk any water. Her most recent memory was of the conductor’s whistle as he called out the name of the village they had reached.
Claire led her to what would be her bedroom, behind the living room. Amanda had arrived in a temporary shelter with rickety wooden beams, peeling walls, unhinged doors and windows. A house full of shadows and glints of sunlight filtering in through cracks and holes. Her room had green, flaking walls, but the freshly pressed sheets shone impeccably white.
She tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t obey her. Alone in her room, unable to weep, Amanda was engulfed by her pain: a physical, palpable pain like that of a missing arm haunted by the memory of its absent hand. Picking up one of the sheets from the botanical album without looking at the flower illustration, she tried to write a random sentence in the empty space, feeling as though at that moment her soul was parting from her body. It rose and bumped against the wooden ceiling beams: she could see her inert body below, facing the blank paper, pen in hand, waiting for inspiration as to what she could say to her abandoned daughter.
My little Viera, she wrote in German, the language she had sworn never to speak again. Maybe it would be better to write in French? she thought. Her writing was shaky, with looping letters, heavy and uneven. Fear was obvious there too. It’s only been a few hours, and yet your mama misses you . . . She had to give Viera a sign, some indication they would meet once again. Summer of 1939, she managed to write, a date as vague as her thoughts. She had no idea when she would be able to finish the letter, which would cross part of France and an entire ocean before reaching the torrid streets of Havana. She fell asleep still holding the pen, her head only a few inches from the sheet of paper.
Shortly after midnight, Claire heard some muffled sounds. She crossed the darkened living room silently, reached Amanda’s room, and put her ear to the door. She realized Amanda was singing what to her sounded like a lullaby. Guten Abend, gut Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht, mit Näglein besteckt, schlupf unter die Deck: Morgen früh, wenn Gott will, wirst du wieder geweckt. With the little German she knew, Claire made out: “roses and carnations under the bedcover” and “God willing, you’ll wake again in the morning.”
It would take Amanda six weeks to complete that first letter. She could not allow herself any mistakes: the precious sheets from the book she had mutilated couldn’t be wasted. Every word, every sentence, had to be carefully weighed. It was vital to sense how it would sound to her daughter, all alone and lost on the far side of the world. She had repeated doubts about what she had written: she wanted to avoid Viera thinking she was weak and grief-stricken. She had to convey the impression that she was happy in order to raise her spirits.
One damp summer’s night, she sealed the envelope and put it into the red mailbox up by the town’s main street. Three days and two storms went by before the mailman collected it. From there maybe he would take it to Limoges, where it would be processed and sent on to its destination. Who knew whether letters destined for the far side of the Atlantic had to go through Paris? Amanda discussed this endlessly as she helped Claire in the kitchen or the two of them sat together to knit scarves for the winter while the girls ran about, climbed on branches, or collapsed into the already withered flowers along the path.
Some nights, Amanda read them the text accompanying the illustrations in the botanical album. Danielle was enchanted by the French and Latin spoken by this German lady. Before their goodnight kiss, she always told the two girls about Viera, how mischievous she was, and how she would listen with the stethoscope to books before she read them, or sniffed at them to try to guess what story they told.
“We should have brought Papa’s stethoscope,” Lina commented one night. “Danielle and I could have played with it like Viera and I used to.”
After switching off their light, Amanda withdrew slowly to her own room. She was surprised that in the house there were only recipe books, ones about medicinal plants, and a Bible; all of them hidden away on the top shelves in the kitchen.
On Sundays, all four of them went to Father Marcel’s mass in the village church, where Amanda learned about Christian views on guilt, punishment, and forgiveness. Although she had no intention of changing her religion, she simply let herself be carried along by a liturgy that soothed her, and felt moved at seeing Lina kneeling down, hands clasped, eyes shut, and head bowed as she prayed with childish fervor to a foreign god.
Danielle amused herself trying to get rid of all traces of German in Lina’s accent. Sometimes she put a pencil in her mouth, at others a bread crumb under her tongue. Or she made her say the words as if she were about to blow a kiss, which left them both roaring with laughter. To the village children though, no matter how much Lina tried, she was still the German girl, or the girl from Alsace, or even Danielle’s refugee friend. Amanda worried less when she realized no one rejected her for being “the Jewish girl.”
At sunset every Friday, Amanda lit candles in the window, waiting until the stars appeared in the sky the following day to write unfinished sentences to Viera. Fridays were also the night they welcomed Father Marcel at home. They had supper together, which always included an intense discussion about the terrible shadow hanging over Europe.
Father Marcel was tall and full of life. His hair was cut so short around the ears and the nape of his neck that they could see his veins bulge whenever he became agitated. His kind gray eyes contrasted with the vehement way he challenged the world, although he never raised his voice and spoke with a gentle cadence that delighted Claire and confused Amanda. His fervor, the bitterness of his words, his pessimism about the dark days approaching sounded old-fashioned and strange to someone who did not understand his precise French. It was only when he was in the pulpit that his tone of voice became harsher and flooded the entire church.
“I sometimes think the world is coming to an end,” he said slowly one evening. “Is praying all we have left? War is imminent.”
For Amanda, the war had already started. Father Marcel’s words did not trouble her as much as they did Claire, for whom the priest was the only person she felt she could trust and turn to for protection after her husband’s death.
“I don’t think the Germans will dare invade France,” she ventured.
“They’ve already done so once, and were on the losing side. But now they have the military might and the support of an entire blinkered nation,” Father Marcel said in a low voice. “We’re talking about Hitler, not some ordinary military man.”
“Are the Nazis going to reach us here?” asked Lina, terrified.
“We’ll never let them in,” Danielle encouraged her.
“War hasn’t been declared yet,” Claire interrupted them, “so let’s not worry about it. Finish up your soup, that’s what’s important now!” She had seen terror flash in the girls’ eyes.
“All I’m saying is that we have to be prepared,” the priest insisted, before continuing with his meal.
Amanda listened to their talk without joining in. The Nazis had already destroyed her family, and she was almost certain there was no safe haven for her daughter.
“He’s an orphan who was raised by nuns. That’s why he’s such a ‘rebel,’ ” Claire whispered to Amanda so that Father Marcel would not hear. “He gets hot under the collar about everything. He’s as wise as an old man, but the vigor of youth makes him impetuous.”
“What are we doing while the world goes to ruin? Nothing. I can’t believe what I’ve turned into,” the priest went on passionately, shaking his head. “I no longer know who I am.” He sighed and dropped his spoon on the table, shutting his eyes as if in the midst of an epic battle with himself.
�
�We’re all facing the same dilemma,” Amanda dared to comment, then instantly lowered her head, afraid she had been indiscreet.
The priest paused, and realized he was upsetting his hosts.
“There won’t be a war,” he said. “At least, let’s pray there won’t be,” he said, rounding off his heated speech with a spoonful of soup. He stared down at the flowery tablecloth.
Claire got up to clear the table. Before taking his plate, she extended her hand to him in a consoling gesture. Father Marcel was still looking down at the tablecloth.
“I’ll make sure Lina is enrolled in the girls’ school in the village,” he said eventually, glancing across at Amanda. She thanked him with a smile.
The evening ended without goodbyes. Amanda took the girls to their room and put the chair between their two beds, next to the small light.
“Mama’s going to read the pages of the torn-up book for us,” said Lina, stressing “torn-up” in a mysterious fashion. “She’s going to tell us about flowers and the roots of legumes and the phlox family . . .”
Claire accompanied the priest to the road, and stood beside him. They didn’t look up at the moon, which was hidden behind clouds; there were no stars either. They gazed at the dark night sky. Father Marcel took Claire’s warm, familiar hand, and she dared to rest her head on his friendly shoulder. They remained like that for several minutes, until he moved silently away from their tranquil closeness. Almost as if he was escaping, he strode off into the darkness.
12
Lina was overjoyed at the possibility of going to school with Danielle. She promised herself she would practice her French until there was no trace of an accent left. She wanted to be more French than the French girls, she told herself, endlessly spelling out the most difficult words.
“We won’t be in the same class,” Danielle, who was eight years old but mature for her age, warned her as they sat on the step at the back of Claire’s house.
“But we can go and come back together, and that’s the most important thing.”
One afternoon, their conversation was interrupted by a whirlwind of leaves on the dusty path. Out of it emerged a young boy.
“That’s Remi,” explained Danielle. “You’ll see, he spends his time making mischief.”
“So this is the foreign girl,” said the boy. He approached Lina, studying her intently, trying to figure out where exactly she came from. Realizing he was intimidating her, he backed off a little and dropped the threadbare ball he had been carrying under his arm, as if to protect it. “Don’t be scared, little girl. We don’t eat anyone here.”
“Are you sure?” said Danielle. “As far as I can tell, you’re always hungry.” Danielle took Lina’s hand and the two of them set off on a shortcut toward the village.
“I hope this Elise speaks some French,” Remi continued as he followed them, running in front and around in circles.
“Elise? Her name is Lina, and she can speak French better than you. Don’t forget your family came from the north, so you’re more of a foreigner than she is . . .”
“She looks more like an Elise, doesn’t she?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Danielle told Lina. “He spends all his time inventing words for everything he comes across.”
“Let’s go to the river!” shouted Remi, and raced off, adjusting the white belt with its metal buckle holding up a pair of pants that were already too small. He was wearing shoes, but no socks. The girls ran after him. The whole way to the village, Lina didn’t dare utter a single word.
The boy took them to the train tracks by the village entrance. Just where the rails rounded a bend, right before the bridge, there was an enormous boulder. They rested in its shadow.
“The train should go by in half an hour,” said Remi. His cheeks were flushed from the run, his shirt collar soaked with sweat. “This is a good place to sit.”
Lina studied him in silence, trying to follow the avalanche of words and jokes that poured out of him.
“That’s how Giampiero Combi wore them in the World Cup, and that’s how I’ll always wear them,” he explained proudly when he saw that his new friend was curious about his white belt.
His family was from Rheims, although his mother came from Emilia-Romagna. She fell in love with a Frenchman and left her family and country behind, fleeing the inanity breeding in the heart of her city. At least, that was the story that Danielle had heard during one of the Friday suppers with Father Marcel. Remi had never learned his mother’s language, but was passionate about the soccer team of a country he didn’t know “and had no intention of visiting while Il Duce was in power,” he would say, in a phrase repeated from his mother. Whenever they listened to a game on the radio, his father would say jokingly: “So you’re a Juventus fan? That makes us mortal enemies.” His mother would wink at him, while Remi would reply proudly that he would never support a losing team, and that France would never win a World Cup if members of the Juventus team were playing. Italy had won it the previous year, and he would support them “to the death.” “Fascist! My only son has turned out a Fascist!” His father would moan, head in hands. “We will no longer eat pasta in this house,” he ordered his wife, who laughed while her son wondered why his father called him that.
“My dad says there’ll soon be a war. If war does break out and the Germans invade France, instead of heading north we’ll cross the Pyrenees and go as far south as we can, into Spain. We already have a plan. What about you?”
“If there’s a war and the Germans enter Paris, I don’t think there will be many places left to escape to,” Danielle insisted.
“We escaped once, but if every time the Nazis get near we all run away, what will become of us?” said Lina, who up to that moment had not said a word. She spoke very slowly, trying to pronounce every word exactly, so as to seem older and give herself an air of childish superiority.
Slightly taken aback, Remi ran to the rail tracks.
“The train’s coming! We have to cross to the other side.”
In the distance they could see the locomotive about to enter the bend. Remi took Danielle by the hand and they crossed the tracks. Lina was left behind.
“Lina!” shouted Danielle. “You won’t have time to cross. Stay where you are!”
Remi buried his face in his hands. Lina climbed onto the rail, hesitated for a moment, staring at the onrushing locomotive, and sprang forward, falling headfirst onto the stones in the center of the tracks. The vibration from the rails shook her whole body, but she lay still until the train had disappeared. Danielle thought she saw beneath the train the feet of the girl she was meant to protect, but she was blinded by the dust and her scream made no sound. Remi ran over to Lina, helped her to her feet, and gave her a hug.
“Are you all right?”
Lina didn’t reply. She jumped up; a trickle of blood ran from the cuts on her knees.
“She’s a brave one, your little German girl,” said Remi, while Danielle ran over to them, still recovering from the shock.
Lina set off, stiff and erect, trying to ignore the burning sensation on her knees. She knew that to win the respect of Remi and the girls at the school she mustn’t cry. She was determined not to let anyone intimidate her: her accent would disappear and she would be ready to take on the world, even the Germans if they dared invade. Over time, the traces of her past would be erased from her memory.
From that moment on, Remi became their inseparable companion. They often played soccer, each of them fighting to gain control of the old ball. It was Remi’s pet; he even took it to bed with him. He called it Combi, after the legendary Juventus player.
13
The world was at war. Eyes downcast, the schoolteacher gave her pupils the news, which was a surprise to no one. Lina and Danielle weren’t too worried. They lived in a tiny village deep in the French countryside; it was impossible that the German army would want to cross meadows, mountains, and rivers just to reach such an insignificant spot with only two or three st
ores and an austere church.
Despite this, the dynamics in the village changed. During their Friday suppers with Father Marcel, long silences replaced their formerly animated discussions. Lina and Danielle left early in the mornings, came back home for lunch, and then returned for their afternoon classes. After school, they played with Remi in an abandoned orchard behind the church.
Some days Father Marcel joined them in kicking the increasingly tattered ball. On Fridays they all went back together for supper at Claire’s house. Remi was a new guest, and Father Marcel found it strange that he had succeeded in converting Lina and Danielle into fans of that foreign team that had won the World Cup a second time in France the previous year.
Thanks to Remi and the start of the school year, life in the village had become easier for Lina. She spent more time outside the house, and liked to think that the worst had already passed, that she could grow up in a family at peace, even though her teachers occasionally spoke of a Nazi occupation, which frightened her. But she had Danielle and Remi, and this made her feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Still, when she went to bed each night she always missed Viera. What more could she ask for? They had come to a new country; she had found two new friends, and felt protected. Alongside them she was capable of facing even the most powerful enemy.
One Friday, after their soccer game with Father Marcel, they saw the taciturn, bulky figure of the mailman coming out of Madame Beauchêne’s café. He was obviously heading for Claire’s house.
“The letter!” Danielle shouted to Lina. “News from Viera!”
Lina frowned, came to a halt, and then lagged behind the other two. She sensed that this letter would not be bringing good news, and was sure her mother would once again become despondent. Her father had explained to them that life was like the peaks and valleys of an electrocardiogram, an endless roller coaster. For the first time since they arrived in France, Lina began to count her heart’s rapid beats to try to measure the silences: one, two, three . . .
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