The Corsican Woman

by Madge Swindells

  He awoke smiling. Even the approaching footsteps of the guards could not entirely obviate the happiness of his dream. He remembered Angelo and Jules, and his parents with Sybilia. They were all safe. I didn’t reveal a damn thing, he thought.

  It was the only triumph of his life.

  The guards took him under each armpit and propelled him through the door, along the passage, up the wide stone steps, on a journey that used to send him into a fever of despair, but which filled him with relief this morning.

  The sunlight seared his eyeballs and burst into his mind like an explosion. He saw the blue sky, the seagulls circling overhead, leafy trees'bursting through cobbles around the perimeter of the wall; he heard a bird sing. The abundance of life and beauty crowded in on him. He felt a wave of gratitude for having experienced the privilege of existence. If there’s a God, he thought, He’s an artist, like me. More than anything else, He loves beauty. It seemed that they had something in common after all.

  A wave of hot love burst through him and out of him. A part of Michel went with it. He saw his body being dragged across the yard, and he had no regrets. It was over and done with. Michel Rocca was about to come to an end, and he, who was not really Michel Rocca but a part of everything, was free.

  He watched as they stood his shell against the wall. It was just like his dream, only this time the women were singing. In the split second before they fired, he knew without a shadow of doubt that he was indestructible. He smiled.

  Michel’s corpse was dumped outside the main gate of the Nazi headquarters.

  ‘He had not talked,’ said the prison chaplain, who had tried to ease the man’s suffering. The local undertaker collected the body and made a coffin out of pine. That night the Maquisards rendezvoused with the hearse in a back street near the outskirts of town. They had come to carry Michel home.

  Maria marvelled at the moon. It hung like a luminous lemon globe as if resting on the mountaintops. She was tired. Am I dreaming? she asked herself as she pushed the bushes aside and climbed up, ever upward, toward the summit. She had her crook in her hand, and that frightened her. I want to go home, ’ she muttered, but her feet seemed to be willing her upward. It was almost like being a pin drawn by some huge, demonic magnet. She could not turn away. She had to keep climbing. Much later she saw a wildcat lurking by a rock, mouth spitting, eyes glittering. Her arms struck out savagely, catching the cat with a deadly blow on its skull. Turning it over, she saw Pierre's face. Pierre Gaffori, her cousin. She had not seen him since before the war. He looked much older and terrified. He was staring at her with his eyes bolt open. She screamed.

  It was a long, anguished scream that woke Rocca. He fumbled for the matches and lit the lantern.

  Tm sorry. Just a nightmare,’ Maria apologized. ‘Terrible… terrible… ’

  ‘Don’t tell me who died,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want to know. The wrong ones die.’

  To Maria’s amazement, Rocca’s cheeks were wet with tears. She put her arms around him, but he swore at her, so she went to make coffee.

  When she returned carrying two mugs, he was crumpled on the bed, his knees under his chin.

  Maria looked at him oddly. ‘What is it, Xavier? What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. Even after Michel’s capture he had not shown his distress.

  He ignored her. He reached for his coffee. Then he fumbled for his pipe and spent a long time drawing on it.

  He got up and sat by the window. He had to think. Too many conflicting ideas had been jumbled around inside his head lately. Too much had happened. Worst of all had been the sorrow of Michel’s torture and death.

  Almost simultaneously, and inexplicably, he had found himself thrust back into a position of leadership by Captain Moore. That sod was playing backroom boy once again. Why?

  It was odd that Moore had suddenly changed his strategy, he thought. Was that how Americans reacted to treachery: by backing down? Giving in? Somehow he did not think so.

  Moore was deliberately pushing him back as the leader of the Resistance. As if he needed pushing… it was his rightful place.

  Someone had told Moore of his treachery. It stood to reason it was Sybilia, since she was the only one who knew. He wondered when the two of them had had the chance to talk together. Perhaps when Moore had fetched her back to Taita.

  Rocca shuddered. Then he grabbed his coffee. In the back of his mind was a thought so horrible that he was unable to look at it fair and square: it was that his plotting to kill Robin might have had something to do with Michel’s capture.

  But no! No! Impossible. His mind could not play host to such an idea. It searched around for a suitable alternative: new motives, another culprit.

  A sudden thought struck him. What if Sybilia had called again? Yes, that was it. Captain Moore, knowing about the ambush, had deliberately lured Michel to his death. Strange that the bridge had blown at the precise time Michel had driven up. Yes, that was indeed suspicious. Now the debacle was beginning to make sense. What other reason could there be for Captain Moore’s miraculous escape or his haste in rescuing Sybilia? It explained Michel’s sudden flight down to Poggio. They’d deliberately sent him to his death.

  Oh God! The pain of it.

  ‘Moore killed our boy,’ he exploded into the silence. ‘Did you know that? He killed Michel. He called him down there to be ambushed. He’s after Sybilia. You must have noticed.’

  Maria did not answer. She gave a soft moan, obsessed with her dream. Horrible pictures in her mind’s eye, tumbling through without time, sequence, or logic. There was blood. There was a man hunted through the maquis. There was a wolf running through the mist. There was a child with a gun. Blood! Blood! She moaned and prayed aloud.

  There was no sense in any of these things: images, memories, dreams, what were they? It was hard to tell, for they were muddled in her head. There was no end to this nightmare, and she lived within it.

  ‘I’m telling you, Maria, Moore sent Michel to his death. I know it. I know here.’ He pressed his hand against his heart.

  Rocca made an effort to pull himself together. He would have to learn to live with his anger and bide his time.

  Of course Robin had his version of the debacle, but he was clever enough to keep quiet. Sybilia, too. A silence bom of their guilty conscience. He knew. He knew.

  Chapter 42

  When news came of Michel’s death, the Taitans, who had been hiding in the mountains, returned to their homes. But Sybilia remained in the hills. She was waiting for the Resistance to bring back Michel’s coffin.

  Maria saw them first. The scene was so familiar… just as it had been on the day of her son’s marriage. A long straggle of tired, unshaven men, shouldering Michel’s coffin, their faces set into lines of anger. Behind came Sybilia, in men’s camouflage, shouldering a rifle, tears streaming down her muddy face. There were no drums and no mist, but otherwise all was as it had been. When the villagers heard the women’s cries they crowded into the square, hammering their rifle butts on the cobbles.

  Maria stood in her doorway trying to come to terms with past, present, and future. ‘It is all one,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Time is our illusion. There’s no time for the spirits in the mountains. If there’s no beginning and no end, no birth and no death, can there be time?’ She was still mumbling to herself and peering anxiously at the mountains when her friend Germaine took her arm and led her home. Michel’s death had hit her badly, in spite of her brave front. She had retreated into her shadow world of spirits and emerged only briefly for periods of sanity.

  Black, black, everything was black. Even her face was concealed behind a thick veil. Only her white hands stuck out, looking naked and defenceless. My thoughts are black, Sybilia thought guiltily. And so is my soul. If only the funeral were over and done with.

  She and Maria had been up since dawn, making the traditional food for their guests: anchovies in vinegar, bread, wine, cheese, and a special sweet cheese called broccia made from goats’ milk.r />
  Most of the villagers and the Maquisards were coming for the wake. At that moment they were taking turns entering the house to pay their last respects to Michel in his coffin, prior to the requiem mass. Robin had come earlier, but he had not stayed for long. He’d told her he was organizing a raid on a garrison later that day. A reprisal!

  Outside, the men were still pounding their rifles on the cobblestones, vowing revenge on Major Krag together with all occupying forces. The voceri were in the square shrieking and tearing their clothes as they composed their laments.

  Sybilia shrugged helplessly. How contemptuous Michel would have been. How he hated these primitive Corsican traditions.

  There had been a great deal of good in Michel. Today she would try her best to remember this and grieve for him. She had lost him to Angelo, and now they were both dead. She was genuinely grief-stricken and horrified at the wounds on Michel’s body. But there was no point in lying to herself. She was not totally sorry that Michel was dead, and she had no tears for Angelo, either. Instead she would grieve for Maria.

  She hurried downstairs. Maria was sitting on the balcony, gazing out over the valley. Sybilia knelt beside Maria and wrapped her arms around her. Suddenly the tears rolled down her cheeks. She sniffed and fumbled for her handkerchief.

  ‘Don’t cry for my benefit Sybilia,’ Maria said sharply. ‘We’ve always been honest with each other. These past two years, he was no husband to you. He caused you too much suffering. You put up with it, and I didn’t hear you complaining, but your love for another man killed my son. Now he’s gone, and you don’t have to pretend.’

  ‘No! That’s a lie.’ Sybilia pressed her lips together. She could never say the words: Your husband, Xavier Rocca, killed your son because of his jealousy and spite. No, she would rather die than let Maria find out. Instead she stood up, stumbled to the table, and crumpled on a chair.

  ‘I wasn’t being insincere. I was crying for you,’ Sybilia said. ‘He was your only son. And for Michel, too. Surely a stranger could cry for him after the way he’s suffered. I came down because I felt you’d need someone… I thought you wouldn’t want to be alone.’

  For a while the two women sat in silence. Then Sybilia plucked up the courage to begin again. ‘You are very wrong to think that Captain Moore was in any way involved with Michel’s death. That’s not true. He tried to save him.’

  ‘Is there something you are keeping from me, Sybilia? I get that impression quite strongly.’

  Sybilia turned away. Better to leave things unsaid. It would be too cruel to tell her. Maria would survive Michel’s death. They all underestimated her strength. ‘You should cry. You’d feel better if you broke down and cried,’ Sybilia went on.

  ‘I saw his funeral on the day of your wedding. He’s been a long time dying, and I’ve had long enough for grieving. Sybilia,’ she went on, ‘I’ve always loved you for yourself, not because you were my son’s wife. You tried to be good to Michel, I’ll not forget that.’

  ‘Mama.’ Sybilia twisted her hands. She felt the need to say something, but what could she say in the face of Rocca’s lies? ‘You’ve made this house seem like home to me. You are much closer to me than my own mother ever was.’

  Suddenly the grief for her wasted love, and her wasted youth, the crumbling of her hopes and dreams, the tragedy of her arranged marriage… all the tears that she had stoically held back came pouring out in a torrent. She let herself go. She could cry now without shame. It was allowed. After all, she was burying her husband.

  Father Andrews held the requiem mass for Michel the following day. There had been a storm during the night, but now it had passed. The earth was newly washed and flautingly lovely. The priest looked down at the battered features of Michel for the last time and sighed.

  Michel had proved to be a hero. How had this oversensitive, stubborn young man withstood the cruellest torture? Now his poor, battered body was to be returned to the earth. It would be reprocessed into this endless resurrection, along with his soul. Not death, but rebirth. Surely a cause for joy?

  Father Andrews crossed himself. Was this foundling thought heretical? He should banish it, but he could not.

  He looked around at the mourners. He saw Sybilia crying behind her veil and clinging to the arm of Maria. Captain Moore was waiting with a group of Maquisards. Xavier Rocca stood apart from them all. His face was distorted into a scowl. Consumed with grief and anger, he had been vowing vengeance.

  Father Andrews could find no mention of bravery or heroism as a virtue in the Bible. Even as he began, he had no clear idea of what he would say. Then a sudden inspiration struck him:

  ‘What is heroism?’ he began. ‘In this island, it’s a virtue which is held dear to every man’s heart. Everyone here longs to do great deeds. Yes indeed, Corsicans are unique in their pursuit of individual worth and their passion for bravery and honour.

  ‘Nevertheless, to my way of thinking, and I think to God’s way of thinking, a lot of feats which pass for bravery are really only showing off. Michel never showed off. He was never to be found wrestling in the village square, hunting boars, or getting involved in brawls. He was a sensitive boy. Yet when it came to the test, Michel outshone us all.

  ‘Why was that? I’m asking myself. I think the answer is quite simple. It’s because he loved us too much to betray us to the Boche. He never told his torturers where he came from; nor where the arms were stored; nor where the Resistance headquarters were; nor who was the person passing information to the Resistance. He saved many of our lives.

  ‘His silence cost him dearly. We will none of us ever be able to imagine the agony Michel went through, second by second of every night and day for over a month. He knew he would be shot eventually, whether he talked or not. There was no one to see how brave he was being, no reward coming his way, no applause. Only suffering.

  ‘So why did he do it?’ He paused and looked around. ‘Because of love. He loved us, jointly and severally. So we must remember him with love, too. While thinking about Michel’s incredible fortitude, I’ve come to the conclusion that true bravery is love.’

  By the time Father Andrews finished his sermon, most of the women were crying openly into their handkerchiefs, while the men looked solemn and sad.

  It was two days after Michel’s burial. Sybilia was packing to return to her work in Bastia when Father Andrews arrived unexpectedly at the Roccas’ house. He had to speak to Sybilia, he said. Maria sent him up as usual.

  He was always amazed at the charming apartment Sybilia had created in the eaves. The decor was white, but she had one large, yellow wood table, four chairs upholstered with bright chintz, and several bookcases with volumes in French, Italian, German, and English. Michel’s sculpture stood around the walls and on corner shelves. There was a sensuous statue of the Virgin Mary on a mantelpiece. Something about it caught his fancy.

  ‘Why, it’s you,’ he said.

  She flushed and nodded. ‘I always told Michel it was wrong to do that.’

  ‘No! Not wrong. It’s lovely. Most artists use models for statues. Most of the models are a lot less saintly than this one,’ he said as he gently replaced the piece.

  She glanced at him with a confused expression. Was that supposed to be a joke? Father Andrews was gazing at her compassionately.

  ‘You’re an asset to your country, Sybilia,’ he said. ‘Captain Moore tells me he’ll recommend to the Free French authorities that you and Michel receive rewards for bravery. That would be after the war, of course.’

  She shrugged. ‘You can tell Captain Moore it is of very little interest to me,’ she said.

  ‘It would mean a lot to Rocca.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Forgive me.’

  ‘I see you’re packed and ready to go.’

  ‘I should have left an hour ago, but I can’t tear myself away from Jules. Have you ever seen such a lovely baby? No, really. Not because he’s mine. It’s just that he’s so beautiful. Quite perfect, re
ally, and so clever. You wouldn’t believe the things he can do, and he’s only seventeen months old.’

  Jules was crawling over the rug, surrounded with the toys she had sent from Bastia. He was dressed in nappies only, because it was so warm. As she leaned over him, her face softened with tenderness. ‘Poor darling Jules. He misses me, Maria says. He cries for me at night. He always calls for Mama. I miss him desperately…

  ‘Oh, forgive me, I should have thanked you before. Maria says you often play with him. I’m grateful.’

  ‘I love him like my own,’ Father Andrews said softly. ‘He’s a fine boy.’

  The child, who was big for his age, pulled himself to his feet, grabbed Tim-Tim’s tail, and hung on. The cat snarled and spat but did not scratch him.

  ‘Oh, Jules. What a little ruffian you are.’ She swung him into the air, and he laughed happily. He looked angelic, but Father Andrews knew all about his temper tantrums. Jules was the spitting image of his grandfather, but the priest never said this to Sybilia for fear of offending her.

  ‘He needs you, Sybilia. Every baby needs its mother, far more than anyone else in the world. Maria loves him, but she can never replace you. Please don’t go back to Bastia.’

  ‘If I don’t go back, who will listen to Major Krag’s conversations?’ she said briskly. She hugged Jules close to her, as if she could not bear to let him go, but the child struggled out of her arms. He wanted to chase the cat.

  ‘A replacement can be found. Your place is at home. Besides, there’s a job in the Resistance for you here. Captain Moore needs someone to replace Michel.’