by Agnes Owens
In the afternoon she walked along the narrow pavement looking for tracks to follow in the snow. There were none. The street was deserted. Her feet quickly became cold and wet though the snow no longer fell so heavily. A keen wind had sprung up reducing it to a few scattered flakes. She came to the post office and noticed that, though the door was locked, a light shone in the upper window and the postman’s bicycle leaned against the wall. She would have liked to speak to Lotz, and ask if the story of the Mayor being burned had perhaps only been a rumour, but it was not advisable to wait. If the foreign officials came by in their car they might stop and question her. Besides, it was too cold to hang about so she walked on, passing the Mayor’s villa on a shelf of rock high above the other houses, stone stairs leading up to the porch. The shutters of the windows were closed. There was nothing to suggest it was occupied, not even a wisp of smoke from the chimneys. The Mayor’s face came into her head, sad and inconsolable. She shook her head to be rid of it then turned a corner and crossed the bridge over the river that had taken her son, and for once wasn’t aware of it. She scarcely glanced at the soldier on guard outside the town hall, though he was resplendent in black boots, long army coat and steel helmet, with rifle resting on shoulder. To the villagers he represented a situation that had become stale for everyone.
In sight of the grocery store she saw Agnès Duval approaching, as thin as a screwdriver in a long, tight-fitting, black coat, her head bare, her greasy hair flapping in the wind. Léonie would have preferred to avoid Agnès. She was known to be slightly mad but not as mad as her brother, an arsonist. Long before the occupation he had fled to the city after setting fire to the local paper-mill when the owners refused him a job. Some people said he had joined the resistance, others reported him to be in pay of the enemy. Either way he was credited with many desperate deeds.
‘Good day,’ said Léonie, hoping to move on quickly, but Agnès stopped immediately in front of her, saying, ‘What is so good about it? There is nothing to be obtained in the store, yet the owner is as fat as a pig. What does she expect me to do – eat grass or worms? Well, I won’t have it. Soon I am going to the city where everyone eats meat. This village has gone to the dogs now that the socialists have taken over.’
With that she spat on the snow and moved off rapidly down the pavement, talking to herself. Léonie entered the store shaking her arms to get rid of the snow on her coat.
‘Be careful,’ said Madame Renet from behind her counter. She was a stout woman with eyes as black as currants in her pale, puffy face. She pointed to a box of cauliflowers lying on the floor. ‘I do not want them damaged. They are very expensive.’
Then she came round from her counter and began to brush imaginary snow from the vegetables.
‘I am sorry,’ said Léonie. ‘The snow is everywhere. It is difficult to avoid.’
‘I know,’ said Madame Renet, ‘but I have to keep an eye on these vegetables. They are not easy to obtain.’
‘You say they are expensive?’ said Léonie, eyeing the cauli -flowers wistfully. It was a long time since she had seen one. They were not grown in the village. She considered them too beautiful to eat. If she could have bought one she would have kept it in water until it rotted.
‘They are,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I could not even afford one for myself.’
‘And who could?’ said Léonie absently.
‘You would be surprised who could.’
‘The foreign officials, or the soldiers perhaps?’
‘Not only them. The priest can afford them just as he can afford everything else that is too dear for the villagers.’
‘Really?’
‘But what can I do? I must sell my stock.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Léonie, adding, ‘But what can you expect of a priest? He is used to having the best.’
‘I tell you what I expect,’ said Madame Renet, folding her arms over her chest. ‘I expect if he was a good priest he would have spoken out against the enemy instead of sending his housekeeper round to this store to buy all the luxuries that no one else can afford.’
‘It is dangerous to speak out against the enemy. He could get shot for that.’
‘Then I would expect him to get shot.’
Léonie was uncomfortable with the subject. She had never attended church since her son died. She did not want to talk about the priest, though she recollected vaguely he was a young man who had come from a village far south in the region. She’d heard his sermons were more concerned with God’s wrath than his forgiveness but though he was not liked on that account he was respected for his fervour.
She said, ‘Since I do not go to church I do not expect anything.’
Madame Renet raised her eyebrows. ‘I am surprised at that. I always go to church for I pray to God, not the priest.’
Léonie kept silent for a while then said, looking round the shop, ‘Has the bread van not yet arrived?’
‘I am afraid not and I doubt it will with the roads being so bad.’
Taking a deep breath Léonie asked, ‘I was wondering if you have any tobacco to sell. My husband is quite desperate for some.’
With a pained expression the shopkeeper turned round and took a black book from the shelf behind her then placed it on the counter and leafed through it slowly. She stopped halfway down a page and said, ‘It is marked here that your husband had two ounces a fortnight ago.’
Léonie stared at the book but could make nothing out since it was upside-down.
‘A fortnight is a long time,’ she said.
‘I am sorry,’ said Madame Renet. ‘Tobacco is very scarce. I have to make sure everyone receives an equal ration.’
‘I will pay you extra.’
‘Extra!’ said the woman as if scandalised, then, ‘How much?’
‘One franc.’
Madame Renet shook her head regretfully.
‘All right, two,’ said Léonie, judging she could afford it when there was no bread to buy.
‘Very well then,’ said Madame Renet with a sigh. ‘I will see what I can do since your husband is so desperate.’
She brought out a packet of tobacco from under the counter then placed it on the top. Léonie took two francs from her coat pocket and handed them over. The transaction completed, she said as if it had just come into her head, ‘Have you heard the news about the Mayor?’
‘I have,’ said Madame Renet, again folding her arms across her chest and looking grim.
‘So it is true he was burned to death?’
‘It is.’
‘But how can you be sure? It might only be a rumour.’
‘A piece of paper giving this information was smuggled into the village and passed amongst the people. Have you not seen it?’
Léonie shook her head slowly and Madame Renet said, ‘Then you must be the only one.’ She added, ‘Mind you, if I could I would pin it to the wall of this store for all the world to see but I have my business to consider and my skin as well, come to that. If they can do this to the Mayor they can do it to any one of us.’
‘Nothing like this has ever happened before,’ said Léonie.
‘But now it is starting.’ Madame Renet lowered her voice and went on, ‘Did you know that a bridge was blown up not far from this village and did you not hear that new officials are sitting in the town hall looking for names? Undoubtedly someone has named the Mayor’s son and that is why they have burned his father.’
Léonie shook her head sadly. ‘He was such a delicate man too. I wonder what will become of his wife?’
‘I would not worry about her. She is gone from the village. Besides, she had no time for her husband. It was obvious she thought herself a cut above him because her people were wealthy. He never should have married her.’
‘Well, it is all one now,’ said Léonie.
The shopkeeper laughed grimly. ‘It is for the Mayor.’
Léonie shifted about on the stone floor. Her feet were numb. It was as cold inside the store as it w
as outside. She said, ‘I must be going but thank you for the tobacco. My husband will be pleased.’
As she was leaving Madame Renet called, ‘Tonight they are holding a service for the Mayor. Do you think you might come to the church on this occasion?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Léonie, hurrying away.
At the bottom of the street she encountered Maria Defarge, a large woman with bold, protuberant eyes. She enquired about Léonie’s health and without waiting for an answer began to speak excitedly.
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘last night I dreamed that the town hall was covered in white and from under its door ran a stream of blood. And what do I see when I awake this morning – everything covered in snow. I am positive this is a sign that blood will soon follow.’
They say dreams are only dreams – nothing more,’ said Léonie.
‘Not my dreams,’ said Maria. ‘Many times they have come true. I have the gift for seeing signs, as everybody in the village knows.’
‘But of course,’ said Léonie hurriedly. Maria could cure sores on the face and body as well as other minor ailments. She also cast spells, sometimes for the good and sometimes for the bad. Strangely enough she had never been able to cast spells on the foreign officials.
‘It is because they have no souls,’ she once explained. ‘I can only deal with those who have souls.’
‘I hear they are holding a service in church for the Mayor,’ Léonie informed her.
‘How futile,’ said Maria.
‘Do you not think it is fitting he should be remembered in some way?’
Maria shrugged. ‘We do not need a black crow to remind us.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Léonie, aware of Maria’s distaste for all matters connected with the church, ‘but at least it would be a token of respect.’
‘Respect?’ said Maria with disgust, and then walked off over the snow with long, purposeful steps as if she was being hounded.
As Léonie recrossed the bridge she saw that the river ran faster and higher than usual. She turned her eyes away from it, but the water roared loud in her ears. Although accepting that the river was a part of nature like a stone or a tree or the earth itself, she had never come to terms with it since the death of her son. It seemed to have a malevolent will of its own. Today it did not concern her so much since her head was filled with the Mayor and the manner of his death. She wished she could get him out of her mind. He was invading it with his sad, inconsolable face.
* * *
On arriving home she placed the packet of tobacco carefully on the table. Noticing the fire was almost dead she went outside to fetch logs from the wood-shed and saw Lotz the postman coming down the lane between the house and the shed, his postbag slung over his back.
‘Good day,’ he said, his face red with cold but still cheerful. Lotz always had been an affable man and the occupation had made him no less affable. He’d even been heard to joke with foreign officials.
‘I suppose it could be better,’ said Léonie, adding, ‘I am surprised you are still delivering.’
‘It has taken me much longer today since I am forced to walk.’
Léonie made the observation that it was a wonder there was any mail to deliver with all the restrictions.
‘There is always enough to keep me going,’ said Lotz.
Léonie told him that apart from government notices she never received any mail at all. Not that she could think of anyone who would write to her except for an aunt who lived in a mountainous region and might be dead for all she knew.
‘That is too bad,’ said Lotz sympathetically, ‘but I do assure you some of the villagers receive mail. There are quite a few letters for the Mayor’s wife.’
‘So she still lives in her house?’
‘I am not sure about that but I deliver them anyway.’
‘Perhaps they are letters of condolence?’
‘They could very well be,’ said Lotz, shaking his head and for once looking serious.
‘It is a bad business,’ said Léonie. ‘One never knows what will happen next.’
‘That is true,’ said Lotz, hitching his bag farther back on his shoulder. ‘We can only carry on the same as usual and hope for the best.’ He added, becoming cheerful again, ‘I presume you are keeping well yourself ?’
‘I am always well enough.’
‘And your husband?’
‘He too is well enough.’
‘He is a fine man,’ said Lotz. ‘He works hard, I’ll say that for him.’
‘He does,’ said Léonie, turning away abruptly to enter the wood-shed.
She kindled the fire and made a loaf with flour and water and prepared a stew with some vegetables then placed both items inside the iron oven that was heated by the fire. After that she went into her son’s room in order to feel his presence. It did not come and she was not surprised. It was unreasonable to expect it twice on the same day. In any case, her head was still filled with the Mayor. She was about to leave the room when she felt something standing behind her right shoulder as she sat upon the bed. She knew at once it was the presence of the Mayor. She could hear his breath, harsh and laboured.
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I have done you no harm.’
It stayed so she called out loudly, ‘You cannot stay here. This is my son’s room.’ Then she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘If you leave I will pray for your soul,’ and it vanished. She went out of the room thinking she must keep this promise lest the Mayor’s presence return and banish that of her son.
A while later she sat at the kitchen table, awaiting her husband’s arrival. The bowls and spoons were laid out and the dish of stew simmered on the iron oven. The bread she had baked lay on the dresser, flat and solid. Flour and water alone did not make good bread but it was better than none. Her husband might not think so but at least he should be pacified with the tobacco. When another half-hour passed and he still had not returned she ate some bread and stew, washed her face under the tap in the sink, put on her coat and scarf and set off for the church. Her shoes were still damp but not as damp as they had been.
The grey stone church, diminutive and plain, stood at the highest point of the village. The bells were pealing as Léonie entered. She remembered to dip her fingers in the basin of holy water then cross herself in the direction of the altar before edging into the back pew. Apart from a couple seated near the front, the place was empty. They turned round to stare at her. She knew them slightly. Before the occupation they used to sell sweets in the market. She gave them a diffident smile and they turned their heads away, so she leaned back against the wooden partition and studied the walls. Except for a statue of the Virgin in an alcove halfway down the wall, there was nothing to admire. It had not changed since she had come years ago. Perhaps the cracks on the walls and the ceiling had deepened. There was a crack across the face of the Virgin which she did not remember but maybe it had always been there.
More people entered, filling up the empty seats. Two of them sat along from her in the back pew. Léonie waited for the service feeling less alone and more relaxed. When the priest came in from a side door and stood before the altar she leaned forward, listening. His words were indistinct. He was as she remembered him, fairly young, of medium height, his black hair combed back severely from his high forehead. From a distance his complexion looked like the tallow candles on the altar. It dawned on her he was speaking in Latin so she closed her eyes to rest them for a time. When she opened them he was speaking in a normal tongue which she also found difficult to understand as his accent was thick and guttural in the way of those who come from the South. Eventually it became clear that he was condemning certain men who had brought shame and sorrow to the village by their unlawful acts.
At first she thought he was referring to the foreign officials but as he continued it became apparent he was speaking of the men who lived in the mountains.
Now he was saying, ‘Those men are lawless and without mercy. They have turned their hearts away fr
om God and do the Devil’s work in the guise of saviours. For their own ends they would destroy this village. If it were not for his son, who is one of them, the Mayor would still be alive.’
As he spoke further in this vein there was much coughing and fidgeting from the congregation. For the first time since she had entered the church Léonie noticed Madame Renet in the centre pew. She was speaking openly to her neighbour. The priest was not distracted. He continued to speak out loud and accusingly. He finished his address with the words, ‘ “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” ’ then after a pause during which the congregation suddenly became silent, he added more softly, ‘Now let us pray for the soul of our Mayor,’ and everyone knelt on the praying stool with their hands clasped and heads bowed.
Outside the church Léonie encountered Madame Renet who said, ‘It was a very bad service. I am sure the Mayor would not have been pleased with the condemnation of his son and I am certain if his son hears about it he will be even less pleased. I suspect the priest has signed his own death-warrant.’
Léonie replied, ‘I am certainly surprised that he spoke out against those men. Though perhaps he thought it his duty to do so in order to prevent bloodshed.’
‘He does less than his duty,’ said Madame Renet. ‘You notice he did not speak out against the enemy. I would not be surprised if he was the one who named the Mayor’s son, causing the Mayor to be burned. In fact, after that sermon I am convinced of it. He is nothing more than a traitor.’
‘I would not be so sure,’ said Léonie.
‘Well, I am as sure as the nose on my face.’
‘But surely if he was a traitor he would be clever enough to conceal it rather than turn suspicion on himself by giving such a sermon.’
‘The priest’s pride is colossal. He thinks he is God himself. Apparently he has forgotten the proverb that pride goes before a fall. Mark my words, he will surely soon fall.’
‘But nothing is a certainty,’ said Léonie, turning away to go in the direction of her house.