by Fiona Valpy
‘The Maginot Line will hold, don’t worry,’ the count assured Eliane and Madame Boin as he recounted the day’s bulletins to them. He had started taking his afternoon tisane in the kitchen so that he could tell them the latest news. ‘The British and French have troops in Belgium. We’re strategically placed to turn back Monsieur Hitler’s army.’
But then one afternoon in the first week of June, Monsieur le Comte came into the kitchen looking grave. ‘It’s bad news today, I’m afraid.’ His tea stood untouched, growing cold, as he told them that the French and British troops had been driven back to the Channel, that they were fighting a desperate rearguard action trapped along the coast at Dunkirk. ‘The remaining French divisions are still holding the Maginot Line, though. There’s still hope.’
And then every last scrap of that hope was dashed when the elite German battalions smashed through the last line of defence. By the middle of June, the invading forces reached Paris. All was chaos and confusion as the war engulfed France like a tidal wave, powerful, unstoppable, unrelenting. The president resigned and key members of the government fled, leaving what was left of the French army without leadership. The army fought on, bewildered but brave, but were quickly overwhelmed by the ruthless efficiency of the German war machine.
Mathieu came to the mill house one evening and, as they sat around the supper table, he asked Gustave and Lisette for advice. ‘I’m worried about my father and my brother. I haven’t heard from them. I know my brother was desperate to sign up for the army and go and fight, but my father needed him to help with the farm. I don’t know what to do . . .’
Without hesitation, Lisette replied, ‘You should go and see them. Family is the most important thing there is. Make sure they’re alright. Find out what your brother is thinking, support your father. The situation is changing on a daily basis at the moment. It would be best for your brother to sit tight and see what happens before he takes it into his head to go charging off to fight. And, after all, your father needs him.’
Gustave nodded slowly. ‘That probably would be best. If only for your own peace of mind. You need to reassure yourself that they are alright. It’s not so far to go, if the Cortinis can spare you for a few days?’
Mathieu nodded. ‘They’ve said I can go. We’ve just finished lifting the trellises, so the work in the vineyard is up to date for the moment and as long as this good weather lasts the vines will be fine. But . . .’ He glanced up from his plate and met Eliane’s calm gaze.
She smiled at him. ‘You need to go, Mathieu. And then come back once you know for sure that all is well.’ Her voice didn’t betray the unease she felt at the thought of his absence. But, after all, things seemed a little calmer at the moment, now that the negotiations in Paris were under way. All everyone was talking about was the armistice, hoping it would bring peace and stability to the country once again. (‘“Armistice” is just another word for “surrender”, if you ask me,’ Monsieur le Comte had grumbled earlier that day.)
She walked with Mathieu along the river as darkness fell and the chirping of birds and crickets gave way to the singing of the frogs. The couple stood a long while together beneath the shelter of the willow tree.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ whispered Mathieu, taking both of her hands in his.
‘You’re not leaving me,’ she replied. ‘I’m keeping you right here with me, in my heart. And it’s not for long. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back again. Give my love to your father and to Luc.’
He nodded, miserably, knowing that she was right. And yet, an unspoken anxiety seemed to pervade the air around them, as nebulous as the river mist that hung above the surface of the water, shifting and deceiving, creating phantoms of fear that haunted everybody’s minds nowadays.
They kissed one last time and he eventually let go of her hand and made his way back to the vineyard to pack and set off for Tulle early the next morning.
By the time the armistice agreement was signed, just a few days later, the French army was decimated. Hundreds of thousands of troops had been killed and almost two million rounded up as prisoners of war, according to the sketchy reports that still trickled through on the wireless. Marshall Pétain was empowered to establish a new French government – (‘the puppets of the Nazis,’ declared the count with contempt) – in Vichy to run the south-eastern third of the country, which was all that the Germans had allowed to remain unoccupied.
And a line was to be drawn on the map to define the area now under Nazi occupation.
‘They’ve barricaded the bridge!’ Yves burst through the kitchen door, having been out delivering flour to the local bakeries.
‘Who have barricaded which bridge, mon fils?’ Lisette asked, as she wiped the table where she’d been preparing the evening meal.
‘The Germans. In Coulliac. They’ve drawn the line of demarcation and it runs along this part of the river. The village is now in occupied France – so that means we are too. And just over there –’ he gesticulated through the doorway in which he stood – ‘just across on the other bank, it’s unoccupied territory, run by the government in Vichy. Did you ever hear anything so crazy? I had to turn back because they wouldn’t let me drive the truck across the river to finish my deliveries on the other side.’
Eliane sat, frozen, where she’d been shelling peas into a colander. Lisette shot her a worried glance and then said, trying to sound reassuring and with more conviction than she really felt, ‘Surely they can’t have closed the bridge for long. It’s probably just temporary, until they have a proper checkpoint in place. After all, people live and work on both sides, so they’ll need to be able to cross.’
Yves shook his head. ‘The mayor was there. I asked him what was going to happen and he just shrugged and said that everything had changed. The soldiers were taking down the flag outside the mairie and, as we watched, they raised their own one in its place. I tell you, Maman, there is a swastika flying in the middle of Coulliac right now.’
‘Well, some arrangement will surely have to be made.’ Lisette kept her voice calm, trying to sound reasonable, even though it felt that their world had suddenly been turned upside down. ‘What happens when I need to go across to help deliver Madame Blaye’s baby next month? And how will we get the flour to Sainte-Foy?’
Eliane spoke then, at last, but her voice was weak and shaken. ‘And how will Mathieu come back?’
Lisette hugged her tightly. ‘Don’t worry, ma fille, he’ll find a way. And in the meantime you can be reassured that at least he’s safe and sound in the unoccupied zone.’
Then Eliane began to weep as she voiced the other question that they’d all been asking themselves over and over during the past, tumultuous days. ‘But, Maman, what about Mireille? What will happen to Paris now that it’s in German hands?’
From the phone at the mill it was only possible to make local calls, so Gustave went and queued for hours outside the telephone kiosk at La Poste in Sainte-Foy-la-Grande to try to place a call to the atelier where Mireille worked. But when the phone at the other end did finally ring, his call had gone unanswered. They were frantic for news that Mireille was safe, and waited desperately for her to contact them. The newspapers reported bombings, and a mass exodus from Paris as the Germans had moved in. The Martin family prayed that Mireille had managed to find transport and was on her way back to the safe haven of the mill house at that very moment.
A phone call, a letter, a message passed on via a friend or neighbour – they longed for anything that would let them know Mireille was safe. But the minutes stretched into hours and the hours into an agonising eternity of days as they waited to hear from her.
Abi: 2017
I wonder how must it have felt for Eliane in those first days when the war began in earnest. After so many months of stand-off, perhaps she’d imagined life would simply carry on that way, with the French army holding the country’s borders. Perhaps she’d relaxed a little as she worked in the kitchen and the walled garden at
the château. Or perhaps she carried the tension with her – day in, day out – as she went about her duties, her muscles tensed and her fists clenched, waiting . . .
I set down the bulky laundry bag that I’ve heaved up the stairs on my own today. Karen phoned earlier to say that she slipped and fell on a patch of spilled cooking oil while shopping in the local supermarket and is currently sitting in the local hospital waiting to have her wrist put in plaster. I roll my head from side to side, easing the tension in my neck. The soreness of my muscles is due to hard physical work these days, but I remember the times when they have ached for other reasons: the hours of physio to regain strength in my arms; the yoga classes, which helped me on the road to my recovery but which always left me stiff and sore. And before all of that, I remember how I carried myself carefully, my shoulders tense and knotted, waiting for the next angry outburst from Zac. The anger was easier to deal with than the coldness that always followed it, as inevitably as night follows day.
Zac changed almost the moment we got home from our honeymoon. Or am I kidding myself, and did he always have those moments of coolness, when he withdrew his love like a rug that he could yank from under my feet any time he chose? Thinking back now, I can remember that the signs were there. But I missed them.
He’d phoned the house the day after we first met.
‘Hello, is that Abi-the-Nanny?’ he’d asked. ‘This is Zac Howes.’ His voice had sounded self-assured and faintly teasing. At the time, I’d interpreted it as friendliness – maybe even pleasure at hearing my voice. But now I realise it was more the satisfaction of a cat that’s spotted its prey and is about to relish the sport of the chase.
I’d thought he must be calling to thank his hostess for last night’s hospitality. ‘Hello, Zac. I’m afraid they’re all out at the moment. Can I take a message?’
‘No, that’s okay. It’s you I wanted to talk to, actually.’
I was confused at first; I couldn’t think what he could possibly want to say, unless it was to ask if he could pass on my name to a friend who occasionally needed a babysitter. But then he said, ‘I wonder if I could take you out to dinner one evening? I presume they do allow you out every now and then?’
‘Well, yes, Monday’s my evening off. And I get some time at the weekends too. Not usually the evenings though . . .’ I could hear myself beginning to blabber nervously, and silently told myself to shut up and let him do the talking.
‘Okay, good. Are you free next Monday then?’
I pretended to think. ‘Let me see, what date’s that?’ Although I knew full well that I had precisely nothing on that evening – nor any other Monday evening either, for the foreseeable future. I usually spent my free time slumped in front of the TV in my room at the top of the house, next to Freddie’s, with the volume turned down low so as not to disturb him. If he knew I was there, he’d want me to give him his bath and put him to bed, reaching his chubby hands to pull my face close to his for a damp goodnight kiss. ‘Er, no, I think I’m free next Monday.’
‘Great, I’ll pick you up at eight. See you then.’
‘Thanks Zac. Looking forward to it.’ I’d tried to sound nonchalant, but then the second he hung up I’d run up the stairs to my room and thrown open the door of my narrow wardrobe, desperately trying to think what I could wear.
By the time Monday evening came around, I’d settled for my newest pair of skinny jeans, with a tunic and a cropped jacket, hoping my get-up exuded an air of chic sophistication. I’d washed the mashed potato out of my hair (a remnant of Freddie’s enthusiastic approach to his lunch that day), and had been a good deal more attentive than usual with the hairdryer and straighteners.
In spite of my efforts, I still felt gauche and under-dressed as he held open the door of his BMW and helped me in. But he seemed not to mind the fact that I was young and nervous. He questioned me, attentively, over dinner that first evening, fixing me in the full beam of his piercing blue eyes. In the beginning, I felt like a scared rabbit, caught in the headlights, but as the evening wore on – and as he topped up my wineglass again and again – I began to relax and even to bask in the warmth of his attention. It was a sensation to which I was completely unaccustomed. But I liked it. And I wanted more.
When he kissed me goodnight, he was tender and loving. Gently, he pushed me away from him a little, appraising me with his amused, blue gaze.
‘Little Abi,’ he said. ‘How perfect you are.’
Just six words. That’s all it took.
I mistook the web he was spinning around me for something else: for the promise of safety and security. I mistook it for love.
Eliane: 1940
Not knowing was the worst thing of all, thought Eliane, as she wrung out her mop and leaned it back in its bucket. They were all trying to keep things as close to the normal routine as possible and she had just finished another day’s work at the château. She closed the door on the freshly washed kitchen floor and trudged down the hill as swifts circled and darted above her in the evening sky.
The count had told them that there were reports of air attacks further north and that sketchy news was coming in of civilian casualties. For a moment, Eliane imagined what it might feel like if, instead of birds soaring above her head, there were aeroplanes armed with deadly weapons. She felt panic rising in her throat and her heart began to pound.
‘Please, Mireille, where are you? Come back to us safely. Please come home.’ She said the words out loud, but they sounded fragile and ineffectual as they were carried away on the faint breeze that stirred the leaves of the acacia trees along the roadside.
As she approached the turn-off to the track that led to the mill, a pair of crows suddenly launched themselves from a fencepost where they’d been perching further up the road. The explosive beating of their wings and raucous, angry cries startled her, making her jump. She looked up the road to see what had disturbed them. A huddled figure was limping towards her, stooped and weary. At first, Eliane thought it was an old woman, but as she moved closer the figure raised her dusty, dirty head and she realised who it was.
‘Mireille!’ she screamed, and ran forwards just as her sister seemed to stumble, her legs giving way beneath her.
‘Take her,’ mumbled Mireille, thrusting a bundle of rags into Eliane’s arms, and then she crumpled into a dead faint at her sister’s feet.
The bundle of rags that Eliane now held was surprisingly warm and heavy. And then it began to wail; the thin, feeble cry of a baby, weakened with thirst and hunger.
Eliane sat on Mireille’s bed in the attic room and stroked her hair as her sister told the story of her flight from Paris and the last few hellish days on the road in the company of thousands of others who flooded out of the city. Some were refugees from Poland, Czechoslovakia, Austria and Germany who had already fled their homes once and were now on the move again. Others were Parisians who feared for their lives and those of their children as bombs fell on the city and the enemy vanguards began to arrive. And some, like Mireille, simply knew that they needed to be with their families at a time like this.
She had set off with Esther, her colleague from the atelier, and Blanche, Esther’s baby, who had just turned nine months old. Esther had arrived from Poland, alone and pregnant, the previous spring. ‘My husband thinks I’ll be safer in Paris,’ she’d explained on her first day at work as she balanced her sewing on her gently rounded belly and stitched up a hem with fine, quick stitches. ‘I hope this will be a good place to have our baby.’
After the Germans invaded Poland in the autumn, she’d received word that her husband had escaped to join Polish forces in England to continue the fight from there. He’d written that she and the baby should stay safe in Paris until he could come and get them once the war was over.
But when Paris fell, Mireille had urged her to come to the mill house. ‘We’ll go together. My parents will shelter you and Blanche there.’
‘But then Herschel won’t know where to come and look for us,
’ Esther had protested, clutching Blanche to her so tightly that the baby started to cry.
‘Better that he eventually finds you both alive and well than that he has to look for you in the debris of a bombed-out basement,’ Mireille had argued. ‘Come, Esther, bring what you can for Blanche. A friend of mine has a car; he’ll squeeze you in. But we have to leave now!’
When she recounted this part of her story, Mireille began to cry. Eliane held her tight, smoothing her hair. ‘If I hadn’t made her leave, she might still be alive,’ choked Mireille.
Still holding her and rocking her gently, Eliane said, ‘Or she might have been killed in Paris by a bomb. Or, if she’d survived, she and Blanche might well have been rounded up and deported as soon as the Germans arrived. We’ve all heard the reports – people disappear off to these “work camps” and are never heard of again. Those camps would be no place for a mother with a small child. You can’t blame yourself, ma soeur.’
When, at last, she’d managed to calm her sobs, Mireille continued with her story.
The day’s car journey they’d envisaged had rapidly turned into a drawn-out nightmare. The roads south from Paris were packed with a slow-moving tide of refugees on foot, on bicycles and in horse-drawn wagons filled with their personal belongings, blocking the way for the cars that tried, impatiently, to get past even though there was no space ahead, just more and more people.
The car Mireille and Esther were in crawled onwards at a walking pace. But they were thankful, at least, that the vehicle offered some protection from the milling throng that pressed around them, as well as from the heat of the June sun.