Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Anatole Benion?’ asked Father Nicolas, as he snatched up a small case, in which lay everything needed for the administration of the Last Rites. He clapped his biretta onto his head, and turned to peer again at the panting messenger, through a pair of spectacles held together across his nose by a grubby binding of sticking plaster.

  ‘Non, mon Père. It is for Michel, his brother. He’s collapsed. He’s crying like an infant!’ The dull face lit up. ‘It is very strange, mon Père. Madame Benion asks for you to come urgently.’

  The priest paused, his shabby black cassock swinging loosely in the breeze from an open window. He said gravely, ‘Such an event is not uncommon nowadays; I’m not very surprised that it has happened to young Benion. Come, my son.’

  As they hurried along the street, bodies bent against a chilly wind, the priest asked, ‘Madame did not send for a doctor?’

  ‘Mais non. Doctors are for real sickness.’

  The priest smiled slightly. Madame Benion may already know what ails her son, poor woman. Though I believe it’s probably the result of great stress, it could, of course, be that he has discovered that he also has caught the dreaded tuberculose. And what good is a doctor then, except to comfort? An old friend or a priest can do that.

  The staircase up which he climbed to the Benions’ room seemed even longer and darker than usual. I am growing old, Father Nicolas thought, and, like everyone else, I am tired.

  The young man followed him slowly and respectfully.

  Standing furtively in the upper hallway were two women and another man whom Father Nicolas recognised as tenants in the house. They moved back to make way for him. As he paused to pant before knocking on the door, he ignored them as ghoulish curiosity-seekers; he knew that they would not follow him into the room if they were aware that Anatole had tuberculosis.

  From within came the muffled sounds of extreme grief.

  The priest sighed. He knew those sounds. A number of his parishioners had exhibited similar breakdowns; Anatole had been one of them.

  From his experience, he believed that it was the more sensitive ones, or those who had been badly hit by a particularly horrifying aspect of the war, who finally collapsed. He had met prisoners of war who, like Anatole, had borne with fortitude dreadful hardship and abuse, only to be stricken, at some point, once they had returned home.

  Because of his visits to Anatole, Father Nicolas was well acquainted with Michel; he recalled him as a man who was superior in intellect to many of his parishioners, a good man who, in his opinion, should have been given by his family to the Church. Landless Michel Benion, le pauvre, caught in the Battle of Normandy, would be well aware of the broader, longer-lasting implications of the disastrous invasion which had ruined much of Calvados. He would, presumably, also understand some of the problems of the current political situation. On top of the loss of his home, these matters could weigh heavily upon him.

  From the gossips of his parish, the priest had heard the story of Suzanne. He could well imagine what that disgrace had done to Michel.

  As he had almost run down the narrow alley in which the Benions lived, he had recalled details of others he knew who had suffered the kind of collapse he suspected Michel was enduring. He believed that his experience of them would help him with Michel.

  They had, certainly, all behaved similarly. They faced bravely whatever had occurred – the torture, the deaths, the woundings, the destruction of their homes. Then, months, even years, later, as a result of another lesser misfortune while safe in Bayeux, their courage suddenly deserted them. They wept the tears they should have wept long before, began a mourning which should, for example, have begun at a graveside. Another reaction which occurred occasionally, tripped by a sudden memory, was a bout of helpless anger, carefully suppressed in front of the enemy. It could suddenly surge forth in violent rage or grief. He had seen it. He had seen it all.

  The best that could be said about it was that once it had been well vented, the patient slowly recovered and was unlikely to be severely bothered by it again.

  He took in a large breath of fetid air, composed his face to its normal expression of gentle enquiry, and knocked.

  The door was answered by the landlady, whose sudden relief at seeing him would have amused him had the situation not been so grave.

  ‘Mon Père.’

  She opened the door just sufficiently to permit him to squeeze through, without again exposing the entire room to the interested onlookers outside.

  As the door was quietly closed behind him, the priest hesitated.

  Bathed in the light of the sunset from the window was a tableau reminiscent of a medieval painting. Lying on a mattress on the floor, his mother kneeling beside him, Michel was sobbing steadily; occasionally, the sound rose and fell in wails of pain. By the window itself, lay Anatole, looking even more exhausted than usual; he smiled weakly when he saw the priest.

  While he considered exactly how to tackle the situation, Father Nicolas moved swiftly over to Anatole, took the man’s hand lying on the coverlet and squeezed it gently. He then blessed him. ‘All will be well, my son,’ he whispered.

  Anatole tried to cross himself, but did not quite manage it. He relaxed visibly, however, as the priest turned towards Michel.

  Madame Benion had half turned on her knees to greet him with obvious relief. He smiled benignly down at her.

  Michel lifted his head from the mattress, saw who had arrived, and struggled into a sitting position.

  In between sobs, he said imploringly, ‘I’m so sorry, mon Père. I don’t know what’s the matter …’ He turned back to Madame Benion, put his arms round her, and said, ‘Maman!’ And cried all the harder.

  The priest put his little bag down on the floor. Then, slowly and laboriously, he kneeled down by the stricken man.

  Still weeping, though trying hard to control himself, Michel loosed his mother and turned again to the old man.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, my son. This spasm is the Good God helping you. There is nothing to be afraid of.’ The priest eased his position to be more comfortable with the bare boards beneath his knees, and smiled at the distraught man seated awkwardly before him on a mattress.

  ‘There, now. First, we are going to say the Ave Maria. The blessed Mother is a great comfort to us all, and she will help to calm you and clear your mind. Then we’ll say the Paternoster.’

  Still sobbing, Michel nodded his head.

  ‘After that, I am going to ask Madame Blanc, your good landlady, to let us sit together in a room by ourselves so that we do not tire your brother.’

  He glanced meaningfully up at the landlady, and she nodded. He did not look at Madame Benion. To get to the root of his woes, he had to have the young man to himself; not all a man’s secrets could be shared with his mother.

  Trustfully, like a child, Michel turned on to his knees. Breaking down here and there, he repeated mechanically after the priest the Ave Maria and then the Paternoster.

  The priest knew what he was about. While a very distressed Madame Benion silently watched him, he went on carefully to talk the patient down to a level of coherence.

  Then he rose to his feet and held out a hand. Michel grasped it, like a drowning sailor will grasp the body of a dead comrade, hoping dumbly to be kept afloat. He stumbled up, careful not to put too much weight on the older man.

  Still holding on to him firmly, the priest turned to the landlady. ‘Madame?’

  She nodded, and moved towards the door. The priest looked down at Madame Benion. ‘My daughter, be at peace. If God wills, all will be well. Stay with Anatole – he must be exhausted by it all. A hot drink for him – and for you?’

  She nodded acquiescence.

  That will give her something to occupy herself, he thought, as he led her younger son to the door.

  The landlady was already outside the door, scolding the skulking onlookers. She sent them all downstairs and blocked the doorway until she heard their boot
s on the lowest flight.

  ‘I’ll take you to my sitting room,’ she told the priest.

  Still quietly crying, despite his best efforts to control himself, Michel clung to the older man’s hand. The priest led him down the long staircase.

  The landlady opened the door of her best room and ushered them in.

  ‘Would you like a glass of Calvados, mon Père?’ she asked the priest. ‘I have a little.’

  ‘Thank you, daughter. It would help us both.’

  While she went to get the Calvados, Father Nicolas sat Michel and himself down on a dusty green velvet sofa. The room smelled damp and unaired. Heavy green curtains half blocked the window. Dark wooden pieces of furniture loomed in the poor light of a streetlamp below the window.

  The priest produced a fairly white handkerchief from his cassock pocket. Michel took it gratefully and blew his nose. He then wiped his face, and the priest noticed, though the light was so poor, how very lined his face was. Peasants aged young, he knew that – he had been born a peasant himself. But Michel looked much too old for his years.

  ‘How old are you, my son?’

  Surprised by the question, Michel replied with a half-sob, ‘I shall be thirty in June, mon Père.’

  ‘A turning point in a man’s life.’

  ‘Indeed, mon Père.’ He rubbed the handkerchief wearily over his forehead. ‘At thirty, I had hoped for regular work, a little home …’ He trailed off into another sob.

  The old man nodded agreement. ‘At present too many are also in the same situation, my son.’ He sat for a minute silently contemplating the bewildered, beaten man. Then he went on gently, ‘I know that, like many others in Calvados, you have borne unspeakable burdens. But I do not think you have ever given in. This distress may have been triggered by something more recent. Have you, perhaps, also lost someone recently?’

  Michel’s weeping was receding now, and he answered fairly clearly in a puzzled voice, ‘No, mon Père.’ He nearly added: But I fear to lose someone; yet, he felt too shy to mention Barbara, afraid that his sudden love for her would sound irrational to a priest.

  He bit his lower lip, and it seemed to Father Nicolas that the dreadful crying was about to return, so the priest hastened to continue, ‘Or perhaps, during the war, you lost someone you loved very much, yes? And dared not weep for them at the time? And something brought his memory back to you?’

  Michel’s face registered sudden despair. Already haggard, he now also looked yellow as his colour receded.

  He was silent for a moment. The priest must have second sight!

  ‘Yes, mon Père.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’

  The story of Henri’s terrible end at the hands of the Germans poured out. The priest himself was shocked, though he had seen enough himself to know that what he was hearing was the truth. Sometimes it was very hard to accept the Will of God.

  ‘We had to be quiet, not draw any attention to ourselves, you understand, mon Père, for fear our part in the escape of the Jewess was discovered. You know about these things, Father.’

  ‘Yes, my son. Sometimes we have to accept such horrors and simply trust in God.’ He was pensively silent as he considered the dumb bravery of the dead man. Then he added with a sigh, ‘But your friend Henri was a very brave young man.’ His voice lifted. ‘I believe it is important that his sacrifice be remembered, don’t you? Perhaps we can do something that would perpetuate the story of his bravery, to be an inspiration to future generations?’

  As intended, the constructive suggestion diverted Michel a little. It was a comforting idea, and Michel nodded.

  ‘We will talk further about it another day, Michel. I am sure something can be done. Perhaps a tiny garden for the public to rest in – or a plaque on the cathedral wall, eh?’

  He squeezed the clinging hand, and said, ‘Now, tell me what you were doing when this memory came back to you? Do you have work? I believe that, like many others, you cannot yet get back to work your farm.’

  Michel let out a huge sigh. ‘I’ve been driving the taxi for the American morticians who are here – you will know about them, Father?’

  The priest ventured a small joke. ‘Yes, I do. Who could avoid seeing three such huge men? Monsieur Duval’s taxi, I presume?’

  Michel nodded. He was still sobbing, but quietly now.

  ‘Were the Americans obnoxious to you in some way?’

  ‘Oh, no. They are most kind to me.’ Despite the firm reply, French pride intervened, and he added, his lips quivering, ‘Naturally, they think that they won the war. And I don’t disillusion them by saying that many others helped, including us – because they do mean well.’

  ‘And, as well, I hear the taxi takes relations of the fallen to the cemeteries?’

  Michel hesitated, and then admitted, ‘Yes.’ He paused again. ‘Colonel Buck gave me permission,’ he said defensively.

  Michel’s face suddenly had a stubborn closed look. There is more to this, considered the priest. He sighed again.

  The landlady knocked and bustled in without waiting for permission. In each hand she held a tiny glass of Calvados. She carefully set one before the priest. As she handed the second glass to Michel, she was relieved to see that he appeared much calmer. She warned him with a smile that it was strong. ‘Sip it slowly. It is really good – the Germans never found it!’

  To give them some light, she took a box of matches out of her apron pocket, and turned to strike a match and light a candle in a tall wooden candlestick on a small side table.

  Dead match in hand, she hesitated in front of them, perhaps hoping to be invited to join the party. But the priest said, ‘We shall be here a little while longer, my daughter. Monsieur Benion needs to rest.’

  She was dismissed. ‘Of course.’ She retreated, and then went upstairs to report to Madame Benion that Michel seemed more tranquil.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Michel shyly sipped the Calvados. The priest did not. He let the glass lie on the side table, and turned thoughtfully to the man beside him.

  On an empty stomach, the drink was warming, comforting to Michel, and he slowly relaxed. In between the careful sips which he took, he sometimes gave a dry sob.

  ‘My son,’ the old priest addressed him gently, ‘I have seen, since you have been here, that you and Madame Benion have borne bravely the troubles besetting you. Your care of your brother is commendable, and, once or twice when I have spoken with her, your mother has been full of praise for the way you are supporting her in nursing him at home. The strain on both of you must be heavy. Yet, Michel, it is you who have suddenly succumbed. Not Madame Benion, who must be in great sorrow at the impending loss of her elder son. Did something special happen to you?’

  I am being most insensitive, he thought, but I must get to the root of this, otherwise they will call a doctor, who will prescribe pills which will do nothing to heal the man.

  Michel cleared his throat. ‘Maman does grieve, as I do, no doubt about it. She holds up amazingly,’ he said. He stopped for a moment, and the cleric gave his hand a little squeeze. Then Michel continued, ‘We worry also that we cannot make our room more comfortable for Anatole. The money he receives because he was taken by the Germans is enough to feed him and what medicines Monsieur le Docteur prescribes are free, of course, but nothing replaces the comforts of our lost home.’

  He stopped to consider his mother’s quiet stoicism, and then went on slowly, ‘Since driving the taxi, I can pay a little higher rent, but nowhere can I find a decent place in the city to live; the town is still full of refugees from Caen.’ He sighed. ‘And with an invalid it is a real problem. Immediately a landlord hears that Anatole has tuberculosis, he might put us out.’

  ‘Madame Blanc knows, I presume?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. She has been a saint. Since Anatole cannot move about the house, she says he’s unlikely to pass on the disease.’

  Michel’s voice was steady now, though he still sounded weary an
d uncertain, as if he had himself been ill.

  In an effort to clarify what had actually triggered his collapse, the priest plunged into the subject of exactly what he had done that day, commencing with getting up in the morning.

  A little surprised at the question, Michel began with helping his brother to wash and then listed his morning’s work, until he reached his going to the cathedral.

  There he stopped. He gave no indication as to why he went. He thought irritably that Monsieur le Curé was almost putting him through a Confession, without the guarantees of the sanctity of the Confessional.

  ‘So you sat in the cathedral? I cannot quarrel with that,’ the priest said with a gentle laugh. ‘Do you do that often?’

  ‘Mais non, mon Père,’ Michel replied with disarming honesty. ‘Normally, I have no free time. When I am not driving the taxi, I work in Carnot’s market garden – his strawberry beds, at present. I weed. I pick peas, lettuces – whatever he wants. I also cut the grass and weed, and water the roses for a Monsieur Dubois.’ He made a wry mouth. ‘I should be at Monsieur Dubois’s house now.’

  Dubois was a notorious black marketeer and no friend of Mother Church, so the old man replied a little tartly, ‘It is now dark. His flowers will not come to harm for a day or so.’ Then he asked, ‘Are you, perhaps, making a novena in the cathedral for your friend Henri?’

  ‘Non, mon Père.’ Michel sighed a great sobbing sigh.

  ‘Would you like to tell me what you sought in our beautiful cathedral?’

  There was silence.

  ‘It is difficult to explain, mon Père.’

  ‘Try. I want to help you, you know that. You can do it in the Confessional, if you would prefer.’

  ‘Oh, I have done nothing wrong, Father.’ The Calvados was loosening his tongue, and he was suddenly quite indignant. ‘I just saw how pleasant life could be – given ordinary luck.’ The hand which the priest still held tightened its grip. ‘You see, mon Père …’ He turned to face him, ‘I am nearly thirty, halfway through my life. But I have no wife, no children. I have nothing. No way that I can see of getting out of my present situation, either, unless we can get back on the land. And even then, how does one build new flocks from nothing?’