Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  Henri did not mention that one of the officers took him higher up, where they dismounted and scrambled into a dense thicket that he soon realized was a thatch of branches woven to screen the muzzles of a dozen big guns. Peeking through, he saw French positions down the mountainside just a short distance from the German border.

  In quiet tones, the officer told him that caravans descended the hill at night to distribute supplies to the fighting lines below. Henri’s reply had been cut off by the deafening sound of an explosion from one of their batteries followed by the roar of German response. This exchange lasted almost twenty minutes, each howling crash of artillery fire followed by another explosion and its echoing reverberation from cliff to cliff. He had been forced to wait three days before leaving the area.

  Guy has written that he is safely behind the lines again. He remains with Nivelle’s staff, and I have heard through other channels that he has distinguished himself in many ways.

  Your letters indicate that you and the children are content in Beaufort. I am pleased that Helene helps you so readily and that she has overcome her sadness. Do not tire yourself out working at the hospital. I want you to return to Paris in the spring so that we can be together again. I miss you terribly.

  Your loving husband,

  Henri

  As Henri sealed the letter and set it aside for the morning’s post, he imagined arriving unexpectedly in Beaufort to take his family back to Paris. His mother had died almost six months ago, and surely that was time enough for them to grieve her passing. Gentle persuasion had had no effect. Saying that she was needed at the hospital, Lise had resisted his argument that Paris was now safer, and for his part, Henri was bound by secrecy to say nothing about the battles planned not far from Beaufort.

  *

  Moonlight allowed them to see more precisely, and the late-March night was not so cold. Helene watched Jean scan the scene below with his new binoculars. They were co-conspirators now, neither willing to forego these midnight outings.

  “Do you think Papa would be so pleased with his gift if he knew how you use it?” she asked.

  Jean ignored her question. “They seem to have finished their tunnels. I don’t see any more signs of digging.”

  “I wonder how close the tunnels go toward the front?”

  They had speculated before on the purpose of these tunnels, imagining different scenarios. It seemed most likely they were designed to take men and supplies toward the front lines given the equipment and troops being assembled in the valley below.

  “The front is kilometres away. Tunnels can’t reach that far.”

  The pace of night activities had changed over the weeks, and now more practice drills took place than construction. Again and again, they watched soldiers laden with full gear form into groups, execute mock charges and disperse in what appeared to be random patterns. Occasionally, artillerymen would roll out the big guns from beneath their camouflage huts and practice loading and unloading. Helene thought the shells must be very heavy as most of the gunners worked in shirtsleeves. She wondered how they controlled their fear in the midst of battle and how they kept their wits about them. An image of Guy working amongst these huge beasts of war made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

  “I never imagined that war required so much preparation.” Jean handed her the binoculars. “Almost three months since I first saw them. What do you think is next?”

  “Fighting. They can’t do all this work and not launch an attack.”

  Helene’s words were matter-of-fact, but her insides churned. She was certain that all hell would soon erupt and began each day with the same question: Will this be the day?

  “I wish we knew when and where.”

  “I wish we knew how it will affect us. Papa has been pressing Maman to return to Paris.” She often wondered whether to tell her mother what they saw each night. If her mother knew, she would be angry, but the knowledge might hasten their return to safety.

  “But I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to miss this.”

  Helene thought he sounded like a spoiled little boy. “What if we’re in danger?”

  “I know how to use a rifle.”

  Though they were whispering, Jean made this statement with indignation, pulling his brows together into a frown that made him look remarkably like his father.

  “Don’t be silly, Jean. You’re barely sixteen.”

  An image of her brother running away flashed through her mind. Despite his age, his height and broad shoulders made him look older, and she had heard of boys enlisting by forging their fathers’ signatures.

  “And Maman has too much to worry about with Guy in the army. Remember what she was like when his leg was wounded? It wouldn’t be fair to her if you did something foolish.”

  Jean flopped from his front onto his back but said nothing. Helene continued to watch the action below as groups of men set up three tents, much larger than usual. I wonder why they’re white, she thought. Once erected, they brought in planking, and she heard a faint tat-tat-tat repeating again and again, then more planks and more tat-tat-tat.

  “Do you think those are hospital tents?” Helene said.

  Jean rolled back onto his stomach and grabbed the binoculars, scanning carefully. “Those trucks down there have red crosses on them. Definitely field hospital tents.”

  “We have to go, Jean. It’s two o’clock.” Helene tugged on her brother’s coat until he put away the binoculars and crept back from their hidden perch.

  *

  An early spring cold forced Helene to stay away from the hill three nights in a row. During the day, she had little energy for anything but reading, curled up on the sofa as she listened to the rain drizzling outside. On the third night, a persistent knocking jarred her awake.

  “Maman?” she said.

  “No, it’s me.”

  “Jean,” she whispered, “what are you doing waking me up? It must be well past midnight.”

  Jean crept across the room and sat on the edge of Helene’s bed. “Something’s going on. Two nights ago, the pace changed. The shelling stopped, and instead of rehearsals, all I could see were supplies moving in. Boxes and boxes of supplies. There was no way to tell what was in them, but I’ll bet it was ammunition.”

  Pellets of snow peppered the window, and the oak trees that bordered the garden creaked as the wind gathered force. Now fully awake, Helene brushed tendrils of hair away from her face and stared at Jean in the gloom.

  “Do you think battle will commence tonight?” he said.

  Helene and Jean had had endless debates about what would happen and when, bandying about theories as though they were generals making strategic decisions.

  She bit her lip for a moment, considering Jean’s question. “I don’t know. Germaine came to visit today and told me that her Canadian friend would be away for a while. She didn’t suspect anything, but perhaps he’s in the tunnels with his troops.”

  “If it’s not tonight, I bet it will be tomorrow,” Jean said.

  “I’m feeling better. Tomorrow night, I’ll come with you.”

  She always dreamed at night, vivid scenes of inexplicable events mixed with familiar and unfamiliar people, rushing towards something that never became clear. Since she began watching the soldiers, her dreams were even more urgent, and when she woke, she would recall snatches of chaos that faded almost immediately. That night was no different except as she ran, she was surrounded by loud booming that terrified her so much she forced herself to wake up. Uncertainty hovered like a fat black crow.

  Since it was Easter Sunday, they went to church, braving the wind and snapping cold that caused eyes to water and cheeks to turn pink, avoiding ruts filled with ice on either side of the road. Helene was on edge, on edge and distracted. Maman’s voice seemed far away, and on several occasions, she had to ask her mother to repeat a question.

  “Perhaps you should have stayed in bed another day,” Maman said as they passed the pharmacy, where a black ca
t sat on the window ledge licking one paw. “You don’t seem to be with us at all this morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Maman. I’m still a little tired.” Helene forced a light note into her voice.

  “Well, you can nap during Father Marcel’s sermon,” Jean said.

  “Jean Noisette!” Maman said. “That’s terribly disrespectful. Really, Jean, what’s come over you? I think you should add that to your confession.”

  “I’m sorry, Maman.”

  Though she yawned all evening, Helene could not sleep, and at four in the morning, she stood by the window, staring at a night sky streaked with heavy clouds. Rain mingled with sleet, causing thick drops to slither down the glass and pool on the outside ledge. Will this be the night? Are the Canadians waiting in this rain? She strained to hear something, anything that might suggest an answer.

  Her door opened a crack.

  “I’m going to the hill,” Jean said. “I’m sure it’s tonight, so I’m going.”

  He spoke with unaccustomed belligerence and she wondered if her brother was scared. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll come with you.”

  She moved quickly around her bedroom, extracting clothing from a tall oak dresser, stepping over a hatbox full of letters dog-eared from frequent reading, then hanging her dressing gown from a large hook on the back of the door. She put on woollen pants, pulled a thick sweater over her head and pinned her hair into a knot with an urgent twist.

  Dressed in heavy coats and knitted hats, they left the house without a sound and ran, fear pounding with every step, following familiar paths, leaping across melting streams, scrabbling through ferns and bushes and as they approached the hill, she heard the opening roar, a deafening sound that shook her body. In an instant, a second crash followed, splitting the sky directly overhead, penetrating her world like a never-ending drumroll.

  Helene and Jean clawed their way up the hill. The guns grew even louder, and a sharp, acrid smell filled the air. Her legs had almost given out when they reached their perch and stood with no need to crouch down and hide, for no one could possibly notice them given the furor of action rippling across the battlefield. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined such a scene.

  Instead of orderly drills or the calm stacking of sandbags and trucks waiting to load or unload, below them was a sea of churning mud; grey dawn streaked the sky; there were sharp flashes of red, the rumble of airplanes overhead. In the far distance near the ridge, an orange glow hovered like a bulging midnight sun. Shells burst from all directions, illuminating soldiers advancing, bayonets flashing with deadly purpose.

  Helene looked at Jean, a mix of fear and awe on his face. She said nothing, for what possible words could make sense of the destruction carried out below? In the preceding weeks, what they had heard and seen—the bright snap of flares and answering clouds of smoke, the stuttering back and forth of machine guns, the sharp whine as planes breached the horizon, the gentle drift of observation balloons—were only the barest hints of reality. They were silent, standing vigil over an unfolding battle, honouring those who fought for their freedom, men they would never know.

  Wherever she looked, troops moved forward, less than thirty metres behind exploding bombs launched by their own artillery. This barrage was their shield, a curtain of steel protecting them from German counterattacks. Step by step they advanced, scrambling across uneven ground, thick clumps of earth flying through the air around them.

  Gradually, the sky lightened, bringing the battle into sharper focus then a sudden flurry of snow obscured her view, and she wondered how the soldiers could possibly find their way. The snow left as quickly as it had appeared, and in the far, far distance, she saw white and black puffs of smoke; then a plane, trailing black streamers, emerged from the far left and flew low over the scene, its klaxon sounding like an ancient battle cry.

  While they watched, Helene thought of Guy. Had he grown accustomed to these mind-numbing sounds mixed with exploding bursts of earth and shrapnel? Was this what it had been like when he was wounded? Was he brave, or did he fear for his life? Did he lead his men with care? Did he shout at death as it whirled around him? How could he face battle again and again, her wonderful brother who laughed and teased, enjoyed the give and take of argument, took pride in his studies, loved his family? How could any of them?

  Overwhelmed, she tugged at her brother’s arm. “We should go home.”

  She thought at first Jean might refuse, but then she saw the fear in his eyes. He swallowed before agreeing in a trembling voice.

  No one could sleep through such deafening noise, and Helene knew her mother would be awake when they returned. They found her weeping by the kitchen window, hysteria not far from the surface. She embraced them both and then slapped them each across the face.

  “Don’t you ever disappear like that again! How could you, Helene? You’re an adult now. How could you?”

  “Maman, I’m sorry. So sorry. Forgive me, please.” She clutched her mother’s arm and began to sob.

  “Where did you go? The guns woke me and I couldn’t find you. I could only imagine something dreadful had happened to you.”

  “If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” said Jean. “I’m the one who started watching them.”

  The story tumbled out as Jean and Helene told their mother of the months of preparation, the tunnels, artillery huts, the vastness of it all. Eventually, they told her what they saw that morning.

  “Thousands and thousands of soldiers, Maman. You wouldn’t believe it,” Jean said, shaking his head.

  “We think they’re trying to take the ridge,” Helene added.

  “How could you possibly think that what you did was acceptable? Do you have no sense? What if the Germans had gained the upper hand and stormed the hill where you were?” Her mother’s voice was raspy; her lips and cheeks drained of colour.

  Later that morning, with the sound of artillery booming in rolling cascades, Helene went about everyday tasks, turning the hay in their small barn, bringing in a supply of firewood, grinding pork for sausages, cleaning the hearth. She spoke only when spoken to. Fear pulsed with every echoing crash, with the faint drone of faraway planes, with the coils of black blotting the sky, with the smells of smoke and with each moment of silence. One looming question filled every crevice of her being: Who would prevail?

  *

  That night, Helene dozed but did not sleep. Though the massive barrage diminished, occasional explosions sounded until the dark, still hours before dawn. She imagined hundreds of dead soldiers lying in craters carved out by heavy artillery fire, the wounded moaning for help that might never arrive. She imagined the glutinous mass of mud and bleak cold air facing those who survived. What would their tunnels be like now that thousands of men had tramped each passageway? Who would deliver food to those carrying the burden of war all day? Where would they sleep? Would they sleep?

  In the morning, sleet whirled outside Tante Camille’s, obscuring the road beyond the house, but by midmorning, sun poked through the clouds. Jean sat by the fire pretending to read, lunging from his chair at the slightest noise to look out the window. Maman wrote letters while Helene turned up the hem on a skirt her grandmother used to wear. Each quarter hour the clock chimed.

  Around three in the afternoon, a new barrage began.

  “Sounds farther away,” said Jean.

  “Perhaps the Allies have pushed the Germans back.”

  “If I took my binoculars up the hill, I might be able to see what’s going on.”

  “You will do no such thing, Jean Noisette. Is that clear?” Maman’s voice cracked with anxiety.

  Jean tossed his book aside and stomped upstairs.

  When Wednesday passed without the death rattle of machine guns or the raging boom of artillery, Helene’s mother agreed they could walk into Beaufort the following morning. Three days of waiting was almost more than Helene could bear, and that night, she stood by her window for hours straining to hear something, anything, to indicate w
hat had occurred. Only a few muffled thuds echoed in the distance.

  After breakfast, she set out with her mother and brother, bright sun and sharp blue sky promising a new beginning. Early crocuses bravely poked above ground, providing relief from the grey gloom that had blanketed their world, and here and there trees sprouted hard bits of green. Thick mud and wide puddles along the road forced them to pick their way with care.

  “We must have won, otherwise German soldiers would have passed the house,” said Jean, poking a sharp stick in the ground as he voiced his opinion.

  “Not necessarily,” said Helene. “Perhaps our soldiers merely held their own lines.”

  “One thing is certain, there will be casualties,” her mother said. “I’m going to ask Madame Lalonde what help is needed most at the hospital. Regardless of who won or lost, the hospital will be full.”

  Around the next corner, a ribbon of smoke billowed from the Garniers’ chimney. When they drew closer, Madame Garnier ran out of the house, her long white apron flapping and her voice warbling with excitement, and they listened for several minutes as she chattered about the past three days, barely pausing to take a breath.

  “Perhaps you’ll see my husband when you’re in Beaufort. He’s planning to speak to the mayor about how we can help.”

  They left Madame Garnier and continued towards Beaufort, the winter land looking harsh and unyielding, giving no hint of the rich, dark soil brewing spring nutrients and the lush vegetation that would sprout in a few months. A thin covering of snow flattened the rolling countryside, shadows pale and indistinct.

  “I wonder if Papa knows what’s happened,” Helene said.

  “Probably. I’ve written a letter telling him we’re safe.”

  “Did you—”

  “No,” her mother interrupted, “I did not mention your shocking behaviour. Time for that later when Papa has less to worry about. And when we’re in Beaufort, you’re to say nothing about watching from the hill.”