by M. K. Tod
They lived simply, for food was restricted and other goods often unavailable. Monsieur Doucet and Monsieur Garnier brought gifts from time to time, extra eggs or a scrawny chicken, a slab of bacon or jug of cider. Her mother and grandmother could do wonders with a needle and thread, refashioning old clothes left from Tante Camille’s time into a new skirt or warm jacket. Sheets and towels were threadbare from use, but no one complained or thought to waste precious funds on something new.
Jean had continued to attend school during the week unless the shelling sounded too close for their mother’s comfort, and when he returned home, he went next door to help on the Doucet farm, heavy work that broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms and legs. Helene thought he looked more and more like Papa.
When it became clear that Maman and Grandmere needed more of her help, Helene stopped going to school so the family could be self-sufficient. Papa had been upset, but Helene had written to him that she had only a few months left and at eighteen was old enough to know her own mind. She missed the challenge of learning and the camaraderie of friends, especially Germaine, but in truth, Madame Rosnet had taught her all she could. Instead, Helene practiced her English through letters to Marie and read everything she could find, all the classics which had occupied her mother when they first came to Beaufort, books she borrowed and books she implored her father to send. Most recently she had obtained a copy of Madame Bovary and was both shocked and intrigued at Flaubert’s tale of a woman who lived beyond her means and committed adultery in order to escape the emptiness of provincial life.
All vestiges of girlhood were gone. She no longer dawdled along the road or sighed over fashion magazines or complained about her lot in life. She read the newspaper with care and wrote articulate letters to her father and brother. She learned the difference between German, French and British planes so she could recognize any that flew near the house, knew how to bottle and pickle, when to prune their vegetables and how to repair the outside pump. At the end of July, she had advised her mother that Gaston would teach her how to drive as soon as he could secure some gasoline.
Every Thursday, Helene rode her bicycle into Beaufort for an afternoon visit with Germaine. Two years together at school had brought them close, and she thought of these visits as her moment of indulgence in a week of chores and responsibilities. Beyond those somewhat carefree Thursday afternoons, Helene was busy all day and wore a look of quiet authority and purpose. A look her father would not have recognized.
War cultivated a flame of dedication which Helene noticed each time she went into Beaufort—Madame Larouche measured with more accuracy and carried sensible fabrics in dull colours; Dr. Valdane questioned the villagers more carefully before dispensing dwindling supplies and no longer sold goods smacking of luxury; Father Marcel, the priest in charge of St. Jerome’s, grasped each parishioner’s hand with a kindly eye while offering warm words of encouragement; the butcher sold tougher cuts of meat, and the florist was now a shop full of second hand clothes. Front steps were swept each day, fires lit only sparingly, meat reserved for special occasions, leftovers carefully saved. She knew at least three families who had taken in Belgian refugees fleeing the Germans, feeding and clothing them, helping them deal with French bureaucracy and find temporary homes. Those men who remained—mainly old men and a few with physical limitations—walked with upright posture and braced shoulders and participated in the Beaufort Brigade, which the deputy mayor had organized for local defence.
At the post office, rules governing everyday life were pinned conspicuously to a large billboard so the citizens of Beaufort would have no reason to ignore restrictions their government felt necessary for victory. Everyone strived to do their part, and Helene accepted her responsibilities with a sense of duty and sacrifice.
From time to time soldiers came and went. The first time a group of soldiers passed by the house, she had been weeding in the front garden when a thump-thump-thump sounded in the distance. A few minutes later, the noise became much more insistent, and fear had taken hold—a fear that eased a fraction as men dressed in French blue rounded the curve in the road. Leaning on the garden hoe, she had watched them pass by in silence. Where were these men going? Did their presence signify battles moving closer to Beaufort? Would German troops soon follow? Although her questions were never answered, soldiers marching past the house no longer prompted more than vague apprehension.
In 1915, her mother had closed many rooms in Tante Camille’s house to conserve heat in the winter and to devote their time and energy to more important matters than cleaning unused rooms. Reluctantly, Helene had moved from her attic oasis to a small room on the main floor, where she could easily light the morning fire and put on the kettle before anyone else got out of bed.
On a Saturday in early August, Jean agreed to fetch the mail while Helene and her mother were occupied with the dirty, time-consuming task of cleaning both stove and hearth. As he rambled out of the house, he muttered something unintelligible.
“He’s so restless.” Helene’s mother dipped a blackened cloth into a bucket of sudsy water.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Grandmere shook her head. “I remember Henri at that age. Always getting into trouble. I think he picked fights just to prove he was strong.”
“That doesn’t sound like Henri.”
“Well, he wouldn’t let you see that side when he was courting you. But you didn’t know him when he was fifteen or sixteen. Even seventeen. I remember he came home with a broken nose one night after boxing against some ruffian. There were bets on the outcome.”
“Who won?” Helene said, kneeling on the floor so she could reach into the oven and scrub its interior. Though her knees and back ached, she had refused her mother’s offer to change places.
“Your Papa, of course.”
Listening to her grandmother chuckle, Helene mused at the friendship that had evolved amongst three generations brought together by war. After so many months at Tante Camille’s, they mixed easily over shared concerns, ignoring the traditional hierarchy and social courtesies of grandmother, mother and daughter. Though every day brought further worries, at least they had one another.
Helene watched her grandmother rise from her chair, rubbing her back to ease a pain that worsened as the months passed. Nothing Doctor Valdane suggested made a difference. With a bad back and summer heat, her grandmother rarely went into Beaufort anymore. Even on Sundays, she remained at home, declaring that the walk exhausted her and she had heard enough sermons to last a lifetime. It occurred to Helene that her grandmother secretly relished a quiet time without the clatter and bang of household chores or Jean’s muted mutterings.
While changing out of dirty clothes, Helene watched the wind blow, fierce gusts that rattled the loose window in her bedroom and made the trees sway. Perhaps a storm was brewing. She saw a rabbit poised on hind legs twitch his nose and scamper into a thick hedge near the vegetable garden. Somewhere in the house, a door banged and Jean shouted, “Letter from Papa.”
Helene hurried into fresh clothes. Letters from her father kept them informed and often contained news of Guy. Though they rarely knew Guy’s exact whereabouts, Papa’s hints allowed them to speculate. Concern for her brother hung over each day like a brooding bank of clouds, and each night she prayed for his safety.
“What’s the matter, Maman?”
Her mother held the letter against her lips, a look of confused shock on her face.
“Maman!” Helene raised her voice, but still her mother said nothing. Gently she extracted the letter from her hand and began to read.
My dearest Lise,
I am writing in all haste with difficult news. Guy has been wounded. His leg, I believe. He’s in a field hospital not far from Verdun, in a small village called Clermont-en-Argonne. He and his men helped repulse a German attack but were caught by intense shelling when the Germans retaliated the following day.
I urge you to go to the hospital. I would go, but my responsibi
lities are overwhelming right now and I am soon to leave on a lengthy journey. Although our doctors and nurses do their best, men whose families help have the best chance of quick recovery. Take the travel pass I’ve included with you, otherwise it will be impossible to book tickets and pass the sentries. Even so, travel will be difficult. Make your way to Clermont-en-Argonne and ask for Captain St. Laurent. He will know where they’ve taken Guy. Send me news as soon as you see him.
Maman will look after Helene and Jean.
My love to you all,
Henri
“Jean, stop thumping about,” said Helene. “Please get a glass of water for Maman. And find Grandmere.”
Being forced to take charge dampened Helene’s shock at the news they had feared for so long. For once, Jean did as she asked without question. Helene held her mother’s cold, lifeless hands.
“Maman, look at me. We only know that he’s wounded. Nothing else. Speed and calm are important if you’re going to help him. Not hysterics. You can do this. Papa is counting on you.”
Jean returned from the kitchen and offered a glass to his mother, who took it without speaking, her hand trembling so much that water spilled onto her skirt.
“What is it, Helene?” he asked.
“Guy has been wounded. Papa is asking Maman to go to the hospital.” Helene kept her voice even.
Jean stilled, like a deer hearing a sudden rustle. “Is it serious?”
“We shall pray to God that it’s not.”
While Helene helped her mother pack and Grandmere prepared dinner, Jean took a message to Gaston, returning with a promise to arrive early next morning for the trip to Amiens. From there, a train would take their mother close to Verdun.
Verdun. Every French citizen knew it was the last fortress to fall in the Franco-Prussian war and hence symbolized the strength of France. But now it was an ominous place. Since April, news had been dominated by German bombardment of the city and French resistance—a David-and-Goliath battle with almost a million German troops arrayed against a few hundred thousand French. Helene pushed away the thought of both her mother and brother so close to danger and continued to fold the blouses Maman had laid out on her bed. Her mother did not need to be reminded of the difficulties facing their soldiers at Verdun.
*
The Tonneau bounced along narrow country roads, lurching from side to side whenever its wheels found a deep rut.
“General Pétain won’t let those Boches succeed,” said Gaston. “General Joffre handpicked him for the job. A very good man.”
Lise had no idea whether Pétain’s efforts could help Guy in any way, but she appreciated Gaston’s kindness and calm exterior, for her anxiety was dreadful, hanging over every moment like a thick black shroud. She tried to smile.
“What do you know of Nivelle, Gaston? I believe Guy used to be under his command.”
“Yes, and now he’s taking over at Verdun.” Gaston stopped talking as he steered the vehicle around a large boulder. “I wonder how they do it?”
“Do what?”
“They fire without being able to see their targets. Did you know they rely on frontline officers to tell them if their guns are reaching the right spot? And airplanes, I think.”
Knowing that Guy was in charge of large artillery guns, Lise preferred not to think about such things and remained silent. Thankfully, Gaston said nothing further.
The countryside was marked with signs of summer: trees heavy with ripening fruit, wheat turning to gold. In fields that were not left fallow, stalks thickened and plants grew tall. The sun was so warm Lise removed her jacket. They were travelling mainly south to avoid congested routes serving the front. Since Gaston preferred quiet back roads to the main roads, from time to time they encountered deeply rutted sections, which made Lise cringe, fearing that the Tonneau would become stuck. Only once did they have to seek help, and they found a group of willing young boys who pushed and pushed until the Tonneau rushed forward with a slurry of splashing mud.
Along the way, they passed a series of small villages—Barlin, Servins, Capelle-Fermont, Avesnes-le-Comte—each curiously quiet, with only the occasional old woman or young child on the streets, each marked by churches and the fresh graves of their cemeteries. Some reduced to rubble by German bombardment. When they reached Lucheux at midday, they stopped to rest in the town square and eat the lunch Mariele had prepared.
“Everything looks so old here,” Lise said, taking in the grey stone buildings with elaborate, scalloped rooflines and the tall belfry that dominated the square.
“It’s a medieval village. Used to have a surrounding fortress wall and a large chateau, but most of that’s in ruins now.”
Lise had not realized how hungry she was, and they ate in companionable silence for several minutes.
“How is Monsieur?” Gaston asked.
“He’s working very hard. I haven’t seen him since New Year’s.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “How long have you known him, Gaston?”
“Since he was un petit garçon. They came to visit Mademoiselle Camille every summer, and I was her hired man. He was full of mischief then.” Gaston chuckled then popped a large piece of cheese into his mouth. “Rather like Jean, I think.”
Lise smiled. Jean’s antics were almost the only thing that still made her laugh, but he had been growing moodier as each month passed. The inevitable shift from boyhood into the ungainly limbo of neither child nor man, she thought, just like Guy. Her smile disappeared.
“We should be on our way again. Who knows how long it will take for me to get a train.”
“Oui, Madame. Just let me refill the gas before we leave. I have four tins in the backseat. And don’t ask me how I got it.” Gaston chuckled as he crossed the road.
*
Cresting a hill south of Lucheux, the scenery changed. Damaged orchards, pockmarked fields, remnants of trenches and crumpled bridges spread before them. A sentry stationed at one end of a bridge demanded their feuille bleu, examining the blue paper Lise handed over as if his life depended on it before wordlessly waving them through. Beyond the bridge was a small town full of roofless, three-walled houses covered with tarpaulins or gaping boards to provide some shelter for those who remained. Old bricks, twisted stove pipes, fallen gables and broken furniture lay in heaps along the road, and little children, their faces thin and solemn, stared as the Tonneau drove by.
Closer to Amiens, they joined the main road, jostling for position amongst army trucks, marching soldiers and horse-drawn carts piled high with scraps of wood and metal or bales of straw. Those on foot kept to the grassy verge. Gaston slowed the Tonneau to a crawl, and as the minutes ticked by, Lise gripped her hands tighter and tighter.
“Not far now,” said Gaston as they crossed a wide bridge that would take them closer to the town centre.
Beneath the bridge, Lise saw a row of narrow skiffs waiting to pole passengers up and down the river. Wide sidewalks flanked the river, and flower sellers were packing up for the day, hauling large wicker baskets onto wooden carts or into one of the skiffs and tossing remnants of brightly coloured flowers into large metal cans. They were mainly women in jobs previously done by men, and they talked constantly to one another, occasionally calling out to passing friends, smiling wide, raw-boned smiles as if momentarily released from the day’s burdens.
“Selling flowers in wartime?” With so much death and destruction, Lise felt the profusion of colour almost obscene.
“Life goes on, Madame Lise. Weddings, funerals. There is much need for flowers with so many dying. And young men going off to war want to leave something for their sweethearts.”
“You’re right, Gaston. I suppose I’m just worried about Guy.”
Farther on, the Tonneau crossed several canals where water drifted quietly and narrow houses leaned one against the other, shutters closed to retain what limited cool remained inside. Pathways barely wide enough for a single person separated these houses from the canals.
&n
bsp; “I wonder how often someone falls in?” Lise pointed at the canals.
Gaston snorted. “No doubt frequently, especially when they’re drunk.”
Throughout their journey, the rumble of far-off explosions made Lise shudder. But now the artillery was silent, and instead she listened to the sounds of a city attempting to live so close to major action: the tramping of a regiment, the roar of passing motorcycles bearing goggle-clad officers, the clop-clop of weary horses, the clang of a streetcar, the cries and laughs of children at play.
“The station is at the end of this street,” said Gaston as they turned left following a Red Cross ambulance.
Lise let out a deep sigh. “Do you think I will get a train quickly?”
Gaston shrugged. “Who knows, Madame Lise?”
At the station, Lise was disappointed to discover that she would have to travel to Paris first before heading towards Verdun, as rail lines going east from Amiens went through German-held territory. Once in Paris, the ticket seller explained she would find a train to Vitry-le-Francois or perhaps Chalons-en-Champagne. From there, she would have to find other transport. Lise stiffened her back.
“Paris, please. On the first possible train.” She thrust a pile of francs through the wicket.
An hour later, Gaston swung her bag onto an overhead rack while Lise took a seat next to a thin, grey-haired woman. The car was crowded, blue-coated soldiers jamming one end, jostling and joking with crude gestures and loud voices. Lise wiped a layer of soot from her window and noticed a group of soldiers patrolling the tracks, bayonets glittering. Stale smells of sweat and urine made her wrinkle her nose. Signs pasted on the windows admonished travellers to beware—the enemy might be listening.
“Thank you, Gaston. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Tell Guy to get better fast. I’ll stop in to see Madame Mariele each week while you’re away.”