After making sure nobody had followed them, Elise pushed aside the oak table in the center of the room. Henri and Danielle glanced at one another, trying to guess what would come next. The table sat on a big dark, frayed carpet. Elise tried to roll it back, and Henri went to help her. Under the heavy carpet was a hidden trapdoor. Elise beamed at them triumphantly.
“Go lock the door,” she ordered Danielle, who rushed to do as she was told. Elise was in control now, and nothing could have made her happier than to see the impact her discovery had made on Henri. Between the two of them, they began to raise the door.
“How did you know there was a secret passage?” Danielle asked fearfully.
“Simple,” said Elise, pausing as if to stress how obvious the answer to her sister’s question was. “There’s no other explanation for an oak table that’s up against the wall when Father Marcel is plotting with his friends and then returns to the middle of the room once the room is empty again,” she said, with childish pride at her powers of deduction.
Eventually they succeeded in pulling up the trapdoor. Henri was the first to venture down into the hiding place, followed by Elise. Danielle, who was far more cautious, came last. The only light in the stinking hole came from the windows in the room above; thanks to it, they could see that the steps down ended at a beaten earth floor.
Henri covered his nose; Elise felt sick at the stench of excrement and urine. As Elise’s eyes adapted to the darkness, the first thing she made out was the top hat. Next to it, leaning against the wall, was the magic wand. And from its cage, alive but still motionless, the emaciated rabbit stared at them.
“Now do you believe me?” Elise asked Danielle, without turning around.
“Combat! These are copies of Combat!” exclaimed Henri, stuffing one of them into his pocket. He continued groping his way forward, trying to work out how big and deep the basement was.
Neither Elise nor Danielle could understand his enthusiasm for these old pamphlets, since you could find heaps of out-of-date pamphlets anywhere.
“It’s the magazine of the Resistance!” Henri said proudly. “If we’re found with them, we could all be sent to jail!”
Up above, the summer heat meant the abbey garden was parched, but down in the basement the air was icy. The three of them clustered together, holding hands. They took a few more steps to try to reach the end of this secret hiding place, when suddenly they heard something hurriedly dragging itself along.
“There must be hundreds of rats down here. This hole doesn’t lead anywhere. It would only be a safe hiding place if we were being bombed. Of course, that’s it!” exclaimed Danielle, anxious to get back to the room above. “It’s the air-raid shelter!”
Henri and Elise both shushed her. They thought they had seen a reflection on the earthen floor, next to a bucket overflowing with filth. There was a pale white patch they couldn’t distinguish properly. It came and went in the blink of an eye. All of a sudden, a low moan rooted them to the spot.
“Wasser . . . Wasser . . .” came a whispered voice that seemed to echo from the abbey’s foundations. “Wasser . . .” they heard again, then the white patch disappeared.
The three of them stood quaking. Henri was the first to react, and approach the place where the sound came from, measuring every step.
“It’s a Boche, a Boche . . .” he stammered, his voice cracking over the final words.
“What’s a German doing down in the basement? Let’s get out of here!” shouted Danielle, still unable to move. She looked around desperately for the steps out.
“Wasser!” they heard a third time.
Without realizing it, they had crept close enough to make out the eyes and gray-green hue of the man’s face. He was propped against the wall in the darkest corner of the basement. His eyes had a crazed look, his lips were bloody, and his skin was flaking off, with dried scabs all over his skull.
“We have to get him some water,” said Elise, approaching the dying man and trying not to let the nauseous smell overcome her.
“Wait! Can’t you see?” Henri ordered them, in a calm voice that took them by surprise. “Take a good look.”
The two girls went so close they could almost feel the faint breaths coming from the cracked mouth. They examined the shattered body. Danielle squeezed Elise’s hand and groaned. This wasn’t just any Boche. Even in the darkness, they could spot his military insignia. He was a German officer!
“Let’s get out of here now! The game’s over,” said Danielle, trying to drag the immobile Elise away. “Elise! That’s an order!”
Henri looked at her as calmly as before, and folded his arms defiantly.
“What are you afraid of, Danielle? Can’t you see this German swine is at death’s door?”
The officer begged again for water, his voice no more than a murmur. He couldn’t move his head or body: it looked as if he had spent days surrounded by this mess of excrement, rotten food, and dried blood. Perhaps weeks. From a wound on his ear close to his skull, some white maggots had emerged and were slowly crawling around, piling up blindly.
Danielle’s face was a picture of terror. She was trembling all over, and had no idea which way to turn. She was certain the Germans, or still worse, the miliciens would be waiting outside for them. They were bound to have arrested Father Marcel and Father Auguste already, and shot the two men pretending to be magicians in a traveling circus. When the three of them emerged, all the children would be lined up in the sacristy, and the Germans would throw a grenade, a bomb, or flames to reduce them all to dust and ashes on the spot. One calamity leads to another, she thought. She was convinced this German was condemning not only the three of them to death, but everyone seeking refuge in the abbey, the entire village, and possibly even the whole of France.
“The German is dead.” Danielle sobbed.
“The dead aren’t delirious, and this one is begging for a drop of water. Can’t you see him?” Henri argued impatiently. “Let’s get out of here.”
He took the lead again and they retreated hastily, recoiling from the horror of what they had just seen. They left the German officer gasping for what they thought must be his last dying breaths. As they climbed the steps, their fear gave way to a troubling sense of guilt.
Like Danielle, Elise thought they should have given the officer water, something to eat, and tried to ease the pain of his wounds. If nobody came to rescue him at once, the worms would end up devouring him. They had descended into a sepulcher, an abandoned torture chamber, an inferno that was directly beneath the house of God.
“Why should we take pity on a murderer?” asked Henri, trying to reassure himself and the girls, to assuage the weight of guilt pressing on them, and yet at the same time annoyed at himself.
Once they were safely up in the room again, they replaced the carpet and table exactly as they had found them. Elise stopped to make sure that the table was lined up with the windows as it had been before.
Heading back to the dormitory, they skirted the chapel, from where they could hear the dull monotone of the rosary being recited. The three of them desperately wanted to believe that when they woke up the next morning they would find all this had been a dream, or rather a dreadful nightmare. All of a sudden Henri remembered he was still carrying proof of the crime on him: the copy of Combat was sticking out of his pocket, and he had no idea how to get rid of it. Even if he tore it to pieces or found a way to burn it, a trace of the pamphlet would always remain: even its ashes could give him away.
They crept to their beds without saying goodnight to each other. Henri was so exhausted he collapsed at once, convinced he would be tormented by a host of nightmares. Maybe it would be better to wait for the answer from his brother the collaborator. He was wracked with guilt.
Every muscle in Danielle’s body ached. She felt as weary as when she had walked dragging the suitcase from the burned-out square to the abbey on the day of the massacre. She knew nothing good would come of their adventure. She had witn
essed a crime, and that made her as guilty as the criminal or more, because she had said nothing. Closing her eyes as soon as she felt Elise get into bed beside her, she slipped away into a pleasant fantasy that saved her from the nightmare she had just experienced.
She was on the prow of a giant ocean liner, from where she could already spy the skyscrapers of New York. They had left behind the shimmering Statue of Liberty. Below her, at the dockside, she could see her Uncle Roger waving to her. She smiled back at him. She was the first to disembark and when her uncle saw her, he threw his arms round her, stared at her, and kissed her on the cheek.
“You look just like your mother,” he said warmly. “You may not have her blue eyes—they came from your grandmother—but you have the same look, the same smile.”
Danielle was overjoyed, and left with her uncle in a car perfumed with the essence of jasmine. They sped through a city full of vehicles, elegant women wearing hats strolling on the arms of men in suits. There were no soldiers or other signs of a military presence, no sirens could be heard, only the cheerful music from the passing cars and the laughter of the children playing without fear on the sidewalks.
They came to a house with a garden blooming with violets. Someone led her to her room. From the window she could see a park filled with trees and tulips.
The peaceful images of her fantasy soothed her and she managed to fall asleep.
The next morning, she woke with a start. In the dream, her sister didn’t exist.
41
Rather than lessen the heat, the rain seemed to have intensified it. Searching for Danielle, Elise found her on her own in the chapel, kneeling in front of the Virgin in her blue-and-white robes who was gazing up at heaven as if deaf to everyone’s prayers. Elise knelt down beside her. She stared at her clasped hands, closed eyes, the lips moving to the rhythm of her prayers. She was at peace. Danielle smiled, afraid she wouldn’t be able to stay calm or silent now that she had refused to fetch water or food for a man who also had the right to be redeemed.
“They’ve already killed us once, Danielle,” said Elise with resignation, shrugging. “They can’t kill us twice.”
Danielle looked up, trying to understand how Elise could be so serene. She was speaking to her just as Maman Claire might have done. She smiled in her turn, as if that were enough to stop the tears that had already welled up and were about to roll down her cheeks.
“I need to stay here alone for a while longer, Elise. Go and play, but stay away from the basement. And Henri has to get rid of that pamphlet.”
“Do you think God listens to you?” asked Elise.
“God may not, but Maman does,” she replied, even though she didn’t think this wise girl she called her sister would really understand. Closing her eyes again, she dropped her chin onto her hands and continued with her prayers. Thoughts were swirling around her brain, and Elise’s presence only made things worse.
On her knees, Elise also raised her eyes to the Virgin. She prayed that the Germans would be driven as far away as possible from the village, that the war would finally end, that the dying German officer would survive.
She got to her feet, still praying, and left the chapel without turning her back on the Virgin, begging for some compassion. Before she crossed the threshold, she came to a halt.
“You know what you are doing,” she said, addressing the Virgin once more. “All I ask is that you give Danielle strength.”
She contemplated her sister, who was still on her knees, focused on a plea that seemed pointless to Elise. She decided to wait for her. A few minutes later, the two of them left the chapel, eyes downcast, heading for the kitchen. As before, Danielle let her sister lead the way. Henri was waiting for them on the threshold, and through the half-open door they could see Marie-Louise busy preparing an herbal tea for Father Auguste. The tea was so fragrant it was as if the hillsides themselves had come down into the kitchen.
Henri approached Father Auguste and greeted him.
“I think time is running out for me,” said the emaciated old man. Hands trembling, he settled on one of the wooden chairs. Henri looked on sadly.
“This Sunday, Father Marcel will say mass. I’m having problems with my voice,” said the priest with a forlorn smile.
“Come on, make yourselves useful,” said the perspiring cook when she saw them standing there idly. She began dragging a sack of potatoes toward the table. Henri helped her, and she smiled with relief.
On the table was a leg of lamb covered in flies, a couple of bruised onions, and what was left of the butter, soft and melting in the heat.
“Today we’ll have a banquet,” said Father Auguste. Spoken with emphasis, this last word brought on a fit of coughing. He raised a white handkerchief to his mouth, which soon became stained pink. He shuffled out of the room without saying goodbye, clutching his steaming mug.
Still busy with her chores, Marie-Louise observed the children out of the corner of her eye, wondering what she could offer them.
She was a woman who lived on her own and came to the abbey each day to give her life some meaning. She didn’t expect anything from anyone: for her, the war was already lost. She had learned to survive, and had no fear of the Germans arriving, taking over the village, and setting fire to her house and the abbey. Pain and the defeat of reason, which was what she called the German occupation, had made her immune to tragedy. What more could she suffer?
This was why she refused to become emotionally involved with the children, who did have a future. She was aware that, just as they had appeared, they would one day disappear. But at least, for now, she had someone to talk to. Since they’d been around, her words no longer echoed off the kitchen’s bare walls.
“All three of you are coming to my house with me. I need you,” she said eventually. “Henri, you can help me a lot. I need a strong man.”
The children still stood there in an awkward silence, without showing any great enthusiasm for her proposal. The weight of their secret made them tense and anxious. Perhaps they did need to get away from the abbey to let off some steam.
“The Germans will soon pull out of France. The war will come to an end, and the bombing of Paris will cease. And yet the damage has already been done, and the scars will take time to heal, if they ever do,” said Marie-Louise. “Don’t expect any great revelation. Life in this village, and especially in this abbey, will go on as before.”
Elise was ready for the next adventure. Henri kept furtively glancing around, as if making sure they weren’t being followed. Danielle’s eyes still looked blank.
“By the time we get back on Sunday, they’ll have removed the German, or what’s left of him,” Henri whispered to Danielle to comfort her.
But Henri’s remark didn’t have the desired effect. Danielle thought that someone had to report (although she hated the word) that a German officer was dying in a corner of the basement. She was sure he would die if he was left there another day.
They glanced at one another as they prepared to leave with Marie-Louise. They fell in with her, imitating her short steps and observing everything around them along the way.
The cook led the small procession into the village, paying no attention to the neighbors who poked their heads out of their windows from gloomy interiors. She didn’t care about being seen, and didn’t want to exchange any polite conversation. Elise quietly followed, careful not to accelerate her pace to avoid getting ahead. None of them spoke as they walked along. Marie-Louise could tell something was wrong with the children and that there was tension among them, but she put it down to them having had a silly argument.
Elise recognized the house of the indecent woman and admired the window boxes overflowing with tiny white flowers that added a splash of life to the village’s dull facades. They entered Marie-Louise’s house still silent. Henri felt that if no one said something soon, he was going to explode. His darting eyes betrayed his anxiety. As usual, Marie-Louise lit her candles; the girls went to their bedroom, and
she put Henri on a mattress with a bedside lamp in the room with all the books.
Staring up at the beams in the ceiling, Henri went over and over a decision that had been troubling him for weeks: he couldn’t wait another day before he joined the Resistance. This dramatic choice soon left him fast asleep.
Meanwhile, relaxing between clean white sheets, feeling more at peace with herself, Danielle hugged her sister.
“I’m sure Father Marcel won’t let that officer die,” she whispered to Elise, whose eyelids were already growing heavy. “Father Marcel is kindhearted. He knows that, even if he’s a Nazi, the German is also a human being. Don’t you agree?”
But Elise was already asleep, and Danielle decided her calm, even breathing was a good answer.
The next morning, they were woken by the smell of hot chocolate with cinnamon. The girls went silently into the kitchen where an embarrassed Henri was trying to calm the rumbling of his stomach. When she heard the noise, Elise burst out laughing and her laughter infected Danielle as well.
It wasn’t a mirage, and they weren’t dreaming. Henri jumped for joy when he saw the small banquet awaiting them: slices of bread covered with cream and cinnamon, cheese, butter, and hot chocolate.
“Good morning, my dears,” said the cook, greeting them with a smile. “Who says that because there’s a war on we have to eat like beggars?”
Their hunger sated, for a few hours at least they forgot about the dying German officer. After breakfast, they went downstairs to the shop to help Marie-Louise with the rolls of cloth. Behind the counter, covered in at least a decade’s worth of dust, the cook showed them a trapdoor leading down to the basement. They all immediately felt guilty again.
We’re not going to come across any wounded man down there, Danielle told herself as Henri and Marie-Louise swept aside thick cobwebs and ventured into this dark cave that stank of neglect.
The Daughter's Tale Page 19