“On foot. By bicycle. When I escaped I was on foot. It don’t scare me.”
“But the police . . .”
“The people who put me up two years ago will remember me and won’t shop me to the police. It’s safer than here where plenty of people hate me. It’ll be easier.”
“Such a long journey, on foot, alone . . .”
Madame Angellier, who hadn’t said a word until now, was standing next to the window, her pale eyes watching the Germans come and go across the village square; she raised her hand to warn them. “Someone’s coming.”
All three of them fell silent. Lucile’s heart was pounding so violently, so quickly that she was ashamed; the others could surely hear it, she thought. The old woman and the farmer remained impassive. They could hear Bruno’s voice downstairs; he was looking for Lucile; he opened several doors.
“Do you know where Madame Lucile is?” he asked the cook.
“She’s gone out,” Marthe replied.
Lucile sighed with relief. “I’d better go down,” she said. “He’s looking for me to say goodbye.”
“Take advantage of it,” Madame Angellier suddenly said, “to ask him for a petrol coupon and a travel pass. You can take the old car: the one that wasn’t requisitioned. You can tell the German you have to drive one of our tenant farmers to town because he’s ill. With a pass from German Headquarters you won’t be stopped and you could make it safely to Paris.”
“But to lie like that . . .” said Lucile in disgust.
“What else have you been doing for the past ten days?”
“And once we get to Paris? Where will he hide until he finds his friends? Where will we find anyone courageous enough, committed enough, unless . . .”
She was remembering something.
“Yes,” she said suddenly. “It’s possible . . . Anyway, it’s a chance we’ll have to take. Do you remember the refugees from Paris we helped in June 1940? They worked in a bank, quite an old couple, but full of spirit and courage. They wrote to me recently: I have their address. They’re called Michaud. Yes, that’s it, Jeanne and Maurice Michaud. They might do it . . . Of course they’ll do it . . . but we’d have to write and ask and wait for their reply, or just take our chances and hope for the best. I don’t know . . .”
“Ask for the pass in any case,” said Madame Angellier. “It shouldn’t be difficult,” she added with a faint, bitter smile.
“I’ll try,” said Lucile.
She was dreading the moment she would be alone with Bruno. Nevertheless, she hurried down the stairs. Best to get it over with. What if he suspects something? Oh, so what! It was war. She would submit to the rules of war. She was afraid of nothing. Her empty, weary soul was almost eager to run some great risk.
She knocked at the German’s door. She went in and was surprised to find he was not alone. With him were the Commandant’s new interpreter, a thin red-headed boy with a hard, angular face and blond eyelashes, and another very young officer who was short and chubby, with a rosy complexion and a childlike expression and smile. All three of them were writing letters and packing up: they were sending home all those little knick-knacks soldiers buy when they are in the same place for a while, to create the illusion they live there, but which are burdensome during a campaign: ashtrays, little clocks, prints and, especially, books. Lucile wanted to go but he asked her to stay. She sat down in an armchair Bruno brought out for her and she watched the three Germans who, after apologising, continued working. “We want to get all this in the post by five o’clock,” they said.
She saw a violin, a small lamp, a French–German dictionary, books in French, German and English, and a beautiful romantic print of a sailing boat at sea.
“I found it in Autun at a bric-à-brac shop,” said Bruno.
He hesitated.
“Actually, better not . . . I won’t post it . . . I don’t have the right box for it. It will get damaged. It would make me so very happy, Madame, if you would keep it. It will brighten up this rather dark room. The subject is appropriate. Look. Dark, threatening skies, a ship setting sail . . . and far in the distance, a hint of brightness on the horizon . . . a vague, very faint glimmer of hope. Do accept it as a memento of a soldier who is leaving and who will never see you again.”
“I will, mein Herr,” Lucile said quietly, “because of this hint of brightness on the horizon.”
He bowed and continued packing. A candle was lit on the table; he held the sealing wax over its flame, placed a seal on the finished package, took his ring off his hand and pressed it into the hot wax. Lucile watched him, remembering the day he had played the piano for her and how she had held the ring, still warm from his hand.
“Yes,” he said, suddenly looking up at her. “The happy times are over.”
“Do you think this new war will last long?” she said, immediately regretting having asked. It was like asking someone if he thought he would live long. What did this new war mean? What was going to happen? A series of thundering victories or defeat, a long struggle? Who could really know? Who dared predict the future? Although that’s all people did . . . and always in vain . . .
He seemed to read her thoughts. “In any case,” he said, “there will surely be much suffering, much heartache and much bloodshed.”
He and his two comrades were getting everything organised. The short officer was carefully wrapping up a tennis racket and the interpreter some large, beautiful books bound in tan leather. “Gardening books,” he explained to Lucile, “because in civilian life,” he added in a slightly pompous tone of voice, “I design gardens in the Classical style of Louis XIV.”
How many Germans in the village—in cafés, in the comfortable houses they had occupied—were now writing to their wives, their fiancées, leaving behind their worldly possessions, as if they were about to die? Lucile felt deeply sorry for them. Outside in the street there were horses coming back from the blacksmith and saddle maker, all ready to leave, no doubt. It seemed strange to think about these horses pulled away from their work in France to be sent to the other end of the world. The interpreter, who had been watching them go by, said seriously, “Where we’re going is a really wonderful place for horses . . .”
The short lieutenant made a face. “Not so wonderful for men . . .”
The idea of this new war seemed to fill them with sadness, Lucile thought, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell too deeply on their feelings: she feared to find, in the place of emotion, some spark of their so-called “warrior mentality.” It was almost like spying; she would have been ashamed to do it. And anyway, she knew them well enough by now to know they would put up a good fight. What’s more, she said to herself, there’s a world of difference between the young man I’m looking at now and the warrior of tomorrow. It’s a truism that people are complicated, multifaceted, contradictory, surprising, but it takes the advent of war or other momentous events to be able to see it. It is the most fascinating and the most dreadful of spectacles, she continued thinking, the most dreadful because it’s so real; you can never pride yourself on truly knowing the sea unless you’ve seen it both calm and in a storm. Only the person who has observed men and women at times like this, she thought, can be said to know them. And to know themselves. She would never have believed herself capable of saying to Bruno in such ingenuous and sincere tones, I’ve come to ask you a great favour.
“Tell me, Madame, how can I be of service to you?”
“Could you recommend me to someone at Headquarters who could get me a travel pass and petrol coupon as a matter of urgency? I have to drive to Paris . . .”
As she was speaking she was thinking, “If I tell him about some sick tenant farmer he’ll be suspicious: there are good hospitals in the area, in Creusot, Paray, or Autun . . .”
“I have to drive one of my farmers to Paris. His daughter works there; she’s seriously ill and is asking for him. The poor man would lose too much time if he went by train. You know it’s the harvest. If you could grant me p
ermission, we could do the entire journey there and back in a day.”
“You don’t need to go to Headquarters, Madame Angellier,” the short officer said quickly; he’d been shyly glancing at her from a distance, lost in admiration. “I have full powers to grant you your request. When would you like to go?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” murmured Bruno. “Tomorrow . . . so you’ll be here when we leave.”
“When are you leaving?”
“At eleven o’clock tonight. We’re travelling at night because of the air raids. It seems a bit ridiculous since the moon is so bright it’s almost like daytime. But the army works on tradition.”
“I’ll be going now,” said Lucile, after taking the two pieces of paper the short officer had written out: two pieces of paper that symbolised a man’s life and liberty. She calmly folded them up and slipped them under her waistband without allowing the slightest sense of urgency to betray her nervousness.
“I’ll be here when you go.”
Bruno looked at her and she understood his silent plea.
“Will you come and say goodbye to me, Herr Lieutenant? I’m going out, but I’ll be back at six o’clock.”
The three young men stood up and clicked their heels. In the past, she had found this display of courtesy by the soldiers of the Reich old-fashioned and rather affected. Now, she thought how much she would miss this light jingling of spurs, the kiss on the hand, the admiration these soldiers showed her almost in spite of themselves, soldiers who were without family, without female companionship (except for the lowest type of woman). There was in their respect for her a hint of tender melancholy: it was as if, thanks to her, they could recapture some remnant of their former lives where kindness, a good education, politeness towards women had far more value than getting drunk or taking an enemy position. There was gratitude and nostalgia in their attitude towards her; she could sense it and was touched by it. She waited for it to be eight o’clock in a state of deep anxiety. What would she say to him? How would they part? There was between them an entire world of confused, unexpressed thoughts, like a precious crystal so fragile that a single word could shatter it. He felt it too, no doubt, for he spent only a brief moment alone with her. He took off his hat (perhaps his last civilian gesture, thought Lucile, feeling tender and sad), took her hands in his. Before kissing them, he pressed his cheek against hers, softly and urgently both at the same time. Was he claiming her as his own? Attempting to brand her with his seal, so she wouldn’t forget?
“Adieu,” he said, “this is goodbye. I’ll never forget you, never.”
She stood silent. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears. He turned away.
“I’m going to give you the address of one of my uncles,” he said after a moment. “He’s a von Falk like me, my father’s brother. He’s had a brilliant military career and he’s in Paris working for . . .” He gave a very long German name. “Until the end of the war, he will be the Commandant in greater Paris, a kind of viceroy, actually, and he depends on my uncle to help make decisions. I’ve told him about you and asked that he help you as much as he can, if you ever find yourself in difficulty; we’re at war, God alone knows what might happen to all of us . . .”
“You’re very kind, Bruno,” she said quietly.
At this moment she wasn’t ashamed of loving him, because her physical desire had gone and all she felt towards him now was pity and a profound, almost maternal tenderness. She forced herself to smile. “Like the Chinese mother who sent her son off to war telling him to be careful ‘because war has its dangers,’ I’m asking you, if you have any feelings for me, to be as careful as possible with your life.”
“Because it is precious to you?” he asked nervously.
“Yes. Because it is precious to me.”
Slowly, they shook hands. She walked him out to the front steps. An orderly was waiting for him, holding the reins of his horse. It was late, but no one even considered going to bed. Everyone wanted to see the Germans leave. In these final hours, a kind of melancholy and human warmth bound them all together: the conquered and the conquerors. Big Erwald with the strong thighs who held his drink so well and was so funny and robust; short, nimble, cheerful Willy, who had learned some French songs (they said he was a real comedian in civilian life), poor Johann who had lost his whole family in an air raid, “except for my mother-in-law,” he said sadly, “because I’ve never had much luck . . .” All of them were about to be attacked, shot at, in danger of dying. How many of them would be buried on the Russian steppes? No matter how quickly, how successfully the war with Germany might finish, how many poor people would never see the blessed end, the new beginning? It was a wonderful night: clear, moonlit, without even a breath of wind. It was the time of year for cutting the branches of the lime trees. The time when men and boys climb up into the beautiful, leafy trees and strip them bare while, down below, women and girls pick flowers from the sweet-smelling branches at their feet—flowers that will spend all summer drying in country lofts and, in winter, will make herbal tea. A delicious, intoxicating perfume filled the air. How wonderful everything was, how peaceful. Children played and chased one another about; they climbed up on to the steps of the old stone cross and watched the road.
“Can you see them?” their mothers asked.
“Not yet.”
It had been decided that the regiment would assemble in front of the château and then parade through the village. From the shadow of doorways came the sound of kisses and whispered goodbyes . . . some more tender than others. The soldiers were in heavy helmets and field dress, gas masks hanging from their necks. The awaited drum roll came and the men appeared, marching in rows of eight. With a final goodbye, a last blown kiss, the latecomers hurried to take their pre-assigned place: the place where destiny would find them. There was still the odd burst of laughter, a joke exchanged between the soldiers and the crowd, but soon everyone fell silent. The General had arrived. He rode his horse past the troops, gave a brief salute to the soldiers and to the French, then left. Behind him followed the officers, then the grey car carrying the Commandant, with its motorcycle outriders. Then came the artillery, the cannons on their rolling platforms, the machine-guns, the anti-aircraft guns pointing at the sky, and all the small but deadly weapons they’d watched go by during manoeuvres. They had become accustomed to them, had looked at them indifferently, without being afraid. But now the sight of it all made them shudder. The truck, full to bursting with big loaves of black bread, freshly baked and sweet-smelling, the Red Cross vans, with no passengers—for now . . . the field kitchen, bumping along at the end of the procession like a saucepan tied to a dog’s tail. The men began singing, a grave, slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust.
Appendices
APPENDIX I
Irène Némirovsky’s handwritten notes on the situation in France and her plans for Suite Française, taken from her notebooks
My God! what is this country doing to me? Since it is rejecting me, let us consider it coldly, let us watch as it loses its honour and its life. And the other countries? What are they to me? Empires are dying. Nothing matters. Whether you look at it from a mystical or a personal point of view, it’s just the same. Let us keep a cool head. Let us harden our heart. Let us wait.
21 June.*1 Conversation with Pied-de-Marmite. France is going to join hands with Germany. Soon they will be calling up people here but “only the young ones.” This was said no doubt out of consideration towards Michel. One army is crossing Russia, the other is coming from Africa. Suez has been taken. Japan with its formidable fleet is fighting America. England is begging for mercy.
25 June. Unbelievable heat. The garden is decked out with the colours of June—azure, pale-green and pink. I lost my pen. There are still many other worries such as the threat of a concentration camp, the status of Jews etc. Sunday was unforgettable. The thunderbolt abo
ut Russia*2 hit our friends after their “mad night” down by the lake. And in order to [?] with them, everyone got drunk. Will I write about it one day?
28 June. They’re leaving. They were depressed for twenty-four hours, now they’re cheerful, especially when they’re together. The little dear one sadly said, “The happy times are over.” They’re sending their packages home. They’re overexcited, that’s obvious. Admirably disciplined and, I think, no rebellion in their hearts. I swear here and now never again to take out my bitterness, no matter how justifiable, on a group of people, whatever their race, religion, convictions, prejudices, errors. I feel sorry for these poor children. But I cannot forgive certain individuals, those who reject me, those who coldly abandon us, those who are prepared to stab you in the back. Those people . . . if I could just get my hands on them . . . When will it all end? The troops that were here last summer said “Christmas,” then July. Now end ’41.
There’s been talk here about de-occupying France except for the no-go area and the coasts. Carefully rereading the Journal Officiel*3 has thrown me back to feeling the way I did a few days ago,
To lift such a heavy weight
Sisyphus, you will need all your courage.
I do not lack the courage to complete the task
But the end is far and time is short.
The Wine of Solitude
by Irène Némirovsky for Irène Némirovsky
30 June 1941. Stress the Michauds. People who always pay the price and the only ones who are truly noble. Odd that the majority of the masses, the detestable masses, are made up of these courageous types. The majority doesn’t get better because of them nor do they [the courageous types] get worse.
Which scenes deserve to be passed on for posterity?
1 Waiting in queues at dawn.
2 The arrival of the Germans.
3 The killings and shooting of hostages much less than the profound indifference of the people.
Suite Française Page 39