Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  “Don’t poke the flame, Helene. It makes the wood burn too quickly. You aren’t the one who had to chop it.” Her brother stood near the door to the kitchen.

  “Humph. I did it yesterday,” she said.

  Maman lifted her head with a frown, pen poised above her letter. “Jean, where were you all day?”

  “Oh, just out with friends. Then I walked into Beaufort.”

  “You’ve been out a lot lately.” Maman dipped her pen in the inkwell and held it aloft, waiting for Jean’s response.

  “Hmm.”

  “Maman is worried about you, Jean. You should be more considerate. She might have needed you to do something.” Helene was annoyed with her brother’s new technique of answering a question with no answer at all.

  “I don’t need another mother, Helene.” Jean elongated her name into three syllables. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “That’s not what—”

  Jean ignored her. “Maman, I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

  He hunched his shoulders like a young bull ready to charge and left the salon. They heard him thump up the stairs and slam his door.

  “Helene, you really shouldn’t scold him. Your brother’s at an age where he’s maturing and restless, he’s with women too much of the time. I remember Guy at the same age, always on edge.” Her mother lifted her head again. “Your father would know how to handle him.”

  “But Papa’s not here, and I can tell you’re upset when he doesn’t come home.”

  Helene continued to worry about Jean the rest of the evening. On Thursday, Germaine had mentioned that more troops were gathering but when pressed for details would only say that she had spoken to one of the officers. Despite being engaged to Jacques, Germaine enjoyed flirting with some of the soldiers who came to Beaufort, but Helene had not teased her friend; instead, she worried that Jean’s absences were somehow connected to the presence of these soldiers. Jean was obsessed with soldiers.

  The following day after church, Helene and her mother remained for tea at Café Pitou, enjoying the chance for conversation as a succession of people, including Madame Suras, stopped at their table. News was plentiful.

  Sylvie, the daughter of Doctor Valdane, had moved to Aire, just north of Rheims, for work at a factory manufacturing items like covers to hide guns, camouflage netting and observation posts that looked like trees or parts of trenches. The doctor was amazed at the ingenuity of such items and mentioned proudly that Sylvie had taken an oath of secrecy and could not reveal any details. His wife confessed that their home felt deserted without Sylvie and their two sons, who were in the army. No one mentioned the son who had died.

  Madame Lalonde told them at length about Beaufort’s new hospital, soon to open in the town hall.

  “It’s really a branch of the military hospital at Amiens,” she said. “The Villeneuve family made a large donation to honour their son who fell at Verdun. We’ve collected money for linens as well as used beds and blankets, and now we have two hundred beds. Much more to offer than the existing facility where you and I volunteer, Lise.” Madame was particularly animated as she related the details. “The wife of our mayor is the directress. Sister Marie and Sister Noelle and four nurses from the Red Cross will care for the soldiers.”

  “Do you think this new hospital has anything to do with the Canadian troops who’ve been in the area?” Helene’s mother said.

  Madame Lalonde nodded. “Yes, but we’re not to gossip about it. I know I can trust you, Lise.” Madame Lalonde’s distressed look turned into a smile. “We will need more volunteers.”

  “I can take on more hours. I’m only doing two afternoons a week right now, and Helene manages the house so well,” Lise added.

  While Helene nodded at her mother’s comment, she worried that the advent of a hospital combined with Germaine’s tale of further troop buildup implied future military action. As they sipped a second cup of tea, they heard about a dogfight over Lille involving a German Taube attacked by a British plane, the Taube spiralling out of control in a cloud of smoke while citizens cheered from below. When the storyteller finished, Maman checked her watch.

  “Heavens, we should go, Helene. It’s already past one o’clock.”

  As they said their good-byes to Madame Suras, Helene put on her long wool coat and snug scarf then pulled a red tam over her ears. Sunshine softened the sting of cold air, but still they walked quickly to keep warm, talking about the people they had seen and stories they had heard.

  Helene became quiet.

  “What are you thinking about?” her mother said.

  “The story about the German plane. Are acts of war so commonplace that we calmly recount them like any other gossip? Shouldn’t we stop to consider that German pilots are people too, with families who will mourn their passing?”

  “You’re right, sweetheart. I hadn’t thought of it like that. We shouldn’t cheer any death, should we? Although I can’t help thinking that German losses will be to our advantage.”

  “I agree, Maman. We can wish for them to lose and hope that our efforts are superior to theirs, but cheering a falling plane makes me ashamed of my countrymen.”

  “When did my daughter become so wise?”

  They linked arms and walked in silence. The wind had died, and melting snow beside the road produced a slick of brown mud that dribbled into narrow rivulets before accumulating in rutted tracks. A flock of geese travelled across the horizon, maintaining a v-shaped pattern as they swooped low, banking to turn west.

  “Will you be all right if I take on more hours at this new hospital?” her mother said.

  “But what else could you do, Maman? You’re not a nurse.”

  “There are many tasks that don’t involve nursing. I saw that when I was with Guy.”

  “Wouldn’t it make you sad?”

  “It might. But it might make me feel like I was contributing more. At Tante Camille’s, I often feel so helpless.”

  “Hmmm. I feel restless.”

  “I’ve noticed. That’s why you go into Beaufort so often, isn’t it?”

  “Is it that obvious?” Her mother nodded. “You know there are troops in the area. Germaine’s told me. She met one of them. More Canadians, she said.”

  “Germaine seems to have a lot of freedom to come and go.”

  “Maman, we’re almost nineteen. Not children anymore, however you might wish otherwise.” Helene saw sadness creep into her mother’s expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Her mother hugged her arm. “It’s all right, chérie. We’re all tense with worry these days. What are you hearing from Francois?”

  “He mentioned having leave to see his family for a few days. And he always has a story or two about the men he leads. It’s strange that he writes to me, isn’t it? When he started, he was stationed not far from here, but I don’t know where he is now. He sounds cheerful enough.” Helene said nothing about Francois’s descriptions of the battles he experienced. Her mother would be horrified.

  As they approached Tante Camille’s, a wave of smoke drifted from the chimney, making the house look snug and inviting. They knocked the snow from their boots and entered by the back door. Helene hung her coat from a wooden peg and piled her scarf and hat on top.

  “Jean’s boots aren’t here,” Maman said. “I wish I knew where he went. Half the time I don’t believe what he tells me, but when I question him, he becomes so surly.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

  Helene had not disclosed her theories about Jean’s absences; her mother had enough to worry about. Instead, she planned to confront her brother. Before dinner, as Helene and Jean cleared the paths around the house of accumulated snow, she demanded an answer.

  “Someone needs to know where you are, even if you don’t want to tell Maman. Madame Lalonde has told us of the new hospital, and I know there are troops in the area. There must be an action planned. Is that what you’re doing? Watching them?”r />
  “Watching who?”

  “The soldiers. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It might be dangerous.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll tell you tonight, but you have to promise not to say anything to Maman.”

  Helene’s mother went to bed early, taking two hot water bottles with her, grumbling that she would be warmer in bed than in the salon. “Don’t stay up too late,” she said.

  While Helene waited for Jean to return from checking the chicken coop, the house settled into nighttime sounds, and she watched the dying fire glow, its dancing flames long since diminished. They were lucky to have firewood; coal had not been available for ages, and many families scavenged for every stick of wood they could find. A week ago, she and her mother counted logs. They estimated that their supply would last until the end of winter only if used sparingly, so Helene added no more wood and continued to read sitting next to the only lamp they allowed themselves to light at night. She lit a candle as well to ease the strain on her eyes. The mantel clock chimed nine times, each chime resonating with gloom, and when Jean finally returned to the salon, Helene set her book down, interlaced her fingers and stared at him.

  “You don’t need to look at me like that; I said I would tell you.” Jean sat on the footstool with his back to the fire. “I’ve been watching the Canadians for weeks,” he said. “You won’t believe what I’ve seen.”

  His eyes were so intense. Helene leaned forward to listen.

  Jean told her he had been climbing the hills in December, following the same path Helene often took to her thinking stone. When he had reached the summit, he sat on that very same stone, sheltered from the wind and warmed somewhat by the sun. Instead of green fields, a blanket of white had stretched across the plain, ribbons of smoke marking farmhouses in the distance, and a river cutting across one corner of his view. Idly, he had made a snowball and tossed it down the hill, watching it disappear. After he had bent over to scoop up more snow and was preparing to throw again, something odd had appeared.

  “That’s when I saw them,” he said.

  Jean told her of watching the long line of soldiers emerge from behind a stand of trees and progress slowly along the road far below. At first, they moved like one connected body, but as the line drew nearer, he could distinguish steel-helmeted men, packhorses and black wagons winding through the white winter landscape, moving in a silent, almost colourless world. He tried to estimate how many soldiers marched across the plain, but the line seemed endless, and he soon lost track.

  “There could have been a hundred thousand, Helene. It was incredible.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I couldn’t tell where they went that day; they just kept moving.”

  “And …”

  Jean grinned. “I found them eventually. Near Mont-Saint-Éloi. You won’t believe what they’re doing.”

  “What?”

  Helene leaned forward again. By now, the fire merely pulsed a dull red, giving off little heat, and her candle flickered as wax trickled down the candlestick.

  “They’re building. Railway tracks, roads, tunnels, an ammunition dump. I can’t figure out everything, but the scale is enormous. Supply trains arrive every day, and the goods are sent on by large trucks or small trams; sometimes mules are loaded with heavy packs on both sides. There are pipes and wood planks and large spools of wire. I’ve seen them lift huge artillery shells off the trains. There are horses and cattle and tents set up. And they’re digging, using the rails to haul away carts full of dirt. It’s amazing, Helene.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “No.” Jean shook his head several times; his eyes widened as if recounting the experience suddenly made him appreciate the gravity.

  “That’s good. I’m sure it’s supposed to be a secret.”

  “But with so many of them, how can they possibly keep it quiet?”

  “I don’t know. Germaine met one of the soldiers.”

  “She did?” Jean’s eyes grew wider.

  “You can’t keep going to watch, Jean. Someone might see you.”

  “But I—”

  “I won’t tell Maman if you promise not to go again.”

  “But—”

  “Promise me. It’s too dangerous.”

  Jean’s face look mutinous, but he finally muttered his assent.

  Helene was not the least convinced that Jean would keep his word. In fact, she was almost positive he would sneak away again, but as the next two weeks progressed, he dutifully came home after school and remained near the house on both Saturday and Sunday, so she relaxed her vigilance a fraction.

  Late one Friday night, a soft thump woke her from the early drift of sleep. Unable to imagine what it might be, she got out of bed, opened her door and walked towards the kitchen, where she could hear the swish of cloth against cloth, and where she found Jean tiptoeing across the floor wearing his heavy coat and carrying his winter boots.

  “Where are you going?” Helene said.

  “Shhh. Don’t wake Maman.”

  “You promised not to go there.”

  “I’m old enough to take care of myself; you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “This is crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m tired of spending all my time with you and Maman. Doing nothing for France. I’m just watching. There’s no harm in that.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  Helene had blurted these words without thinking, and she paused. Did she really want to go with him? What if something happened?

  “You’re a girl,” Jean said dismissively, and in an instant, Helene made her decision. “Wait five minutes,” she said.

  In an old pair of Jean’s pants, a dark wool coat and rough work boots, and her hair pulled under her cap, she looked like another teenage boy. Without speaking, they tiptoed from the house, Jean leading the way across fields, scrambling over fences, walking along narrow paths, their only light a dying moon that cast little shadow and the pinprick of stars sprayed on a night sky. Helene concentrated on maintaining the pace set by her brother.

  After what seemed like most of an hour, they reached the crest of a long hill. Jean raised his hand to signal silence, crouched down and worked his way forward on his belly through a thicket of small shrubs until he could peer over the edge. He motioned for Helene to join him.

  Her eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and when she looked down on the plain below, where the occasional oil lamp reflected against the snow augmenting the light of the moon, she sucked in her breath with a loud hiss. Beyond the sloping hillside marked by stout stone fences and leafless trees, hundreds—possibly even thousands—of men swarmed like ants around a yawning opening in the earth, hauling carts, stacking sandbags, unravelling wire. Some men shouldered pickaxes and disappeared into the entrance. Nearby, a long line of packhorses waited, frozen breath snorting as they tossed their heads. A few soldiers walked up and down to keep them calm with a smoothing pat or whispered word.

  In the other direction, she saw a group of men manoeuvring an artillery piece into one of several wooden structures dug into the hillside and camouflaged with earth and branches. Dark shapes working in precision, a ballet of ominous proportions.

  Jean and Helene exchanged glances. “Mon Dieu,” she whispered.

  Chapter 21

  February 1917

  Henri sat at his desk, the scratch of his pen on paper and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock pricking the night silence. Hearing a swoosh, swoosh outside, which gradually built to the clumping sounds of marching footsteps, he lifted his head. Soldiers. I wonder where they’re going at this time of night.

  Wartime Paris was like an impressionist painting daubed in muted grey. Sombre clothing and black armbands blended with sandbags stacked against precious monuments and buildings draped in soot. Limited lighting and the absence of any sort of street music added to a picture of bleak fortitude.

  What Henri notice
d, as he walked the streets beneath pale winter skies, was the shining glow of dedication from each face—young or old, man or woman, soldier or civilian. His fellow citizens would resist destruction regardless of sacrifice. Greed and self-interest disappeared despite restrictions and shortages that in other times would have caused bellowing rumbles of dissatisfaction. France was not afraid—Paris was theirs, Verdun had prevailed, the army withstood German assault all along the trenches. A halo of tenacity encircled the city.

  In his encounters at hospitals, shops, restaurants, barracks and factories, it became clear to him that two indomitable traits had emerged: the physical courage of men and the moral courage of women. Inspired, he held his head high and resisted faltering under the weight of daily worries, knowing that Guy was in the midst of preparations for battle at Aisne, and Beaufort was less than fifteen kilometres from a major offensive planned for April.

  When he had last seen his son, Guy had a two-day pass following action around the village of Clery near Guillement. Now he was with Nivelle again in what Henri feared would be a disastrous encounter with Germany. Hubert Lyautey, the war minister, had resigned to protest Nivelle’s strategy, leaving the ministry in disarray.

  In the face of these concerns, Henri was frustrated by his own paper-pushing efforts as he continued to woo the Americans. He was to meet with the US ambassador for the second time in as many months; France needed money and munitions. They also needed America to join the Allies.

  Fortified by a sip of brandy, he returned to his letter to Lise.

  … and I visited one of our divisions last week, travelling first by automobile and eventually by mule–you must think with amusement of your husband on a mule, my long legs dangling as our path took us over open ledges then through kilometres of forest interspersed with tiny villages. Such beautiful scenery, especially in brilliant sunshine, that I almost forgot we are at war. Officers there are housed in log cabins, and the entire site bustled with life: men cleaning rifles, hauling wood, washing and mending clothes, smoking and gossiping, writing letters.