It’s such a shame, she thought in a sudden moment of honesty. It’s such a shame, it was a beautiful night . . . a night made for love . . . We shouldn’t have wasted it. The rest isn’t important. But she stayed where she was; she didn’t get out of her bed to go to the window. She felt bound and gagged—a prisoner—united with this captive land that dreamed and sighed softly with impatience; she let the empty night drift by.
21
The village had been looking cheerful all afternoon. In the square the soldiers had decorated the flagpoles with leaves and flowers, and on the balcony of the municipal hall, red and black banners with Gothic writing floated below the swastikas. It was a beautiful day. The flags and banners billowed in the soft, cool breeze. Two young soldiers with pink faces were pushing a cart full of roses.
“Are they for the tables?” the women asked, curious.
“Yes,” the soldiers proudly replied. One of them picked out a rosebud and, with an exaggerated salute, offered it to a young girl, who blushed.
“It will be a wonderful party.”
“Wir hoffen es. We hope so. We’re going to a lot of trouble,” the soldiers replied.
The cooks were working outdoors preparing pâtés and cakes for the dinner. To avoid the dust, they had set up beneath the great lime trees that surrounded the church. The head chef, in uniform but wearing a high hat and apron of dazzling white to protect his jacket, was putting the finishing touches to an enormous gâteau. He decorated it with cream swirls and candied fruit. The smell of sugar filled the air. The children squealed with delight. The head chef, bursting with pride but trying not to show it, frowned and scolded them: “All right, back up a bit, how do you expect us to work with you crowding around?” At first, the women pretended not to be interested in the cake. “Ugh! . . . It will be horrible . . . They don’t have the right kind of flour . . .” Gradually, they moved closer, shyly at first, then more confidently. Eventually they found the audacity to start giving advice, as women do.
“Hey, Monsieur, there’s not enough decoration on this side . . . you need some angelica.”
They ended up helping. Pushing back the delighted children, they bustled about round the table with the Germans; one of them chopped the almonds; another crushed the sugar.
“Is it just for the officers? Or will the ordinary soldiers have some too?” they asked.
“It’s for everyone, everyone.”
“Everyone except us!” They sniggered.
The head chef raised the earthenware platter holding the enormous cake and with a little salute showed it to the crowd, who laughed and applauded. Then he carefully laid it on a huge wooden plank carried by two soldiers (one at the head, one at the foot) and they all set off for the château. Meanwhile, officers invited from all the regiments billeted in the area began to arrive. Their long green capes floated behind them. The shopkeepers stood in front of their doors, smiling at them. They had been bringing up their remaining supplies from the cellars since morning: the Germans were buying everything they had, and paying well. One officer snapped up the last few bottles of Benedictine brandy, another paid 1,200 francs for lingerie for his wife; the soldiers crowded round the shop windows and looked lovingly at the pink and blue bibs. Finally, one of them couldn’t help himself and, as soon as the officer had gone, he called the saleswoman over and pointed to some baby clothes; he was very young, with blue eyes.
“Boy? Girl?” the saleswoman asked.
“I don’t know,” he said ingenuously. “My wife will write and tell me; it happened during my last leave, a month ago.”
Everyone around him started laughing. He blushed but seemed very happy. He bought a rattle and a little robe. He came back across the road in triumph.
They were rehearsing the music in the village square. Next to the circle formed by the drums, the trumpets and the fifes, another circle formed round the regimental postmaster. The Frenchmen noted the open mouths and eyes bright with hope, and nodded politely, thinking sadly, We know what it’s like . . . when you’re waiting for news from another country. We’ve all done that . . . Meanwhile, an enormous young German with huge thighs and a fat bottom that threatened to split his tight riding breeches entered the Hôtel des Voyageurs and, for the third time, asked to look at the barometer. It was still set at fair. The German, beaming with delight, said, “Nothing to worry about. No storm tonight. Gott mit uns.”
“Yes, yes.” The waitress nodded in agreement.
This innocent delight spread to the customers and the owner himself (who supported the British); everyone stood up and went over to the barometer: “Nothing to worry about! Nothing! Is good . . . nice party,” they said, deliberately speaking in pidgin French so he’d understand them better.
And the German slapped everyone on the back with a wide grin while repeating, “Gott mit uns.”
“Sure, sure, Got meedns. He’s drunk, that Fritz,” they whispered behind his back rather sympathetically. “We know what it’s like. He’s been celebrating since yesterday . . . He’s a big lad . . . Well, so what! Why shouldn’t they have fun? They’re men after all.”
Having created a sympathetic atmosphere with his words and appearance, and after downing three bottles of beer one after the other, the German, beaming, finally left. As the day progressed, all the local people began to feel happy and light-headed, as if they too would be going to the ball. In the kitchens, the young girls listlessly rinsed the glasses and every few minutes leaned out of the window to watch the groups of Germans going up to the château.
“Did you see the Second Lieutenant who lives at the church house? Isn’t he handsome with his smooth skin. There’s the Commandant’s new interpreter. How old is he, do you think? I’d say he couldn’t be more than twenty, that boy. They’re all so young. Oh, there’s the Angelliers’ Lieutenant. He’d drive me wild, he would. You can tell he’s a gentleman. What a beautiful horse! They really do have beautiful horses, by God.” The young girls sighed.
Then the bitter voice of some old man dozing by the stove called out, “Sure they do, they’re our horses!”
The old man spat into the fire, muttering curses that the young girls didn’t hear. They were only interested in one thing: to hurry and finish the dishes so they could go and watch the Germans at the château. Running alongside the grounds was a path lined with acacias, lime trees and beautiful aspens with leaves that incessantly trembled, incessantly rustled in the wind. Between the branches it was possible to see the lake and the lawns where the tables had been set up and, on the hill, the château, its doors and windows wide open, where the regimental orchestra would play. By eight o’clock, everyone in the village was there; the young girls had dragged their parents along; children that the young women hadn’t wanted to leave at home were sleeping in their mothers’ arms, or running about shouting and playing with the pebbles; some pushed aside the soft branches of the acacia trees and watched the scene with curiosity: the musicians on the terrace, the German officers lying on the grass or slowly strolling through the trees, the tables covered with dazzling linen, the silver reflecting the last rays of the sun and, behind each chair, a soldier standing as still as if he were at inspection—the orderlies who would act as waiters. The orchestra played a particularly lively, cheerful song; the officers took their places. Before sitting down, the head of the table (“the place of honour . . . a general,” whispered the French) and all the other officers stood at attention, raised their glasses and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” It took a long time for the roar to subside; it reverberated through the air with a pure, fierce, metallic echo. Then they could hear the hubbub of conversations, the clinking of cutlery and the sound of the night birds singing.
The Frenchmen strained to see if they could recognise people they knew. Next to the General with the white hair, delicate features and long hooked nose, were the officers from Headquarters.
“That one, over there on the left, look, he’s the one who took my car, the bastard! The little blond one with t
he rosy complexion next to him, he’s nice, he talks good French. Where’s the Angelliers’ German? He’s called Bruno . . . pretty name . . . It’s a shame it’ll be dark soon; we won’t be able to see anything then . . . The shoemaker’s Fritz told me they were going to light torches. Oh, Mummy, that will be so pretty! Let’s stay ’til then. What will the owners of the château be saying about all this? They won’t be able to sleep tonight. Who’s going to eat the leftovers? Who, Mummy? The Mayor?”
“Oh, be quiet, you silly thing, there won’t be any leftovers, they’ve got hearty appetites.”
Little by little, darkness spread across the lawns; they could still make out the gold decorations on the uniforms, the Germans’ blond hair, the musicians’ brass instruments on the terrace, but they had lost their glow. All the light of the day, fleeing the earth, seemed for one brief moment to take refuge in the sky; pink clouds spiralled round the full moon that was as green as pistachio sorbet and as clear as glass; it was reflected in the lake. Exquisite perfumes filled the air: grass, fresh hay, wild strawberries. The music kept playing. Suddenly, the torches were lit; as the soldiers carried them along, they cast their light over the messy tables, the empty glasses, for the officers were now gathered around the lake, singing and laughing. There was the lively, happy sound of champagne corks popping.
“Oh, those bastards! And to think it’s our wine they’re drinking,” the Frenchmen said, but without real bitterness, because all happiness is contagious and disarms the spirit of hatred.
And of course, the Germans seemed to like the champagne so much (and had paid so much for it!) that the Frenchmen were vaguely flattered by their good taste.
“They’re having a good time. Thank goodness it’s not all war . . . Don’t worry, they’ll be fighting again . . . They say it will be over this year. Sure it would be bad if they won, but what can you do, it’s got to end . . . Everyone’s so miserable in the cities . . . and we want our prisoners back.”
All along the road, the young girls held one another by the waist and danced to the soft lively music. The drums and brass instruments gave the waltzes and tunes from operettas a bright tone that was victorious, happy, heroic and joyous, that made their hearts beat faster; sometimes a low, prolonged, powerful note rose above the lively arpeggios like the echo of a distant storm.
When it was completely dark they started singing. Groups of soldiers sang to one another from the terrace and the park, from the banks of the lake and the lake itself, where boats decorated with flowers drifted past. The Frenchmen listened, delighted, in spite of themselves. It was nearly midnight, but no one would have dreamed of leaving their spot in the tall grass or between the branches.
Only the burning torches and sparklers lit up the trees. Wonderful voices filled the night. Suddenly, there was a long silence. They could see the Germans running like shadows against a background of green flame and moonlight.
“They’re going to light the fireworks!” shouted a little boy. “They’re definitely having fireworks. I know. The Fritz told me.”
His shrill voice could be heard down by the lake.
His mother scolded him: “Be quiet. You’re not allowed to call them Fritz or Boches. Not ever. They don’t like it. Just be quiet and watch.”
But they couldn’t see anything now except the shadows of men scurrying about. From the terrace someone shouted something they couldn’t make out; it provoked a long, low commotion, like rumbling thunder.
“What are they shouting about? Could you hear? It must be ‘Heil Hitler, Heil Goering! Heil the Third Reich!’ or something like that. We can’t hear a thing now. They’re not talking any more. Look, the musicians are leaving. Do you think they’ve had some news? Do you think they’ve invaded England? Well, I think they just got cold outside and they’re moving the party inside the château,” said the pharmacist pointedly; he was worried about the night dampness because of his rheumatism.
He took his young wife’s arm. “Why don’t we go home too, Linette?”
But she wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh! Let’s stay, just a little longer. They’re going to sing again, it was so nice.”
The French waited but there was no more singing. Soldiers carrying torches were running between the château and the grounds as if they were conveying orders. There was even some shouting. Beneath the moonlight, empty boats drifted on the lake; all the officers had jumped out on to the bank. They were walking along, talking to each other quickly in loud voices. Although the French could hear them, no one could understand what they were saying. One by one, the sparklers went out. The spectators began yawning. “It’s late. Let’s go home. The party’s definitely over.”
They made their way in little groups back to the village: the young girls, arm in arm, walking in front of their parents; the sleepy children dragging their feet.
When they got to the first house, they saw an old man sitting on a straw chair, smoking his pipe. “Well,” he said. “Is the party over, then?”
“Yes. Oh, they had such a good time!”
“Well, they won’t be having a good time for long,” the old man said calmly. “I’ve just heard on the radio that they’re at war with Russia.” He knocked his pipe against his chair several times to get rid of the ashes, then looked at the sky. “It’ll be dry again tomorrow . . . Not good for the gardens, this weather.”
22
They’re going!
For several days they had been waiting for the Germans to leave. The soldiers themselves had announced it: they were being sent to Russia. When the French heard the news, they looked at them with curiosity (“Are they happy? Worried? Will they win or lose?”). As for the Germans, they tried to work out what the French were thinking: Were they happy to see them go? Did they secretly wish they’d all get killed? Did anyone feel sorry for them? Would they miss them? Of course they wouldn’t be missed as Germans, as conquerors (they weren’t naïve enough to think that), but would the French miss these Pauls, Siegfrieds, Oswalds who had lived under their roofs for three months, showed them pictures of their wives and mothers, shared more than one bottle of wine with them? But both the French and the Germans remained inscrutable; they were polite, careful of what they said—“Well, that’s war . . . We can’t do anything about it . . . right? It won’t last long, at least we hope not!” They said goodbye to one another like passengers on a ship who have reached their final port of call. They would write to each other. They would see each other again some day. They would always remember the happy weeks they’d spent together. More than one soldier whispered to a pensive young girl, “When the war is over I’ll come back.” When the war is over . . . How far away that was!
They were leaving today, 1 July 1941. The French were concerned primarily with the question of whether the village would be occupied by other soldiers; because if so, they thought bitterly, well, it wasn’t worth going to the trouble of changing them. They were used to this lot. Maybe the new ones would be worse . . .
Lucile slipped into Madame Angellier’s room to tell her that it was definite, they’d received their orders, the Germans were leaving that very night. They could reasonably hope for at least a few hours’ grace before any new soldiers arrived and they should take advantage of this to help Benoît escape. It was impossible to hide him until the end of the war, equally impossible to send him home as long as the area remained occupied. There was only one hope: to get him across the demarcation line. However, the line was closely guarded and would be even more so during the evacuation of the troops.
“It’s dangerous,” said Lucile, “very dangerous.” She looked pale and tired: for several nights she had hardly slept. She looked at Benoît, standing opposite her. Her feelings towards him were an odd combination of fear, incomprehension and envy: his calm, severe, almost brutal expression intimidated her. He was a big, muscular man, with a ruddy complexion; beneath thick eyebrows, his pale eyes were sometimes unbearable to look at. His tanned, lined hands were the hands of a labourer and a soldier, t
hought Lucile: earth or blood, it was the same to him. Neither remorse nor sorrow troubled his sleep, of that she was sure; everything was simple to this man.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, Madame Lucile,” he said quietly.
Despite the fortress-like walls and closed doors, whenever all three of them were together, they felt they were being watched and said what they needed to very quickly and almost in a whisper.
“No one will be able to get me across the line. It’s too risky. I know I have to leave, but I want to go to Paris.”
“To Paris?”
“While I was with the regiment I had some friends . . .”
He hesitated.
“We were taken prisoner together. We escaped together. They work in Paris. If I can find them they’ll help me. One of them wouldn’t be alive now if . . .”
He looked at his hands and fell silent.
“What I need is to get to Paris without getting arrested on the way and to find someone I can trust to put me up for a day or two until I find my friends.”
“I don’t know anyone in Paris,” murmured Lucile. “But in any case, you’ll need identity papers.”
“As soon as I find my friends, Madame Lucile, I’ll be able to get hold of some papers.”
“But how? What do your friends do?”
“They’re in politics,” Benoît said curtly.
“Communists . . .” murmured Lucile, recalling certain rumours she’d heard about Benoît’s ideas and activities. “The Communists will be hunted down now. You’re risking your life.”
“It won’t be the first time, Madame Lucile, or the last,” said Benoît. “You get used to it.”
“And how will you get to Paris? You can’t take the train; your description is posted everywhere.”
Suite Française Page 38