by Cesca Major
‘Luc, Tristan, you are both there on the stream with your rods and your little pot of bait and you are watching the silvery fishes darting just below the surface.’
The noises in the distance seem to dim, seem to join with the sound of crickets in the long grass, the gentle plop as we toss the end of the line into the water.
‘Your father is there, looking so handsome in his suit, and you all run over to him and he sweeps each of you up into his arms, and twirls you around.’
A woman is crying nearby and I open one eye, but Maman is focused on our faces, looking at us as she says, ‘He holds you close, and he hugs you tightly and tells you he loves you and that you are good children.’
There is an explosion from the corner of the church, and Maman rocks Luc gently, an arm around Dimitri. It is getting hotter.
‘Darlings, can you see it? Can you see us all by the river?’
I squeeze my eyes shut and I focus on the scene, picture Papa’s laughing face, my mother smiling at us. We are all there. It’s summer.
‘I can, Maman,’ I say. ‘We’re by the river.’ I can smell the freshly cut grass, I can taste the strawberries, I can see Papa and Maman on the blanket. They are laughing.
A massive noise, a burst of hot.
I am sitting with Luc on the bridge over the stream, holding our rods and looking at the silvery fishes that are darting just below the surface. I turn and see Maman, Papa, Dimitri and Eléonore. They’re on the blanket and they are laughing.
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
I remember. I remember it all.
The town crier, who doubles as the smith of the village, a man who always looks as if he has missed his last meal, is beating his drum in the high street. I can hear the muffled sound through the walls. I move across the landing to my bedroom, pushing open the little window by my dresser to peer out. I hear the call the moment the window is open. He is calling everyone to leave their homes and bring their papers to the fairground.
At the same moment, Isabelle is calling the same message up the stairs from the shop.
I look down to see the tops of people’s heads moving towards the green. There are soldiers in the distance and I feel a sudden coldness clutch my chest. Paul is out somewhere with Vincent – a walk after lunch – and I move quickly down to Vincent’s study to collect our papers and make my way down to the shop.
Isabelle and I shut the shop quickly. Sebastien is sleeping in the back room and Isabelle decides to carry him rather than take the pram. The whole village seems to be moving in a swell towards the green, and I am looking around for my husband and my son.
There are a huge number of soldiers on the road and, as we reach the green, we can see dozens of them in different groups: some on the edge of the green; some in the high street, ushering people out of their homes. Everywhere they are telling people to get their papers for an identity check.
A few vehicles arrive with people they must have picked up from outside the village. I recognize Madame Thomas as she steps down, a bright ray of colour in a lilac sundress, sunglasses perched on the top of her head. She has a book in her hand, as if she forgot to leave it when they told her to come.
The soldiers are wearing camouflage uniform, many of them are young, Paul’s age, and look bored, hot in the sunshine in their uniforms. A few moments later the doctor, about the only man in the village to still drive a car, is directed to park on the edge by the main thoroughfare. He gets out and his identity is checked; I can see him talking to the soldier who is scanning the papers he is handed.
I can see Vincent looking for us and put up my arm in a half-wave, calling to him at the same time as other voices do the same to their loved ones. Vincent’s eyes light on us and he starts to make his way over, Paul in his wake, talking to the elderly Monsieur Renard, or being talked at – you can never be absolutely sure. I feel instantly lifted that they will be with us, waiting, and kiss both of them on the cheeks when they appear with the same questions on their lips as everybody else.
Paul is nervous, quiet, as he reaches out to stroke the sleeping Sebastien. I imagine the proximity of the soldiers is unsettling for him and I see a glimpse of the man he must have been these last few years – his eyes have momentarily lost their light as he wraps one arm protectively around his little sister. I smile at him and he returns it.
Vincent is a little more relaxed, looking over at a few of his friends who are standing in a group, puffing on cigarettes as if they are still sitting around a table in the bar, about to challenge one another to a game of backgammon. Many look untroubled by the noise and chaos around them and, looking at them, as I imagine Vincent feels too, quells the unease a little.
The baker approaches a group of soldiers as we wait, many eyes swivelling towards him as he asks if he can go and check on the loaves he has put in the oven – he doesn’t want them to spoil. A nearby soldier answers, ‘We will see to it,’ and I frown as he moves back to his family, a slight shake of his head at his wife who rolls her eyes.
‘What did he say?’ Isabelle whispers.
My answer is cut off by the arrival of a parade of children, who have all come from a party of some sort. They’re in high spirits. Their voices – curious whispers and squeals on seeing their parents – add to the noise. Families reuniting, complaints from those waiting, questions on everyone’s lips. Some worried looks, others soothing. We are all gathered, waiting for the check.
A gaggle of girls – four Lauder sisters – dressed in neat, matching clothes, are whispering to each other nearby. The eldest daughter holds the hand of Renée, who turned six only the week before. She announced it proudly in the shop, showing off a new yellow ribbon that her mother gave her as a present. The two middle daughters are talking quietly to each other as they stare with a mixture of curiosity and alarm at a group of nearby soldiers. Their mother prowls their little circle, looking warily at the foreign men.
We have been on the green for nearly an hour. Paul is holding Sebastien, circling his back with his hand. Isabelle is talking to Monsieur Renard, who came into the village this afternoon to pick up his tobacco ration. I assure him I will be back in the shop serving him when the identity check has been completed.
The soldiers eventually begin to separate us into men and women and children. We have never had an identity check before and I allow myself to be herded. Paul and Vincent are blocked from view as others come between us and soldiers move through the crowds directing everyone. I briefly see a look on Paul’s face that makes my breathing quicken and then remind myself to stay calm. I don’t want to upset Isabelle.
The whole process takes a while and I watch as Paul and Vincent move to one side of the green and Isabelle and I move nearer the high street. I am glad they are together. I can see them talking as they are asked to sit and wait on the edge of the green.
When we are instructed to join another group, my heart freezes as I hear, in accented French, a soldier say, ‘We believe there is ammunition and weapons in the village …’
Some people swap looks and my stomach plummets again.
‘… we will be searching the village …’
More whispers.
‘… it would be better if the woman and children wait in the church while this goes on.’
We are swept along in a tide towards the church at the bottom end of the high street. Madame Garande is still carrying her bags and the two Dubois girls are arm in arm – Claudette seems so thin compared to her sister, who is about to give birth any day now. I am craning to look back over my shoulder at Paul and Vincent but the crowds are in the way and I can’t see them. Isabelle calls to me, Sebastien woozily awake in her arms, and I hurry along to be by her side once more; my hand reaches out to rest on her arm. My own growing fear shows on her face and I swallow.
Some of the soldiers up ahead have encouraged the
children to sing and as we make our slow progress to the church, leaving the men behind while the soldiers search the village, their sweet voices unite, lifting everyone as we step into the church, out of the day’s heat and the light.
We make our way through the clusters of groups in the church as more and more people file in. It is crowded and whispers fly around the echoing space. The singing has stopped, some people are crying and one woman is pleading with a nearby soldier. She wants to be with her husband – he has been ill, she explains, she is worried about him. She is pushed roughly and I watch the expression of the soldier who has done it harden as he looks at her.
The look sweeps through my body as if he has looked at me in the same way: uncaring, cold. I start to take big breaths.
More and more people flood in and Isabelle and I are pushed further into the body of the church; we are near the choir stalls when I hear people call out.
Soldiers stand at the entrance, stopping us leaving, even though some women are begging to be let go.
There is smoke. It’s in the air, making me cough. I move with Isabelle towards the altar, Sebastien in her arms, a sea of other woman and children around us both. There are hundreds of us. I try to peer around at what is going on. People are moving against the walls, behind the altar, anywhere, filling every hole. The window above me throws light down on the crowd, I can see the blue sky through the panes of glass. We are bustled and shunted beyond the pews, crammed to the sides as still more come. There are shouts now, the soldiers angrily swapping exchanges with the women who are beseeching them in a language they can’t understand.
Some soldiers drag a box further into the nave – it’s this that is letting off the smoke. They move back down the aisle and then, with no warning, there is a loud bang. Everyone screams in unison. Sebastien is crying, growing red in the face.
Smoke, heat billows, panic. The noise. Where are the men? Where is my boy? Shots from outside. Even in this madness, in the church people fall silent.
More shots. Closer now. Fired into the church. Women start falling, others curve over their children. I move Isabelle towards the back of the altar, against the wall. The smoke keeps coming, worse now, we are crouching on the floor, the sides, anywhere to breathe the air. I keep shouting to Isabelle to get out, we have to get out. The doors are shut, they have locked us in. Isabelle’s eyes are huge; through the smoke, I can see her clutching Sebastien closer to her chest.
‘Hush, hush, hush.’
We have to get out. It’s my only thought. We have to get out.
I start to look around us, at others clawing at the thick stone walls, clambering over the wooden pews, calling out familiar names. Isabelle stands fixed to the spot as I look about, see a small ladder, picture the ankles of the chaplain as he stretches to light a candle. I blink, start to drag the ladder towards a window at the back of the altar. It’s within reach. Children are crying so hard their faces have turned bright red, as if their lungs are bursting with their cries.
This is hell. This is what hell will be like.
I clamber onto the stool, call for Isabelle, beckon her to me. ‘I can reach the window,’ I insist, hitching my skirt up, forgetting any decency. Isabelle stares at me, already lost to another place, her arms wrapped around her baby. Sebastien’s cries now blend with the rest.
I can’t think.
The glass of the window is smashed and I can feel the hopeful hint of a breeze on my face as I heave my body up to the gap. There are blasts from the centre of the church, and great belches of black smoke make my eyes sting as I turn to help Isabelle up. I see people everywhere, a room of women and children half-obscured in the smoke. Some have picked up a long pew, trying to ram the doors open. Flames have begun to lick the opposite wall. A young girl tries to get out of another window.
She is shot.
The shots in the village continue to ring out beyond. Fists pound on every surface of the church. Endless faces below me, distorted with wailing. Children clinging to their mother’s legs, women I have known and schooled with, women I have worked with, dined with, served in the shop.
And my own daughter standing below me.
‘Isabelle!’ I call, one leg now half out of the window. ‘Climb up,’ I urge.
I have manoeuvred my whole body onto the edge of the window frame and can make out the ground below. I will surely break a leg jumping.
‘Isabelle, come on,’ I repeat, preparing myself for the leap.
Isabelle looks up at me as another blast explodes, puts a foot on the first rung. My face burns.
‘Isabelle,’ I cry. Everything has slowed down, sounds far away.
Isabelle is holding Sebastien up to me.
‘Take him,’ she says.
I look at her, at the baby just out of my grasp. The smoke, their faces, my tears, the screaming in my head.
‘Maman, quickly, take him!’ she screams, lifting the little body an inch higher. He is so close me. I am half dangling out of the window. The gentle air of our French summer is wafting around my legs, my upper body is still in hell.
‘Take him.’ She is trying to scramble up the rungs; others have noticed this exit. The ladder sways.
I stare at her face, and then I turn to the ground below. I look back one last time. It is so hot in there, she has to follow, we have to get out now. Our eyes meet. A look.
I jump. I jump and while I am falling, all I see is that look.
As I land awkwardly outside the church something bites into my leg. That look.
The smooth walls of the church loom before me as I stare up at the window I have escaped from. I hold one hand out to the cool stone. The window is high above me. I can’t get back up. There is another explosion from inside, bigger this time, and smoke pours out of the gap. The screams and the wails are dying down on the other side of the stones.
Her face. That look. The next blast throws me away from the wall, the stones crumble in front of me. I stagger, move quickly, there is mud and bushes and I am fumbling, covering myself with dirt, burying myself in the darkness.
That look.
ISABELLE
Pushed, shoved by other mothers and daughters. Children swarming around my legs. I am clutching Sebastien so hard I momentarily worry that I will smother him.
Soldiers walk by, marching us up the wide stone steps and into the church. It is decorated with flowers for tomorrow’s First Communion. The air is sweet with their scent. I whisper nothing and everything in Sebastien’s ear. He is stirring again, blinking at me in recognition.
My heart is hammering and Sebastien is crying now, hungry, can feel his mother’s frightened breathing. Maman is here, backed into a corner by others. What is happening to the men outside? People are screaming for their husbands, fathers, and I can see Maman pale with the absence of Paul and Father, her face etched with questions. There are so many of us in here.
They are dragging something inside; Maman is looking at it, she returns to my side, her head looking left and right for an exit. There is a window just out of reach. There is smoke now and we are moving without thinking.
An explosion, a noise, heat.
‘Isabelle, come on, come on.’ She urges me forward somewhere. I am coughing, unseeing, feeling only Sebastien’s little body in my arms.
Maman has dragged a ladder from somewhere, she is pulling it towards the window. She is clambering up it.
I go to follow, put a foot onto the first rung. She has made it to the sill, looks down at me, her eyes rolling, almost unseeing, one foot already in the outside. I push Sebastien up to her.
‘Take him, Maman.’
She reaches an arm forward, struggles to reach him, looks behind her. It is so hot, I can barely make her out in this smoke. I clutch with one hand on another rung, feeling for the next.
I see her face one more time, reach Sebastien up so that he is nearly
at her fingertips.
She slips away from me, through the window, her upper body slowly falling backwards. When I see her face for an instant, our eyes lock. The last time I will see her, the whites of her eyes, a blink. And she is gone.
Shouts, smoke, fiery heat and then a rattle of gunfire. I am falling, my head hits stone, sliding slowly down, down, down, Sebastien still in my arms. It is so hot. Sebastien cries, his face red, we are all burning, slowly, quickly, it rages.
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
I wait for him in the orchard.
Doctor Taylor listened as I told him my story, the part meant for him at least. I spoke in short waves, taking sips of water, my tongue swollen in my mouth, weighty, some words slurred or lost, and then another sip.
My jaw aches at the end of the day. I open my mouth in the darkness, purse my lips, practise the movement, want it back.
He returned one final time. A phone call was made to Sebastien in England.
I knew this moment would come. Sister Marguerite found me this morning in the chapel. I lit candles for them. The flames quivered as I cupped each one, whispered words to them all. She drew me out here gently, precious, guiding.
I smooth my skirt down, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, glance at the book I am holding and wait: every fibre of my being waits. The breeze is gentle and the subtle noises of summer seem in stark contrast to my drumming heart. My eyes flick to the road; little hints of shingle can be spotted between clusters of trees, any movement makes my chest constrict, a breath sucks in. A passing cart, a bicycle, will appear fleetingly before diving back into the trees, and I will wait once more for the rare sound of an automobile on the road.
I hear him before he arrives – the bumping of the tyres as he makes his way off the road and navigates around the pot-holes on the dusty track to the nunnery.
The engine is switched off, the crunch of his footsteps – just his – on the gravel. A knock, a bell, some words in the distance, a question and answer.