Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  “Do we know why the soldiers are here?” Helene’s mother asked.

  “Not yet,” said Madame Suras.

  “Bound to mean trouble of some sort,” said Raoul Seguin, Beaufort’s deputy mayor. “I wonder if they’re going to establish a training base or perhaps a new headquarters. Whatever the reason, a large group of soldiers brings attention to Beaufort. Possibly German attention. We certainly don’t want that.”

  “It could mean some sort of action is being planned,” said an older man who wore a thick knitted sweater despite the day’s warmth.

  “Well, as I said, they’re bound to mean trouble,” said Monsieur Seguin.

  After checking for mail at the post office, Helene and her mother purchased flour and cheese along with a small piece of fish for dinner. With their large garden, her grandmother’s baking and provisions from Andre Doucet and Monsieur Garnier, Helene’s family had become largely self-sufficient; however, on rare occasions her mother bought fish as a change from pork and chicken. Their diet was simple but adequate. No one complained.

  “Monsieur Seguin has me worried,” Lise said as they walked back to Tante Camille’s.

  “I agree, Maman. That man in the sweater said there might be an action planned. What if it’s something big? Don’t you think we should return to Paris?”

  “Papa would tell us to return if he thought it wise.”

  “I suppose,” Helene said. “But Papa wasn’t right about Paris and Beaufort when the war began, and if we’d stayed in Paris, we wouldn’t be so close to the fighting here.”

  “Helene, that’s your father you’re talking about. We’ve never been in danger. Paris is threatened even now. Paris is our capital. It will always be under threat.”

  Helene saw worry in her mother’s tight face and fatigue in her drooping shoulders and decided to say no more. “You’re right, Maman. I’m sure we’ll be fine here.”

  Chapter 17

  September 1916

  Hoisting a basket of wet laundry onto her hip, Helene grabbed the bag of clothespins as she went outside. She set the basket down on a small wooden bench and began the task of methodically pinning each item and spinning out the line until their shirts, underclothes, sheets and towels stretched across the yard, colours dancing in the breeze. She looked at her chapped hands and broken fingernails; there were days when she felt as haggard and worn as a woman twice her age.

  She had little time for beauty, though an imaginative man would see beyond the tightly bound hair and simple clothing to the curve of full breasts, slender figure and high cheekbones. But few men visited their house outside Beaufort, and she knew her mother thought this was just as well, fearing that some vagabond soldier would pass by and capture her daughter. Three women and a teenage boy would be easy prey for the wrong kind of stranger.

  As she hung the last few pieces of clothing, Helene thought of how different life would be without war. Opera, ballet, dances, expensive clothing from Maman’s favourite shops. For a moment, images of elegance and privilege transported her away from backyard chores into their earlier life and a memory of her mother and father, dressed in evening clothes, greeting guests for a spring soiree. She paused with her arms in the air and a clothespin clutched between her lips and wondered whether she would ever have a chance to fall in love.

  “Helene, we’re going now.”

  Maman’s voice came from the front of the house, interrupting her musings, and she hurried around to see her mother and brother off.

  “Grandmere and I will make dinner. Don’t rush.”

  “I hope we can find some new clothes for Jean. He’s outgrown everything.”

  Helene watched her brother, his arms and legs out of proportion. His voice cracked when he spoke, and she knew it would soon deepen. Jean steadied the bicycle for his mother, who would ride on the back.

  “Maman, stop wiggling,” he said as they set off.

  “Bye-bye. Have fun.”

  Helene stood until they were out of sight then returned to the backyard to collect her basket. Hot sun and bulging white clouds made the day seem idyllic, chasing away thoughts of war, and she sat for a moment, watching a bee hover around the mouths of Russian sage blossoms, dipping again and again for sustenance. Tall grasses waved at the edge of their garden, which looked ragged despite the hours of care Helene and her mother devoted to trimming and weeding. The breeze died and their clothes hung limply.

  Faint puffs of smoke marked the eastern horizon followed by the crackle and echoing booms of artillery. After a brief pause came a rush of answering guns. They often heard the sounds of artillery, but Helene thought these blasts were closer. She shivered despite the warmth and ran inside.

  “Grandmere, I can hear artillery again.” She found her grandmother in the salon, knitting another in the endless stream of socks for soldiers. “I think they’re closer than usual.”

  Her grandmother lifted her head. “I’m sorry, dear. I was counting stitches. What’s closer?”

  “Guns. The sound of guns is louder than usual.”

  Artillery sounds always made Helene think of Guy. Maman thought he was near Albert, but they were never really sure, and Albert was in the Somme, where heavy fighting was underway.

  “Oh, dear. When you were in town, did anyone say that our troops are nearby?”

  “Only the Canadians.”

  Helene sat down opposite her grandmother. “What do you think we should do?”

  “Let’s wait a bit. Sound travels very far you know.”

  Helene listened to the rhythmic click-click-click of her grandmother’s knitting needles. How can Grandmere just wait? What if we are in danger? Helene’s eyes scanned the room for something that would distract her from the muffled rumble outside.

  “Why don’t we make a cassoulet for dinner? I’ve already soaked the beans,” her grandmother said.

  Grandmere always knew when she needed a diversion. In fact, they had all perfected the art of distraction. Otherwise the listening, the waiting and the wondering became too much.

  Grateful for something to do, Helene followed her into the kitchen and began to chop vegetables while her grandmother prepared pork shoulder and a small piece of bacon, both supplied by Monsieur Garnier. Soon the sizzling smell of bacon, onions, garlic and fresh herbs filled the kitchen, and her tension eased.

  “I find cooking very soothing,” said her grandmother as if reading Helene’s mind.

  “Three years ago, I would never have imagined doing this together. Our lives are so different now, aren’t they, Grandmere?”

  “In a good way?”

  “Good and bad. The war is bad, of course, but being together is good.”

  “I never expected to be so close to my granddaughter,” Grandmere said.

  “Oh. Was I so terrible?”

  “No,” Grandmere laughed, “just our circumstances were so different.”

  “If we were still in Paris, I would probably be going to dances and soirees. All dressed up, likely with Marie.” Helene sighed.

  “Perhaps you would have a young man?”

  “Perhaps.” Helene could not imagine that life. “But I would not have learned how to make cassoulet.” Turning to smile at her grandmother, she saw with horror that Grandmere held one hand to her chest and was beginning to gasp for breath, her eyes frantic.

  “Grandmere! What is it?”

  Helene put her arms under her grandmother’s shoulders and lowered her to a kitchen chair then rushed to get a wet cloth and a glass of water. She bathed her grandmother’s face and held the glass to her lips, but the water merely trickled out from the sides of her mouth.

  “My heart tablets,” Grandmere whispered.

  “In your bedroom?”

  She nodded. Helene raced out of the kitchen, threw herself up the stairs and quickly found the tablets on the bedside table. Back in the kitchen, she squeezed one tablet into her grandmother’s mouth and tipped up the glass of water. “You have to swallow, Grandmere. Can you do that?
” Her grandmother nodded.

  Seconds and then minutes passed as Mariele continued to gasp, clutching her chest. Helene knelt by the chair until her grandmother breathed more easily.

  “Does it feel better?”

  “A little.”

  “Let’s rest here for a bit and then move you to the sofa so you can lie down. Don’t talk, just breathe slowly.” Helene tried to remember something useful from a first aid course she took when the war began, but the instructor had focused mainly on how to make a splint and clean a wound. “You scared me. Are these the pills you get from the pharmacy each month?” Grandmere nodded. “Are they for heart problems?” Another nod.

  Helene thought it would have been useful to know that her grandmother had heart problems before now, but it was too late for recriminations. She held Grandmere’s cool hands in her warm ones and was relieved to see her lips were now faintly pink rather than tinged with blue.

  The house was quiet; only the ticking of the mantel clock and an occasional far-off rumble marked the passage of time. Helene thought she should wait a little longer before attempting to move her grandmother; she could not lift her on her own. She smiled to reassure them both.

  Thirty minutes later, Helene tucked a light blanket around her grandmother and sat on the leather hassock pulled close to the sofa. Grandmere reached out to touch Helene’s cheek.

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll just sit and relax. Shall I tell you about the letter I received from Marie?” Her grandmother nodded. “Her family is still in London since her father’s posting has been extended, and she has attended several debutante balls, which she says are more modest than usual because of the war. Apparently, her mother refashioned two of her own dresses so Marie would have something to wear, although neither of them is white. Why is white the colour of choice? Perhaps it’s thought to be virginal?”

  “I think so.” A brief twinkle lit Grandmere’s eyes, and Helene found that encouraging.

  “She says that Englishmen are not at all like Frenchmen, much more pompous in her opinion. Oh, and one of the dances was a masquerade held outside beneath a striped marquee lit with red, white and blue lights in honour of both the English and French national flags. Too much extravagance in the midst of wartime, don’t you think, Grandmere? Marie says she prefers to go to the theatre or the ballet than suffer through these balls. I think she’s just trying to make me feel better. I shall write to her again and tell her that I want to hear all the details.”

  Helene noticed Grandmere’s eyes were drooping. “I’m going to go next door to see if the Doucets are at home. Perhaps they can fetch the doctor. I’ll be back in a minute. You continue to rest, Grandmere.” She squeezed her grandmother’s hand.

  Helene slipped away and ran past the pond and across the field that separated the two properties, but there was no answer at the farmhouse or in the barns, and she did not want to leave her grandmother alone for long. When she returned, Grandmere was sleeping, so Helene went into the kitchen to finish the cassoulet, first testing the pork for tenderness then sautéing chopped celery and carrot in the bacon drippings. When the vegetables were softened, it was time to add broth, wine, tomatoes, bay leaves and white beans, each ingredient measured carefully as her grandmother would do. Every few minutes as she cooked, she checked on Grandmere. Finally, Helene put the heavy pot full of cassoulet in the oven and returned to the salon.

  Her grandmother slept, occasionally twitching but otherwise hardly moving, her face calm—almost serene, her chest rising and falling, its regular rhythm restoring Helene’s confidence. Deep rumbles and cracks drew her outside to listen to the far-off sounds of war, and she stood there, silent, still, watching, waiting. A hawk circled overhead, wings spread wide and majestic. He must have found something, she thought as the hawk plunged towards the ground and rose a few moments later, clutching its wriggling prey.

  I should check on Grandmere.

  Helene returned to the salon and stopped short at the sight of her grandmother’s slack mouth and dangling arm. She knew in an instant that Grandmere was gone.

  *

  Grandmere, how could you leave me?

  Helene asked this question repeatedly during the days that followed. Every moment, she expected to catch a glimpse of Grandmere’s fine white hair or hear her working in the kitchen or her slow footsteps on the stairs. As Helene drifted about the house, she carried on a silent conversation with her grandmother. What will we do without your cheerfulness and calm good sense? How will Maman cope without you to lean on? Who will indulge Jean’s moods?

  When her mother and Jean had returned from Beaufort that afternoon, they found Helene sitting on the floor, head nestled against her grandmother’s lifeless body. Maman knelt beside her and listened as the story emerged between bouts of tears and then cradled Helene as though she were a child, rocking back and forth, humming soothing phrases while Jean slumped in a nearby chair. Only the smell of burning cassoulet claimed their attention.

  Despite having a mug of warm milk, Helene never slept that night. Instead, she relived the years in Beaufort, gathering memories of her grandmother as if quilting a blanket of comfort from favourite scraps of fabric. Each memory came with some wisdom her grandmother wished to pass along. After awhile, Helene pulled out her diary to capture these bits of wisdom, worried that they too might disappear. The purpose of individual growth is to share with others; put communal needs before personal desires; human relationships are by their nature incomplete; the way to hold on to those you love is to let them go; love can be at the centre only if we keep it there. Some she understood better than others, and Helene wondered if, eventually, when the pain of Grandmere’s death eased, she might discuss their significance with her mother.

  As dawn lightened the room, she realized that her mother and brother would also be in pain. And Papa will soon know, she thought, getting out of bed to draw back the curtain and peak through the window. She tried to imagine losing her mother, a possibility even more dreadful than her grandmother’s death.

  Chapter 18

  September 1916

  Henri embarked for Beaufort as soon as he received Lise’s telegram. He took an official vehicle to expedite his journey, but conditions along the roads caused endless delays. His sister, Chantal, joined him at a small village near Versailles.

  Chantal hugged him tighter than usual. “I can’t believe Maman’s gone. I wish …” Her lower lip trembled, but she kept her emotions in check.

  “I know. I haven’t seen her since January.”

  “Maman’s heart has always plagued her. And the stress of these past few years …” Chantal did not complete her sentence. Instead, she took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her tears.

  “But it was too soon to lose her. Far too soon.”

  Henri concentrated on driving to avoid his sister’s eyes. Ahead, he could see army transport vehicles followed by the dark mass of a tramping regiment turning onto the road. As he wondered how long they would be delayed, a dispatch rider, wearing goggles and mounted on a lurching motorcycle, roared past. He and Chantal settled into silence until the road cleared once again.

  “Beaufort was good for her,” Chantal said.

  They had just crossed a bridge where two soldiers demanded papers of passage at rifle point.

  “I think so. She and Lise became very close. They shared the worries of Beaufort. As Helene matured, she helped too. She was with Maman when it happened.”

  “How difficult for her.”

  Henri nodded. He knew both Lise and Helene would be very upset and continued delays were frustrating him.

  “Do you remember the time we went shooting with Papa? Maman was so angry that he let me handle a rifle.” Chantal chuckled softly at the memory, and for a time they shared stories about their parents.

  While they travelled north, ambulances full of half-dead soldiers bullied their way through, and a bedraggled line of wounded
limped by. Henri knew they would be seeking the solace of a Red Cross hospital located in some abandoned church or factory. Others shuffled along the route: refugees from villages that existed only in memory, carrying precious possessions and little children stunned into silence, prisoners prodded at gun point wearing uniforms weeping with blood and battle filth, worn-out horses. Pitiful remnants of war.

  Some villages swarmed with troops and supplies, their command centres bristling with action while citizens huddled in doorways or peered through windows, uncertain what havoc the next days would hold. Other villages gave evidence of battles won or lost, heaps of rubble that used to house people in comfort, scorched walls, streets wiped out as if a cyclone had tossed everything in its path.

  They took a circuitous route to avoid areas of conflict and occasionally stopped at an intersection uncertain how to proceed, for all signposts and mile markers had been removed to confuse the enemy. But finally, in the afternoon of the second day, they arrived at Tante Camille’s.

  Henri stepped out and opened his arms to Lise, Jean and Helene. No one spoke. After several minutes, Lise broke away to welcome Chantal.

  “The others?” she asked.

  “Odette is nursing her father-in-law. Etienne and Pascal were unable to get permission to travel. No one knows where Luc is.” Chantal made a face at the mention of Luc, the youngest of their siblings, who had been estranged from the family for years.

  Lise turned to Henri. “And Guy?”

  “He’s stationed near the Somme.”

  Henri hugged his wife again and did not mention the extent of French and British action in that area. Fortunately, their troops were having success against German positions, but the costs were high.

  “Come into the house,” Lise said. “We have a light supper ready.”

  The following day was grey and cool as a small group clustered around an open grave: Madame Suras, the proprietor of Café Pitou, who had gossiped with Mariele whenever she came in for coffee; Doctor Valdane, who had looked after her medicines; Monsieur and Madame Garnier, who provided special cuts of pork from time to time and whose famous pig, Emmeline, had died only a few weeks earlier. Helene’s friend Germaine, Monsieur and Madame Doucet, Madame Lalonde and Gaston were also there. Father Marcel, whose belly was no longer round and whose cheekbones were now marked with spidery veins, said the mass, and then Henri sprinkled the first shovelful of dirt on his mother’s casket.