by Perrat, Liza
‘Yes,’ Ghislaine said. ‘Times are harsh and people are doing what they have to, to get by, even if it means tattling on their friends and neighbours. I’ve also heard people are accepting presents from the Boche, in return for information … things about people; about our resistors. Personally, I’d rather die of starvation or cold before I accepted a single thing from any of those creepy soldiers.’
I had never given Martin the slightest speck of information, but I couldn’t stem my guilty flush, or the fear that rose inside me.
‘You never know what odd things people will do,’ I said. ‘Especially in a war … or occupation.’
‘Besides,’ Ghislaine went on, ‘the Germans are a bunch of bores. What could a girl see in them? Oh yes, in the beginning we all thought of them as handsome Nordic super-warriors but now we’ve realised they’re just a bunch of dreary, heel-clicking morons who go around snapping “Heil Hitler”.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, trying to keep the quiver from my voice. ‘Just a bunch of old bores.’ I glanced back at our stall. My mother was frowning at me, one arm held high in a beckoning gesture.
‘I have to go, Ghislaine. The general is ordering me back to my post.’
As I passed Madame Abraham’s stall, I almost tripped over my feet. Karl and Fritz were looming over the old woman.
‘Ihre Papiere, madame,’ Karl said, standing stiffly beside Fritz, who was fingering the antiques, turning them over and sniffing each one.
My breath snagged in my throat as Madame Abraham pulled her papers from her handbag –– the papers that identified her as Madame Marguerite Lemoulin, childless widow of pure French origin.
‘Stop your gawping, Célestine,’ my mother called. ‘It’s time to go.’
I sidled back to our stall, one eye still on the Germans and Madame Abraham.
‘Anyway,’ Maman went on, as we packed our boxes into the trap. ‘What was all that about, the flitting around and secretive muttering?’
‘Nothing. It’s just I … I can’t keep still, or stop worrying about Patrick and the others.’
As we climbed into the trap and she gathered Gingembre’s reins, I almost blurted out the firing squad sentence. Did I really want to share that burden with my mother, or was I simply yearning to provoke some sort of emotion from that seemingly soulless woman? But my promise to Père Emmanuel –– not to worry her, perhaps unnecessarily –– stilled my tongue.
We rode away, and I twisted back to the two Germans, still hovering about Madame Abraham, Fritz inspecting every one of the antiques, Karl frowning over her papers. Why were they taking so long?
As Gingembre clomped up the hill, I feared next time I came down to the village Madame Abraham-Lemoulin would be gone.
19
When I arrived at the Montluc Prison gates I saw some of the same women from my first visit. They must have recognised me too, as a few smiled and nodded.
‘Why are you standing in the line for packages?’ a woman in a tight beige skirt and matching pillbox hat asked. ‘Aren’t you allowed to visit your man?’
‘You should go to court and insist on your rights,’ another woman said.
‘I’m not married to any of the prisoners, but one of them is my brother, the others are close friends.’
‘Don’t worry, someday all this will change,’ the beige-skirted woman went on. ‘The Boche swine and that Vichy mob won’t always be in charge.’
‘D60!’ the duty guard shouted. I came forward and handed him the parcel of clean clothes and a few slices of saucisson from Maman’s dwindling supplies. He threw me the bunch of dirty clothes.
‘But …’ I frowned as I started shovelling the smelly garments into my tapestry bag. ‘There are only two shirts, two sets of underwear. Four socks. Where’s the rest?’
The guard shrugged. ‘Next!’ he shouted, not giving me another look.
‘There are only clothes from two men here,’ I insisted.
‘How should I know, girly? Move right along, others are waiting.’
I ran my quivering fingers over the collars and cuffs, and when they slid over the pills and the note, it felt as if my heart dropped to my feet.
‘Where are the rest of the clothes?’ I asked again.
‘Look, mademoiselle, information is only given to family.’
‘I am family. I’m one of the prisoner’s sisters. Please, I have to know.’
I pulled the wrapped slices of chocolate cake from my bag –– the cake made from real eggs and Maman’s secret stock of chocolate –– and pushed them at him.
The guard snatched the cake, let out a bored sigh and said, ‘They already shot two of them, that’s why … firing squad.’
‘Sh-shot?’ The shock numbed me so, my words stuttered out. ‘But w-why?’
‘Because they were criminals. Terrorists who deserved nothing better.’ He spat a gob of green-stained spit onto the pavement. ‘Next!’
I lifted a grimy garment to my nose, trying to identify Patrick and Olivier’s special earthy, horse scent. I smelt only crusty blood and filth, and a bitter, vinegary taste surged from my gut, up into my throat.
‘Which two were shot?’
‘That I can’t say, girly. But what I can say is the other two are scheduled for the next line-up.’
I couldn’t help myself, and grabbed the lapels of the guard’s jacket.
‘W-when? Tell me,’ I hissed. ‘I’ll get you anything you want. More chocolate cake, butter, tobacco, whatever you need. Just tell me when it’s going to happen.’ I wanted to shake the guard long and hard, and slap his ugly face.
He shook me off with an annoyed frown, dusting down his jacket as if brushing off vermin.
‘I couldn’t tell you that either, girly.’
***
‘Your stop, n’est-ce pas?’ the ticket officer said. ‘Hé, you dreaming, mademoiselle?’
I hitched the bag onto my shoulder and scurried off the train. I didn’t recall walking away from the prison, getting on the tram or the train trip back to Lucie. I felt like some ghostly thing gliding through the dead leaves, as if my feet were hovering above the damp ground. I had no sensation of cold or warm, or if a wind blew, or rain fell. I couldn’t think or cry. I felt dead.
I headed towards la place de l’Eglise and the sound of the church bell droning into the pearly mist made me think of Père Emmanuel. He’d know what to do, or Dr. Laforge. They’d know how to find out who’d been shot, and surely they’d have a plan to try and save the others. I started running.
In my agitated haste I ran straight into Miette’s mother and her two younger sisters, coming around the church corner.
‘Sorry. Oh, sorry,’ I said, trying to catch my breath. ‘Did I hurt any of you?’
‘We’re all fine, Céleste,’ Madame Dubois said. ‘What’s wrong? Is it the boys? Has something happened to them in that dreaded Montluc place?’
I shook my head, not surprised Miette’s mother knew the boys were in Montluc. News moved faster than a bullet in Lucie.
‘No … no, I don’t know. I’m just so worried about them. Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘We’re all sick with worry for those poor boys,’ she said, clicking her tongue.
‘I have to go,’ I said, hurrying off with a hasty wave.
I paused at the steps of Saint Antoine’s, tucking my hair back under my hat. Someone was shaking my arm.
‘Are you all right, Céleste? Is it your brother?’ I swivelled about to Madame Abraham-Lemoulin, her blinking eyes like two brown pips from a last season’s apple.
‘Yes, I’m all right thank you. I’ve just had a bit of a shock but really don’t worry about me.’
‘You should go home and have a lie down,’ she said. ‘Ask your maman for one of her magic potions. That’ll fix those chattering teeth.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. I’ll do that.’
‘Take care, my dear,’ Madame Abraham said, shuffling off towards the bakery, her shopping basket
over her arm. ‘We must all take great care these days.’
I started to climb the steps, a strange murmur humming in my brain. I twisted back around.
‘Wait,’ I called.
Madame Abraham turned back. ‘What is it?’
I wanted to tell her how glad I was Karl and Fritz believed she was Marguerite Lemoulin; how pleased I was to see her still in Lucie. But I simply dropped my arm. ‘It’s nice to see you,’ I said. ‘Good day to you, Madame Lemoulin.’
‘Bonne journée to you too, Céleste.’ She smiled and waved a gnarly hand.
At least I’d learned one happy thing on that terrible day.
***
I slipped into the confessional, glanced up at the crucifix and spoke into the grid. ‘Forgive me, Father for I have sinned.’
‘What is it, Céleste?’ Père Emmanuel said, his voice hushed.
‘Two of the boys are dead. Shot. The guard wouldn’t tell me which two. The others are scheduled to be shot sometime soon, I don’t know exactly when. I can’t bear it, Father, I have to know. We have to get them out of there!’
‘I’ll inform Dr. Laforge and the others, Céleste. We’ll make a new plan.’
‘When? When can we make a plan? There’s no time to waste. We have to act now!’
‘We’ll meet tonight,’ the priest said. ‘In the cellar of Au Cochon Tué. Use the back entrance. Behind the portrait of Marshal Pétain there’s a false panel, which will give way if you push on it. That will get you down to the cellar without having to pass through the bar itself.’
***
I raised the lid on the kitchen stove. Maman had already laid the fire so I held a lighted match to the crumpled papers and interlaced twigs, and fanned the rising flame with the bellows. I placed a few pieces of coal on top and when the fire was hot, I poured boiling water into the tin washtub and threw in the prison clothing.
Whose clothes was I washing? Did they belong to Patrick, Olivier, André or Marc? The boys’ destiny seemed as fragile as those houses of cards the old men of Au Cochon Tué fashioned –– one small, clumsy gesture and the whole pyramid would collapse.
Stained with dried blood, streaked with dirt and crawling with lice, the garments gave off a foul stench. My stomach lurched but I had to ease my frantic mind; there was nothing more I could do to find out about the boys. So I scoured away at the stubborn stains, swiping at my cheeks where tears and sweat mingled and dribbled into the pot.
I didn’t look up when my mother came into the kitchen, which I supposed was enough to tell her something was terribly wrong.
‘What’s happened to them, Célestine?’
My arm ached but I persisted working at a brown stain.
Maman came and hovered beside me and started fidgeting with her chignon, patting it and smoothing her hair behind her ears. Her herbally smell made me nauseous and I sidestepped away from her.
‘I have a right to know what’s happened to my son.’
I spun around to face her. ‘They shot two of them. I don’t know which ones.’
I caught my mother’s strangled breath, and her eyes took on a glaze of panic as a fresh stream of tears gathered behind my eyes.
‘God, let it not be Patrick and Olivier,’ I said, scowling hard to calm the flow of tears. ‘It’s not that I want the others dead, but please, not them.’ I kept plunging the garments into the steaming water –– lift, plunge, lift, plunge. ‘And now I have to wash these filthy clothes and go back there and try and get them out.’ I couldn’t stop rambling, telling her far more than I wanted.
‘Get them out, you?’ She let out a humourless shriek, which set my spine prickling, as if a legion of spiders were marching down my back. ‘However do you propose to do such a thing?’
‘You don’t need to know how … only that I’m doing my best.’
Maman narrowed her mouth into its habitual, dour line. ‘Sit, Célestine, I’ll finish the clothes.’
I sank into a chair, turned the hourglass upside down and fixed my eyes on the trickling sand.
‘Good God, armies of lice.’ My mother’s mouth twisted in disgust as a trail of black insects scrambled from the scalding water. ‘I’ll have to get them with the hot iron.’
‘I’d say lice are the least of their problems, Maman.’
‘If we don’t want that vermin infesting our entire home, I’ll have to get rid of them,’ she said, as she wrung the clothes out and hung them on the line over the stove.
I kept my eyes on the moving sand. Maman removed the washing apron, clamped on a clean one and busied herself at the stove. Steam soon curled from the pan, reaching like urgent fingers for the ceiling beams.
She ladled out two bowls of carrot and chicory soup and pushed the bottle of cod-liver oil and a beaker of red wine in front of me.
‘Eat. Drink,’ she said, taking her place opposite me. ‘We need to keep your strength up if you’re to save anyone from the firing squad.’
I looked up sharply. Was that a streak of warmth; a glimmer of some primitive, long-forgotten love in a corner of her thorny green eye?
20
The same evening, under cover of autumn’s early gloaming, I hurried along the alleyway behind Au Cochon Tué and slipped into a small back room via the rear doorway. I felt around the wall behind the portrait of Marshal Pétain until the false panel gave way, and squeezed through the opening into a broom cupboard. I pushed the cleaning things aside and opened another door, which gave onto a stone staircase.
Au Cochon Tué had been Lucie’s bar for as long as anyone could remember, handed down through generations of Robert Perrault’s family. Papa would tell me stories about his own father taking him there when he was a boy after a hard day working the wood, to gather with the other men for card games.
Besides drinking, the villagers sang and danced to piano tunes, while others tried their hand at any musical instrument someone happened to bring along. That was before the war though, when singing and dancing were allowed. But during the occupation, the Germans came to Au Cochon Tué to guzzle our wine and beer and, it was said, to entertain their city whores.
The chill settled beneath my skin as I hurried down the uneven steps. The dun candlelight outlined several figures seated on upturned crates. All around them, on makeshift shelves lining the walls, sat piles of newssheets, guns, flashlights, rope, and things that might be grenades.
I stared at my friends Ghislaine and Miette. ‘What ––?’
‘Dr. Laforge believes my German language skills might be useful,’ Miette said.
‘And Papa said I could help find out about my brother and André,’ Ghislaine said.
I sensed my friends were as anxious about the boys as I, so I simply nodded and sat on the empty crate beside Dr. Laforge.
‘Père Emmanuel has told us everything,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ve devised another strategy.’
I stayed perched on the edge of the crate, kneading the cold from my hands, crossing and recrossing my legs. I looked around at them all, sitting there with Miette and Ghislaine: the priest and the doctor, Simon Laforge the pharmacist, Robert Perrault, Monsieur Dubois –– Miette’s father –– and Ghislaine’s father, Monsieur Dutrottier. The men fiddled with their berets, which they held between their knees.
I looked at Dr. Laforge. ‘So, what are we going to do?’
‘You’re to return to Montluc with more clothes, Céleste.’
‘Take in more clothes?’ I said with a frown. ‘What good ––?’
‘Not only clothes,’ he said. ‘More pills. This time we’re going to make them sick with typhus. The Germans are terrified of contagious infections and will want those boys out of Montluc and into the hospital quicker than they can fire cannon.’
‘It’s true,’ Simon Laforge said. ‘The Boche do fear infectious diseases. We were inundated at the chemist when they ordered us to vaccinate all our children.’
‘Besides the few who said they’d rather have a handful of sick kids,’ Dr. Laforge said.
‘Hoping that might scare the Fritz away.’
‘But it didn’t,’ Monsieur Dutrottier said. ‘The Germans are still here.’
‘Won’t they just shoot the boys as soon as they get ill?’ Monsieur Dubois said. ‘Why bother to send them to hospital if they’re due to be executed?’
Dr. Laforge shook his head. ‘If they were going to execute all of them, they’d have done so by now. They must believe the ones still alive are withholding vital Resistance information. They’ll want to keep them that way to force it out of them.’
‘How will you get this typhus thing?’ Robert Perrault asked.
‘A colleague at the Institut Pasteur laboratory in Lyon has a cultured specimen,’ Dr. Laforge said. He leaned forward, pulling a cellophane package of La Marquise de Sévigné sour balls from his pocket. ‘It’s a form of typhus I’ve injected into these boiled sweets.’
‘The sweets are wrapped in transparent paper,’ Père Emmanuel explained, ‘so the guards won’t suspect they contain a message, or anything else.’
‘What if your typhus makes them really sick and they die?’ Ghislaine said.
‘I won’t let them die,’ the doctor said. ‘I am aware of the right dosage just to make them feverish and ill.’
‘We’ll have to trust the good doctor, Ghislaine,’ her father said. ‘Besides, as he says, what other choice have we?’
***
Dr. Laforge thought it an extra safety measure if we all attend the Au Cochon Tué soirée, in case the Germans spotted any of us in the back alley. The meeting over, we left separately, via the same passage through the broom cupboard.
In twos and threes, we doubled back along the alleyway and entered the bar via the front door. Beneath the copper ceiling lamp –– polished by so many generations of Perraults that its original pink glow had become the pale yellow of a crescent moon –– the soirée was in full swing. The room was awash with smoke and the smelly, greenstick odour of tobacco laced with dandelion leaves.
Maman had always forbidden me to go anywhere near the bar after dark, but she’d made no move to stop me that evening. I think she sensed it was her only chance of learning the fate of her son.