by M. K. Tod
“Monsieur and I are forever in your debt.”
He squeezed her shoulder briefly. “De rien, Madame Lise. Bonne chance.”
Back on the platform, Gaston waved his cap in farewell and then disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter 15
August 1916
Lise could hardly hear herself think. After another full day of waiting and travelling, she was finally nearing Clermont-en-Argonne, less than ten kilometres from Verdun. Explosions came from all directions, booming barrages, louder than anything they had heard in Beaufort. A squadron of airplanes buzzed overhead, banking sharply west to head for safety. Smoke filled the horizon, and from time to time the rapid burst of rifle fire let her know how close the enemy was.
She had been lucky when disembarking the train at Chalons-en-Champagne to attract the attention of Captain Ferrand. When she showed him Henri’s letter, he insisted that his driver take her to her destination.
“We will go to the reserve sector first, where I must debrief with my officers. Lieutenant Valois will take you from there.”
Ferrand was short with a thick neck and narrow moustache that curled at each end. He spoke in a clipped but kind voice, giving instructions to the lieutenant, who stood with his hand raised in salute until the captain had finished, then opened the rear door and waited while Lise and Ferrand climbed into the vehicle.
At every crossroad and railway bridge, they encountered a sentry box, and although Lise had imagined such boxes to be small wooden structures, on the route to Verdun they were made of mud and straw and pine branches and leaned against the bank beside the road. While one guard peered into the motorcar, another checked the lieutenant’s papers then lifted his rifle to motion them forward. Lise held her breath each time they passed the sentries.
Along the road French citizens were fleeing in the opposite direction, herding flocks of sheep and cattle, pushing wheelbarrows with squealing, pink-nosed pigs, carrying bundles and sleepy children and small cats or dogs. A part of Lise wanted to flee with them, and she was grateful to the lieutenant, whose occasional smiles and encouraging words gave her hope.
“You should find Captain St. Laurent here,” Lieutenant Valois said as they drew up in front of a three-storey house, a cluster of flags by the front door announcing its importance.
Lise thanked him profusely and entered the house, feeling acutely alone once again. Inside, soldiers hurried from room to room, their boots clumping amidst the jangle of telephones and the clatter of typewriters. Intense voices rumbled from behind a closed door. Cigarette smoke and sweat permeated the air.
When he finally arrived, Captain St. Laurent checked three separate lists before telling her that Guy was in Evacuation Hospital Four.
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know his exact condition, Madame Noisette. It’s impossible to keep our records up-to-date.” His smile was more of a grimace. “I will take you. This way.”
The hospital was in a converted factory, each of two storeys partitioned into wards, large stoves keeping the drafty building as warm as possible. As Lise entered, she saw three nurses in peaked caps and long white dresses huddled together on the far wall while two others rushed down the middle aisle in response to loud moaning that seemed to come from an area surrounded by curtains. Except for the moaning, the lower floor was quiet, full of bandaged men on narrow cots, many sleeping while a few whispered to one another or hummed a vacant tune.
Captain St. Laurent pointed to the far end, where bright lights shone behind a wooden enclosure.
“The operating theatre,” he said. “Many operations are done in clearing stations closer to our lines, but some can wait until the men are evacuated to hospitals like this. Guy is on the second floor.”
After two long days of travel and worry, Lise felt almost faint with relief and steadied herself briefly on the Captain’s arm as they climbed the stairs. To hear his name and know that he was still alive pushed away her fear. She blinked to control her tears.
“Guy?” The captain touched Guy’s shoulder. “Lieutenant Noisette? Your mother is here.”
Groggy eyes opened and closed. “Maman. It’s wonderful to see you.”
Guy’s voice was so thick and slurred Lise could hardly hear him. His left leg was swathed in bandages and suspended from a pulley, and his right arm was in a cast. Only one eye was open, the other wrapped in white gauze. Drained of colour, he looked like a ghost. It took all her self-control to keep smiling.
She knelt beside her son and touched his face. “I’m here to look after you, Guy. Papa told me where to find you, and I came immediately.” Although Guy blinked his one uncovered eye, he did not answer. Lise smoothed the hair from his brow and laid her other hand on his shoulder. Seeing him and being able to touch him eased her anxieties a fraction.
“The chart says he’s been in and out of consciousness,” said the Captain peering at a rough piece of cardboard attached to the bedrail with string. “Probably a blessing given his wounds. Can I leave you here?” Lise nodded. “The nurses will help get you settled.”
After securing a wooden chair for her, the Captain was about to depart.
“Would you be kind enough to come by this evening, Captain, and collect a letter for my husband? He is very worried about our son.”
“I’ll send it in the evening pouch. God willing, it will be in Monsieur’s hands within a few days.”
Lise removed her hat and sank onto the chair to watch over her son. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. She whispered to him, told him stories about Jean and Helene, held his hand. She brought a cup of water and coaxed him to take small, frequent sips. Each time his body twitched or he moaned in pain, Lise wondered whether she should seek a nurse. She remained at his side all night.
In the morning, a young nurse with pale blue eyes checked Guy’s condition.
“Madame, you must get some rest. You will be no help to your son if you get sick.”
Lise gave a weary smile. “Can you recommend a hotel?”
“No, Madame, the hotels are used for our military. But let me talk to a family I know. They might have an extra bedroom. I will be back later, Madame. Impossible to say exactly when.”
In the early evening, Nurse Marcoux returned wearing a brown woollen cape over her uniform. Lise was relieved to see the woman, whose kind eyes and slender figure reminded her of Helene.
“The family has a room for you. They’re very kind, but you should know that one of their sons died last year, and the other is a German prisoner.”
Lise nodded, picked up her small suitcase and followed the nurse downstairs. Outside, she pulled her jacket tight against the thick night fog. Nurse Marcoux led the way along a mud-caked boardwalk. Shops beside the road were shut, their windows curtained such that only thin dribbles of light illuminated the way. Narrow streets perpendicular to the main road disappeared into darkness, and she jumped when a dog growled from an open doorway and footsteps slapped the ground in reply.
“Are you all right?” the nurse said.
“Yes. The sudden sounds scared me. It’s so foggy I can hardly see anything.”
“Few people are out this late because of curfew, only military men or hospital staff. No vehicles are permitted after nightfall. But I have a pass code if we’re challenged.”
The thought of needing a pass code made Lise even more nervous. “I’ve not experienced such conditions.”
“You get used to it. This close to the front, there’s danger of spies. Our soldiers caught one two months ago, and I heard he was persuaded to provide information. I didn’t want to ask for details.”
“Why is it so quiet?”
“Shelling often stops at night. I suppose the artillery needs to rest. I try not to think about it. Here we are.”
The nurse stopped in front of a house with a steep roof and gabled windows, one of which was boarded up. She lifted the brass knocker and rapped twice. A curtain drew back, and a round, plump face peered out. W
hen the door cracked open, Lise and Nurse Marcoux stepped quickly inside.
*
Guy opened his eyes and spoke clearly for the first time five days later. During those anxious days when she feared he would never wake, Lise observed the rhythm of the hospital, times for bathing, for meals, for light exercise, times for napping, for doctors’ rounds, for the parish priest. When the priest hurried by with candles and a small bottle of oil to perform last rites, she made the sign of the cross as a mark of respect.
She was pleased when Guy’s pasty grey pallor was replaced by hints of pink, and he conversed more easily. The doctor, a thin, long-boned man with bushy black hair, was cautiously optimistic.
“Guy will soon start to mend. He had shrapnel in his leg,” he told her, “and a bullet through his arm. The eye was infected, likely from lying on wet ground for hours until stretcher bearers found him and then waiting more than a day for treatment.”
“Why did it take so long?”
The doctor turned at the sound of a shout from the ground floor. “Ask one of the nurses to explain,” he said as he hurried off down the stairs.
Lise sought out Nurse Marcoux. Sitting together near one of the warming stoves with a cup of hot tea, the nurse explained that wounded soldiers were sorted into groups depending on their condition. Those in severe shock were sent to a resuscitation tent, others were operated on at the clearing station and still others went by train to the hospital for treatment. She said the doctors must have thought Guy could wait. The nurse reached over to pat Lise on the knee as if she were the mother and Lise the child.
“I’m sure he will heal. He’s in much better physical shape than many of our wounded.”
The hours ebbed and flowed with almost no definition. Lise sat with Guy when he was awake, often saying little, merely offering the comfort of her presence, a soft touch on his brow, a straightening of his blankets, a spoonful of broth. She read to him when he seemed more alert and told him stories about Beaufort. Once a fever took hold of him, and he thrashed about on his bed so much she thought he might tumble out. Finally, the doctor said Guy’s leg could be released from the pulley, and he would be able to try sitting up once a day.
“Maman, will you do something for me?” After being so ill, Guy sounded like a croaking frog.
“Anything I can.”
“Will you write a letter for me?”
Guy’s blush alerted her that this was no ordinary letter. “Let me get my writing paper out,” she said.
“It’s a young woman I correspond with. She will be worried that I haven’t written. Her name is Renee Derain.”
“Is her father Paul Derain?” Guy nodded. “I think Papa knows the family. When did you meet?”
“I met her in 1914. Not long after you went to Beaufort. I should have told you about her,” he said with a sheepish look.
“These aren’t normal times, Guy. I’m sure that in other circumstances you would have told us. Is she special to you?” Guy nodded again. “What would you like me to write?”
When she went to bed, Lise lay awake thinking about her family. Guy was in love with a woman she had never heard of while Helene handled fears and responsibilities beyond her years, Henri worked day and night, and her mother-in-law was increasingly frail. It made her sad to realize that Jean was growing up without his father’s guidance, and Helene had neither young men courting her nor any expectation that she soon would. It had been eight months since Henri’s last visit, and she longed for the reassurance of his arms, his lips, his body. Nothing about their life was normal. Nothing at all. But at least Guy had survived.
Chapter 16
September 1916
Early September was hotter than usual. In the morning, Mariele picked a few slugs out of the garden while Helene loosened the earth around their vegetables. When Monsieur Doucet stopped by with a basket of eggs, he grumbled that the warmth would make the harvest more difficult. Mariele nodded and offered him six freshly baked buns to take home.
She was proud of her little Beaufort family, for that was how she thought of the four of them. Each had risen to the challenge of living under difficult conditions made worse by the ever-looming question of whether the front lines would hold. Helene was a woman now, capable of looking after the house and at ease with her maturity. She thought nothing of working all day and sewing or knitting all evening. Her granddaughter displayed a quiet beauty with her rich auburn hair and wide grey eyes and a face sculpted by hardship. Like many young women, Helene was sacrificing her youth to support the family, and with Lise away, she was in charge. Of all of them, Helene had changed the most.
Lise was different too. Nothing had prepared her daughter-in-law for life in a small town under conditions of war. Hers had been a spoiled upbringing as the daughter of a wealthy Parisian family with a mother who spent more on perfume and face powders than most families earned in a year. When Lise had first married Henri, Mariele had worried that her young daughter-in-law would follow that example, but motherhood had changed her, and now that Lise was assured of Henri’s love, she had become decisive and willing to speak her mind.
Lise and Helene were more than family: they were Mariele’s dearest friends.
Jean shouldered many tasks that the man of the house would normally undertake, but he was still too young for Mariele to predict his character. He outgrew his clothes every few months, and she imagined he would be much taller than his father. Fuzzy whiskers had begun to sprout, and she knew he was embarrassed by his gangly body and the emerging evidence of manhood. Every night, Mariele prayed the war would end before her grandson could enlist.
She prayed for them all: Henri, who struggled with government burdens; Guy, who would soon return to duty; Lise, who was so close to the front an errant shell could find her; Helene, who looked far too weary for her age. She worried about her other children too, and three more grandsons who had enlisted in 1915. Dr. Valdane told her that so much worry was a strain on her heart, but she kept that to herself.
“Grandmere! A letter from Maman,” Jean shouted as he entered the kitchen.
Mariele insisted that her grandson use the side door and leave his boots on the steps since she was tired of cleaning up after him. Now that he was older, he made even more mess, and she often shook her head in dismay at his filthy clothes. She had him scrub his fingernails before every meal, but they still looked dreadful. Mariele wondered what he did to get so dirty.
Jean thumped upstairs to change while Mariele opened the letter.
My dear family,
Guy is walking by himself, although his leg is still rather stiff. His arm is fully healed, and the doctors say that his left eye may yet improve further. This is my good news. The bad news, which I knew was inevitable, is that Captain St. Laurent has given Guy his orders. He will leave Verdun and be deployed to a new location. I have another few days with him before he returns to duty, and, as you can imagine, I am making the most of it.
Monsieur and Madame Lerouxel have been so wonderful, treating me as they would their own daughter. Every evening they have a hot drink waiting and we often sit talking by the fire now that I can leave Guy at night. I am very fortunate for their kindness and will have to think of a gift to send them.
I miss everyone very much and hope you will have many stories to tell me when I return.
My love to you all,
Maman
*
“Maman will be home soon,” Mariele said, passing the letter to Helene.
After reading her mother’s news, Helene folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. Since the war had begun, they saved every letter inside an old chest that previously held silver cutlery. One day, Maman had brought the chest from the dining room and announced its purpose. Helene imagined her mother’s decision to keep each letter as tangible proof of the love she bore her husband and son and her thankfulness for others who kept in touch. She dreaded the thought of her mother reading them over and over should either her father
or Guy be killed.
For five weeks, she had acted in her mother’s place, taking charge of shopping, speaking to Gaston about repairs to a broken window, arranging for Monsieur Doucet to cut down a tree struck by lightning. Grandmere did the cooking, but Helene organized everything else. Her fatigue showed in thin cheeks and eyes that were red from worry and lack of sleep.
She almost wished Guy’s wounds were severe enough for him to permanently leave the army. Instead, he would return to his duties, and they would return to the daily strain of waiting and hoping. As she lay in bed, pipes groaned, stairs creaked and the stove sputtered with uneven heat; a house in sympathy with the family’s unsettled mood.
*
In mid-September, after her mother had returned, a long line of troops approached Tante Camille’s. Helene saw them from a second-floor window and called to her mother. Together, they watched in silence as the soldiers came closer and closer, each man holding a rifle in one arm, the other arm swinging as they marched. The drumming of their hob-nailed boots made the hairs on Helene’s arm prickle.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
“Not French,” her mother replied. “Not German either. But I can’t tell from this distance.”
Through the trees, they saw them rounding a bend in the road. Two heavily loaded wagons followed the column of men.
“Must be well over a hundred of them.”
“I’ll see what I can discover when I go into town this afternoon,” Helene said. She saw the look of fear on her mother’s face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
Maman gripped her arm. “I’ll come with you.”
When they arrived, Café Pitou’s narrow wooden chairs were occupied, round tables cluttered with an assortment of beverages. A group of older men clustered by the bar listening to Father Marcel, who seemed more animated than usual. Conversation centred on news of the troops who were billeted on the far side of town. Canadian troops—part of the British army. From Madame Suras, the owner of Café Pitou, they learned that Monsieur Galliard had offered his home as a command centre.