by Michael Smth
Clarisse slipped a hand under Camille’s sweater and ran wiggling fingers up her back, squealing, “Here’s your tingling terror, Cami!”
Camille shrieked, but soon she was laughing with the others.
Simone Jaffre had a voice so tiny her nickname was Trout. “I’d dream of a handsome boy, no matter his side, brought in badly wounded. Imagine cleaning his wounds! Comforting him. Nursing him over many months.” She hugged herself.
“Hey, Troutsie,” jeered Clarisse, “don’t forget to imagine his torrid tongue flicking your ear and his frantic fingers dashing up your linens.”
“Clarisse!” Simone whined.
Isabelle from Paris huffed, “LaCroix, you’re the only one slut enough to think that.”
Clarisse studied her nails. “I doubt it.” She blew Isabelle a kiss and strolled off.
Laetitia took Simone’s arm in hers. “Well I like your dream. My soldier’s a cavalry officer on a white charger. He’s got curly, black hair and a strong mouth. As I nurse him back to health, we fall in love and ride off on his steed, eloping to the Riviera.”
Isabelle said, “For me, his name is Laurent. We too fall madly in love, then have an exquisite, tearful goodbye when he’s sent back to the front.”
Camille giggled. “We’ll have Puccini write you a farewell duet, and I can just see the last scene: Laurent dies at the front with, ‘Isabelle, my love!’ on his lips. And brokenhearted, you die here—of consumption, naturally.” Camille leaned back and coughed softly. She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyes closed.
“Cami, you goat!” Isabelle pinched her friend as everyone erupted in laughter.
When the group quieted, Simone took Eva’s hand and looked into her eyes. “And Eva, for what do you long?”
Eva shrugged. “For nothing so romantic, I guess. I feel restless. I just want to get on with it.” Her eyes opened wide, as if she’d startled herself saying all that. “Whatever it is.”
No one asked Françoise what she felt. Good thing, for icy fear froze her tongue.
Just when Eva had given up on a birthday celebration, Françoise pulled her away from the others. “If only we could get back to the dormitory,” she whispered. “I have gifts for your birthday hidden there, and you must have them now, in case something dreadful happens.”
Eva took Françoise’s hands in hers. “We could sneak back there. Sister E. won’t return for a few minutes, and she won’t notice us gone when she does. The next time the others rush to the window, we’ll slip out together. How about it?”
Within five minutes the pair were creeping into the deserted dormitory.
As they sat together on her bed, Eva said, “Your idea to come here is the best birthday gift. Breaking rules—it’s the best antidote for boredom.”
Françoise beamed. “But the plan was yours, Eva.” She turned serious. “Being here with you is wonderful for me, too. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time to a safe world, far from the claustrophobia of the vault and the silliness of the classroom. A world where I don’t expect grim-faced soldiers with rifles and bayonets to burst through the door. One where rumors aren’t passed from girl to girl like influenza. Where, for a moment at least, fears for my family can evaporate like beads of water on a hot stove. Where I can simply celebrate a best friend’s birthday.”
Bathed in a shaft of golden sunlight streaming in through the window, Eva opened her gifts: A tin of candied apricots, a copy of Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac, a pair of silk stockings from Françoise’s father’s shop in Brussels. The pair sang a birthday duet, ate sugared fruit, and promised always to be best friends, no matter what.
There was a thud, perhaps the slam of a door. Eva saw fear flicker in Françoise’s eyes. “Françie, we’re sharing my birthday. Caspar is safe. We’ve got excitement. It’s not so bad.” She took Françoise’s hand. “Look, we’re all afraid. That’s uncertainty for you. But it’ll be fine in the end. No matter what army marches in. It may mean a few new rules. The kings, the prime ministers, the chancellors—their lives will turn upside down. But we’re little people, leaves riding a stream. We go from still water to rapids, from eddies to falls, drifting along without trouble—unless we fight the current.”
Françoise forced a smile. “Eva, we are little people, you and I, but I’m not only that. As a Jew, I know if it’s the German army that marches here, there’ll no place for me.”
Eva squeezed Françoise’s hand. “I’ll concede Herr Hitler won’t have you over to dinner. But who wants his old schnitzel and sauerkraut anyway?” Eva grinned. “Life won’t turn black. Like I said, there will be new rules. But so what? It’s no big deal. Be that leaf in the stream! Don’t resist the current.”
Françoise was silent for a moment, as if reluctant to reply. “Sweet Eva. Always wanting to help. Always so wise.” She paused. “Almost always. Eva, I’ll never have a truer friend than you. But I don’t think you understand how different things would become for the two of us. Hearing you now, I can only think of what my father says, The only fish that swims with the current is the dead fish.” Françoise shuddered. “We should get back.” She sounded exhausted.
Eva kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “Remember, we’re leaves, not fish. Chin up.” But even words bright as morning sunshine couldn’t melt the frost on Françoise’s heart.
Back in the classroom, Eva could taste the brew of fear and boredom fermenting there. This calls for a tonic. Another chapter in the tales of the residents of St. François D’Assisi.
Even Clarisse slipped casually in among the listeners when Eva began.
“One morning the wrens were awakened early by a clamor outside their dormitory room in the grand old fir tree that served as the convent school. All atwitter, the wrens sprang from their nests. They were ruffling their feathers and chattering when Sister Mouse burst in. Since the dormitory room was a rather large space for so small a voice to fill, she cleared her throat and squeaked, ‘Students, this morning the forest is full of geese. Their coarse honking assaults every ear. We meet with Mother Swan momentarily on the chapel branch.”
Dani took Eva’s hand. “Who are the geese supposed to be?”
“L’Hôpital, that’s a really dumb question,” Nathalie said. “They’re some kind of soldiers or something. Right, Eva?”
Eva smiled, “Patience, girls. You’ll have an idea, soon enough.”
“In three minutes the wrens dressed and flew down to the chapel. A moment after they arrived, the door latch clicked, and every head turned to watch Mother Swan glide in. She was serene as she spoke. ‘My flowers, as you know, gaggles of geese fill the forest, and they don’t show signs of moving on. Have you thoughts on what to do about our Goose-tapo problem?’”
Danielle squealed, “The Germans. I knew it!”
Eva smiled at Dani and continued. “There were whispered chirps and hushed peeps, but no ideas surfaced. Finally, Sister Tortoise rose in her usual glacial way.
“Mother Swan smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Sister?’
“‘It occurs to me, Mother, that, ignoring certain obvious differences, there is a strong resemblance between a swan and a goose.’
“Mother Swan’s neck stiffened, and her beak opened, and her wings flared out, and a hiss began to form in the back of her throat, as if—
“Sister Tortoise seemed oblivious to Mother’s reaction. ‘Now, a swan is larger than a goose, but that would be to our advantage, wouldn’t it? In my experience, geese are easily intimidated. Mother, you could go outside and claim to be the head goose and order them to leave St. François alone.’
“Mother studied the notion for a moment. You could almost see her mind running with it. She relaxed her wings and her beak and her throat. ‘Sister Tortoise, you’re a genius!’
“Mother looked through the window at the geese below, strutting their silly, stiff-legged kick-walk. ‘We must hurry. Sister Mouse, come! Up on my beak.’ Sister Mouse jumped up, and it looked as if Mother had a stubby toothbrush mousta
che. She marched onto a tree limb overlooking the forest floor, and holding her right wing up, she boomed, ‘Achtung!’”
Eva put a finger to the space between lip and nose, a pseudomoustache, as she spoke Mother’s lines. The girls’ giggling turned to raucous laughter.
“The geese looked up, and their eyes popped. They cried, ‘Our Führer!’
“With Sister Mouse on her beak and wild wing flapping and loud ranting, Mother Swan had the geese spellbound. She roared, ‘I command that you keep clear of these parts. I will personally see to things here. Pity any goose who ignores my order! You are dismissed. Raus!’
“Mother kept up her flamboyant wing movements and guttural blusters until, in a cloud of feathers, dust, and honks, all the geese had fled. Then she strutted back into the chapel, to the cheers and adulations of every wren.”
St. Sébastien’s girls likewise broke into cheers.
A minute later, Clarisse pulled Eva aside. “In your fairy tales, Goldilocks, good may triumph. But you know, real life hardly ever works that way.”
“In real life who’s to say what good is?” Eva replied. “What matters to me is, for the moment at least, my fable’s sent fear and uncertainty scurrying off with my geese.”
“‘With my geese,’ Blondie?” Clarisse smiled sweetly. “Or should I say, Fraulein?”
Late that afternoon, Mother announced that all the students should be in their dinner seats twenty minutes ahead of the usual 6:30 time. Everyone knew that Sister Arnaude had ridden her bicycle to get the news in Lefebvre. Anticipation bubbled.
Virtually every girl was seated by 6:00, rumors passing from student to student like answers to geometry homework. Camille’s was the most repeated. “After his success with U-boats in the Atlantic, they say Monsieur Hitler now turns the idea against us. He’s unleashed a fleet of underground vehicles, burrowing like moles under France and Belgium. Whenever they like, these U-Wagens as the Boche call them, pop to the surface to unleash death and destruction. It’s true; I swear on my braids! If you doubt me, put an ear to the ground. See if you don’t hear a faint rumbling.”
At 6:10 precisely, Mother Catherine came in. Quick as a radio unplugged, the room went silent. The eyes of every girl seemed fixed on Mother’s lips, as if seeing the words formed would bring their message better or faster.
Eva took in the nun’s countenance. Framed by her veil, Mother’s was a striking face. Even from across a room, her sparkling eyes ensnared one’s attention like Cassiopeia’s stars on a clear night. Eva liked her mouth, which could be anything from soft, even sensuous, to resolute. Mother’s nose was long and pointed, but slender, giving an elegant line to her face. She was tall and slim and moved with such grace that she seemed to glide an inch above the floor. Camille, who’d been at St. Sébastien longer than any other girl, swore that before her vows, Mother had been a silent film star—that she’d seen her on a movie poster. No girl doubted it.
Mother Catherine started with the sign of the cross and a prayer. She related the day’s news, emphasizing that most of the actual fighting was far west of them. She ended on an optimistic note. “Remember our patron saint. Each of you is a daughter of Sébastien, who defied a Roman emperor and his army of occupation. When they tried to silence his opposition with a rain of arrows, his spirit prevailed. And when Fourteenth Century Europe was enveloped by the Black Death, a foreshadow of the plague of war threatening us now, Sébastien protected the faithful. Pray that the French, the British and the Germans honor our wish for exclusion from their fight. But most of all, my flowers, maintain hope. Remember that the God who counts the tiniest wren will not forget you.”
When Mother said the word “wren,” Eva thought she saw the nun wink at her.
At precisely 6:30 the dinner meal was served. Potato and leek soup, coarse bread, butter, and cheese, with tea instead of the usual milk—the first of many changes to come.
Filthy and Pristine
On the third day after the invasion, the mayor’s wife bicycled to St. Sébastien and rang the bell at the convent’s entrance.
Sister Martine opened the door and eyed the beads of sweat on the visitor’s brow. Madame Beaugarde was an ample woman stuffed into a gray wool suit.
“Good day, Sister.” Madame Beaugarde was puffing. “I’ve come in an official capacity to confer with Mother Catherine.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her face and throat. “Oh my. So warm this morning. And me with only a bicycle since our motorcar won’t run.”
“Good morning, Madame. Please come in.” They walked to the reception parlor where a student in a long white apron copied figures into a ledger. “That will do, Bébé,” The girl curtsied and left. Sister followed her out. “I’ll fetch Mother.”
Mother Catherine came in and nodded. “Welcome to St. Sébastien, Madame. How are you this morning?
“I’m fine, Mother Catherine, thank you.”
“May we offer you tea, Madame?”
“I don’t care for tea on such a warm morning. Besides, I come on an official matter, not a social one.” She straightened her hat, a tired, small-brimmed, black felt affair topped with faded silk violets. Nervously she took a paper from her waistband. “The mayor wrote me notes so I shan’t forget anything.” Her hands shook as she unfolded the sheet. “Mother Catherine, you know that there is to be an assembly in the town square for all of us tomorrow?”
“So I have heard.”
“My husband wishes there to be no misunderstanding about the regimen for the event.” Madame Beaugarde paused as if expecting an invitation to proceed. When Mother kept silent, she cleared her throat and read. “The assembly will begin at noon. You and the sisters and girls must all be in place at that time. There will be no absences.” The woman’s finger led her eyes along the written lines. “No patriotic or anti-German displays will be tolerated. The reception afforded speakers and other dignitaries will be cordial.” She looked up from her notes and added in a defensive tone, “You know, I am just the bearer of the message. But, Mother Catherine, much does depend on Lefebvre’s attitude.”
Mother replied, “I have only the deepest animosity for the gang that violates our soil. But though I willingly place my own fate in the hands of God, I’ll do nothing to compromise the safety of my little ones. We of St. Sébastien will be mute witnesses to tomorrow’s black farce.”
Madame Beaugarde rose. “In that case, good day, Mother Catherine. I will find my own way out.” She stopped at the parlor door and turned. “You know, I didn’t invite the Boche in. None of us did. But they’re here and like hornets under the eaves, stirring them up does none of us any good.”
“Indeed,” Mother replied. “But conscience and honor dictate that they also not be made to feel welcomed.”
Madame Beaugarde huffed off.
The next morning, led by the nuns and walking two-by-two, the girls of St. Sébastien departed the school for the trek to Lefebvre. They walked in uncharacteristic silence along the country lane toward the village. Mother, her own mood one of brooding, was content to have the quiet, though she felt guilty for that.
About a kilometer from town, from behind her, Mother heard a lone voice begin singing softly. “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?” Mother looked back. It was Eva singing.
Doing the first verse alone, Eva’s face radiated courage. “Come now, girls,” she called, “remember how we deal with geese. Hold those heads high and sing along! Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?” By the second verse, every student had joined in, singing the round. There were even some smiles.
When all the singing had started, Sr. Eusebia looked back at them, her eyes wide in alarm. She was opening her mouth to silence them when Mother caught her eye and stopped her with an index finger raised to the lips.
So, the girls sang on, even as they marched into the village square at 11:45 to take their position. The townspeople had already assembled before the small dais that had been hastily erected
in front of the Hôtel de Ville. As she and the girls stood facing the platform, Mother felt the sapped faces of the townsfolk to her right and left dragging her spirit down. But it soared as she thought of her girls’ arrival and saw them now arrayed behind her in military-straight ranks, each girl with head held high, standing resplendent in her uniform of snow-white blouse, blue wool jumper, white knee-high stockings, and shiny black shoes. Today it will be the children who teach their elders, Mother thought as she circled her troop, nodding encouragement.
Behind her students, Mother paused to drink-in Lefebvre’s town square a last time before its debasement. With her toe, she traced the edge of an ancient cobblestone, polished smooth over centuries by the scuffs of wheel, foot and hoof. In the square’s center, she gazed for a moment at the bronze statue of the she-fox Liberté defending her pups from a pack of weasels. On the north edge of the square, she viewed the red brick and white marble façade and the baroque-sculpted gable of the Hôtel de Ville. Facing east, her eyes caught the sun glittering off the gold leaf covering the ornate Guild House, between the half-timbered post office and the Nagelmackers Bank. She turned south, to the crouching granite soldier of the Great War memorial and Saint Marc’s, the dark Romanesque church where Father Celion was pastor. And west, to the colorful signs and awnings of the small shops—the bread bakery, the pastry bakery, the smoked meats shop, the butcher shop, the fruit and vegetable shop, the chocolatier, the wine merchant, and the café with its white-clothed, outdoor tables. Her eyes found the road between the café and Saint Marc’s leading to the bridge built in Roman times, the Pont de Pierre, saddle on the back of the mighty River Meuse. “A way out of town!” Saying it aloud felt empowering to Mother. Finally, scanning faces of the townsfolk, she shook her head at the grim expressions, the tear-streaked cheeks. Lefebvre, you’ve been a quiet town who’s dealt with outsiders on your own terms or not at all. Today that changes. We all change. Adieu, Lefebvre.
On the platform a few meters away, two Nazi swastikas ominously sandwiched a Belgian flag. The town’s mayor, its constable, and its doctor sat on the dais looking as happy to be there as hungover men at the opera. Next to them, looking positively ecstatic, was a pro-Nazi Belgian, Leon Le Deux. And there was another civilian, a stranger, with a razor-sharp nose and the dark, darting eyes of a hawk. He wore a swastika armband.