by Liz Nugent
Despite all this activity, my father continued to make time for me, ensuring that I understood the world in a moral sense and that I knew that I would always come first in his life.
In May 1944, just a few months before the Liberation, a midnight raid by the Gestapo found fourteen Jewish families in our cellars, including my best friends Sara and Marianne. I never saw them again, but was later to discover that they and all their families were dead, some shot while trying to escape the camp at Drancy, others gassed in Auschwitz.
The Gestapo seized our home, had my father arrested by the local police, and I was sent to Tante Cecile in the city. I did not see my father again for six months, but prayed every night for his safe return. I do not remember most of these events and it shames me a little that I do not, but I can visualize the story as it was retold to me by those who were old enough to understand what was happening.
We were reunited for Christmas after the Liberation back at Château d’Aigse, but it was barely recognizable as the grand home it had once been. The house had been stripped to its bones: no rugs, paintings, furniture, or bedding. Floorboards had been used as firewood. It was the first time I saw my father cry. Whatever they had done to him in prison had broken him. He was just forty-eight years old.
Many years later, I wanted him to get a typewriter and modernize our archaic filing system, as it would be easier than filling out the old ledgers we used for the administration of the farm. Papa’s refusal was instant and ferocious, and it was only then he told me that while in prison he had been forced to type up deportation orders. He had told nobody, and despite his heroics, he felt nothing but shame. I think it an honorable thing not to visit your horror upon those that you love, but I suspect that the pain of keeping it inside must also cause a lesion to the soul. It was known that when the Gestapo realized they were on the verge of defeat, they became particularly vicious.
I recall the particular warmth of my father holding me tightly in the skeleton of our library, picking over the remnants of our raped bookshelves, where he had kept many precious volumes. Papa was a book collector, and I remember that he swore to restore this room first.
Because our winery had ceased production when we were hiding the families (there was no way of operating without the use of the cellars), and my father’s nerves were too shattered to return to the business of wine, we had no income apart from what was left of his inheritance. We closed off one wing of the house and confined ourselves to just a few rooms. My privileged childhood was over, but I had no concept of it and so I did not miss it. I was too young to be aware of wealth or the lack of it. I was delighted to attend the local lycée as my father tried desperately to nurse his neglected vines back to life. My father begged Tante Cecile to move in with us. He was determined that I should have a mother figure. Tante Cecile was my mother’s older spinster sister. The few photographs that remain of my mother show some resemblance, though my mother was beautiful and Cecile was not. She did not know what to do with a child, and we had many battles of will over the most ridiculous things. My father grew weary of being the referee between us, and it took me some time to realize that if Papa trusted her, then I should also trust her. It occurs to me now that they may have been lovers. I have snapshots of catching them awkwardly together in my mind, but no matter. She was a good woman in a difficult situation, and I should have been more aware of the sacrifice she had made to become my guardian.
It was Tante Cecile who spoke to me about how to be a woman and who gave me napkins when menstrual blood first appeared. I thank God for that, because my father was old-fashioned in a lot of ways and could not have countenanced such a conversation, although he proved to be quite the feminist in other ways later on.
I was decidedly average at school but got respectable grades upon graduation. Papa thought it was time for me to go to university in Bordeaux or Paris, but I was not a city girl and could not imagine myself adjusting to life beyond my friends, my father, and Cecile. The village girls were not going to university and I thought of myself as one of them. They would mostly end up working on our land in some capacity, so I did not want to mark myself out as different from them. They were good, honest people. Besides, we could not afford three years in the Sorbonne, and I thought that anything I needed to learn, I could learn in Clochamps. I had no ambition to be a doctor or a lawyer, as my father had suggested, and I dreaded telling him this. When I eventually did, his relief was palpable. My father and I had become very close, and he depended upon me more as he aged and his health gradually began to fail.
It was arranged that I would work as secretary to the maire, a token job, really, that took up five half days a week, although it was rather more demanding to dodge his roaming hands successfully for the ten years I worked there, usually by reminding him loudly of his obligations to his wife and children and by pointing out how very old he was.
I never breathed a word of this to my father. He would have been horrified, and I was strong enough and confident enough to deal with the old buffoon.
In the afternoons, I returned to my father and Cecile and helped with the work of maintaining the land and the house as we began a painstaking restoration project.
I had a social life with the other young people in the village, and I attended all the local carnivals and dances, but I did not want a boyfriend. I was sought after by the local boys, and I certainly flirted and exchanged kisses and probably was quite a tease, but I did not fall in love. I cannot understand why, as most of my friends fell in love many times before they married and several times afterward, but at the back of my mind, I always wondered, Would Papa like this boy in his house? Would Papa like to see me marry this boy? Could Papa live with this boy? The answer in my head was always negative. My female friends pitied me, I think, as I attended one wedding after another, assuring me that I would be next, suggesting their cousins and friends as potential partners, but I was happy alone.
• • •
The next decade saw the recovery of the vineyard. My father was something of a legendary figure in the entire region. Mostly the villagers felt tremendous guilt that they had done nothing during those terrible years, although we understood their fear. Even known collaborators bent over backward to help us, and Papa accepted their help graciously, knowing that he was doing them the favor. We drew up plans to restore the house to its former glory, although it was a tediously slow process and, as it later turned out, a futile one.
By the time I was thirty-two, my beloved Tante Cecile died peacefully in her sleep and my father was bereft again. I, too, felt grief, but whether my father and Cecile were lovers or not, they were certainly confidants and, I suspect, I was often the sole topic of conversation. Cecile thought my father was wrong not to insist that I go to university. She thought I would never meet a suitable husband in our provincial little corner. After she died, Papa began to worry that she was right. It worried him enormously that I was childless. By then, I had had a healthy number of assignations, and had long since lost my virginity to our butcher’s nephew Pierre, who came to spend a winter in Clochamps and begged me to marry him at the end of it. It was an intense affair, but I saw no future in it, and poor Pierre left the village with a broken heart. Papa had begged me to marry him, or indeed anyone, but I resisted, insisting that I did not want a husband and would never marry. Papa surprised me then by lowering his expectations, suggesting that I take a lover instead. I was shocked, not by the idea of having a lover, which was an entirely acceptable concept, but that my father had suggested it.
“But you need a child!” he pleaded. “When I am gone, there will be nobody! I am getting old and tired and you are here to care for me, but who will take care of you when you are old? Nobody! Who will take care of this estate?”
I had to concede his point. But looking at the potential gene pool in the village, I could not think of anybody who I would want as a father to my child, except Pierre, and he had married and moved north to Limoges.
It had
now been six years since my liaison with Pierre. He was strong and handsome and was interested in old maps and books. I began to regret not accepting his proposal, which I think had been sincere. He had not ever met Papa, but they had shared interests, for example books and me, so they might have been friends.
Pierre visited his uncle once a year, and there was the small matter of timing within my cycle to be considered. I know it was deceitful of me, because perhaps I could have told him the truth and got the same result, but I was afraid that Pierre’s inherent decency would preclude him from cheating on his wife if I had baldly made my request. All Pierre’s qualities were of the kind one would want for one’s child, is that not so?
I set out to seduce Pierre, but my window of opportunity was brief, as he was only around for two weeks to take lessons from his uncle, the longest established charcutier in the region, and I had only four or five possible days within that frame to get pregnant.
At first Pierre failed to respond to my seduction, out of fidelity to his wife and concern for my welfare, but I knew he liked me, and although it took some persuasion, thank God he did not make me beg and I did not have to demean myself. The next three nights we spent together in the annex to his uncle’s abattoir. It was not the most auspicious of locations for a seed to be planted, but the breeze through the valley blew the smell of the slaughterhouse downwind, and a little pastis helped us to forget our circumstances. Pierre was a warm and tender lover, and I regretted that this affection was just temporary, that he would be returning to Limoges to his wife. I fell in love a little for the first time. Pierre was terribly sweet and had an innocence about him that I felt I had defiled by the time he left. He was practically apoplectic with apology for leading me astray, and I assured him that we would never speak of it again. I insisted that it would be best if he did not return to the village the following year, and that we both must move on from our folly, and that he must do his best to make it up to his wife. True to his word, Pierre stayed away, and I was glad and sorry.
I was able to confirm my pregnancy, to my father’s delight, and in 1967 my precious Jean-Luc was born, a big and healthy baby to our enormous relief. I realize that having a baby out of wedlock is shameful in some families, and I am sure that the village must have been alive with gossip, but I think that out of respect for my father and me, they started to refer to me as “the widow.” Better in those days to be a bereaved wife than a single mother. Papa, his mischievous spirit finally returning, was highly amused, as if we had played a successful prank on all our neighbors. “How is the widow this morning?” he might say, with a wink.
From the time of the birth, Jean-Luc and Papa were inseparable. Papa fashioned a harness out of leather straps and carried Jean-Luc on his back as he went about his business in the markets or at the mayor’s office or with the estate manager. As the boy grew, Papa’s general mood improved, although he was growing slightly frailer with each passing day. I tried not to be upset when Jean-Luc’s first word was Papi —Grandpa—particularly since he had been coached from birth to say it. We were completed by him, Papa and me. I had not realized how much I needed my boy until I had him and tried to think of life without him.
In the years that followed, my father returned to his former self, as if the war had never happened, with renewed vigor and spirit. A peach orchard was planted on one side of the struggling vineyard, an olive grove on the other. Jean-Luc’s arrival blessed the house in some way, and our finances began to improve. We began to employ migrant laborers, men and women, to work the land on a seasonal basis. Right up until the summer of 1973.
8
* * *
MICHAEL
Nobody slept for days after the fire. Obviously, the vineyard work was canceled. I proposed going home to Ireland, but Oliver pointed out angrily that it was our duty to stay and help, and Laura agreed. I felt somewhat ashamed. Madame Véronique was discharged from the hospital a week later, in time for the funerals. She resembled a ghostly scarecrow, her arms and hands heavily bandaged, her face scorched, and what was left of her hair sticking out in tufts. I did my best to make her eat a morsel of this or that and helped her to apply ointments to her face and head as her skin slowly healed. The kitchens had been largely unaffected by the fire, and I took control of mealtimes for all the people who came to help; but her spirit seemed to have disappeared, as if her body were only carrying the functioning parts she needed for breathing.
Oliver changed on the night of the fire too. Drastically. I knew he had grown close to d’Aigse and the little fellow, but he was grieving as if he were family, seldom talking, his face pinched by sorrow. On the day of the funerals, he disappeared completely, only returning late at night, refusing to answer questions or to be comforted. Laura reckoned that Oliver had replaced his absent father with Monsieur. He undertook to salvage the contents of Monsieur’s ruined study—a job he oversaw with great diligence. Laura, already sidelined, was now ignored completely. After two weeks, the bulk of the clearing work was done. There was no question of being paid for our work; we stayed on and got room and board, the food often donated by neighboring families and prepared by me. The vineyard was abandoned once again, and there were whispers about the demolition of the east wing. There was nothing more for us to do. We had already missed the first couple weeks of college. It was time to go. Oliver packed his bags in silence and bade a stoic farewell to Madame, who thanked him for his loyalty and hard work. Some of d’Aigse’s map collections had been rescued, though Madame was devastated to lose so many of his books, of which nothing remained but ashes. I remember that Oliver seemed unable to accept the hug of commiseration and left Madame looking awkward and spare. I could have killed him for that, but it was apparent that Oliver was undoubtedly suffering too.
Laura then became a cause for concern once again. Unexpectedly, she refused to come home, insisting that she wanted to stay and help Madame. I couldn’t understand what she was thinking; it was just another example of her increasingly erratic behavior, as far as I was concerned. There were several long-distance calls back and forth to Dublin as my parents tried to order her return, but Laura was steadfast. Madame didn’t seem to care what happened one way or another, but she assured me that it wasn’t a problem if Laura wanted to stay. She could certainly find something for her to do. I had to be satisfied with that. Laura bade us a tearful farewell. She clung to Oliver hopefully, but he was as emotionless and detached as a tombstone.
• • •
The new academic year started slowly, the drab autumn grayness of Dublin seeming so dull compared to the sun-drenched brightness of Bordeaux. I tried to put the trauma of the summer behind me and get back into study and college life. I quickly linked up with some rather camp individuals, the ones I had shunned the previous year out of fear, and began to develop friendships in a different social circle. Even though I still met up with Oliver from time to time, we were clearly estranged, and any time I raised the topic of the summer we had just spent in Bordeaux, he quickly changed the subject, until after a few attempts I never raised it again. I don’t know if it was my sexuality, my relationship to Laura, or the fact that I reminded him of death that caused the distance between us. Perhaps he blamed Laura for taking us to France in the first place? Whatever was in his head, I needed to move on.
Notwithstanding the harrowing end to my summer, I also returned a different person. Stepping out of the closet was liberating, and there was no way I could go back. My mother got to hear about the company I was keeping and was of course scandalized—threatened to tell my father, call the parish priest; but it was too late. My summer in France had freed me and given me a confidence I never had before. The fire and its devastating consequences made me realize that life was too short to spend any part of it in denial of the truth. I felt at peace in my new skin, almost reborn. I was determined not to be ashamed, despite what the church or the law said.
My mother was trying her level best to get me back into the closet, but I just wasn�
��t having it. Eventually she did tell my father. He was appalled, threatened to disown and disinherit me, and suggested that Laura didn’t want to come home because she was ashamed of me. That hurt. I begged for understanding. This is who I am, et cetera, all to no avail. He spoke of the disgrace that I would bring on the family and the humiliation to him personally. I was genuinely sorry for that. I promised him that I would be discreet about my activities, but he was disgusted and ranted about having worked hard all his life only to be confronted with the fact that he had raised a nancy-boy.
In retrospect I must be grateful that my father wasn’t a violent man. Lots of fathers were. Dad was hugely disappointed, but it was hard for him and I wonder now if it might not have been better to hide my “depravity” from my family. Later events would, however, eclipse my coming out and thankfully reunite us as a family, what was left of us.
In November 1973, Father Ignatius was summoned to the house. I didn’t know it until he turned up, but I was aware that there was a flurry of cleaning, dusting, and vacuuming activity for a week before his arrival. Silver was polished, and the “good” plates and linen tablecloths appeared from wherever they had been quarantined since the previous Christmas Day. I was ushered into our rarely used front room on a Saturday morning, presented to Father Ignatius, and left alone with him. I was furious at being tricked into this encounter and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He wasn’t the fire-and-brimstone type—a relatively new appointee to the parish, he was in his early thirties, with a gentle way of speaking. His embarrassment was palpable, as, I’m sure, was mine. After some awkward pleasantries, there was a pregnant silence that threatened to give birth any minute. Eventually I broke its waters by apologizing for having him brought here.