Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  “More than three years in Beaufort,” Helene said, rolling pastry for an apple pie, a smudge of flour on her left cheek.

  She might as well not have spoken, for no one was in the kitchen. For that matter, no one was in the house since Jean was at school and her mother at the hospital writing endless letters for damaged soldiers. Helene knew this volunteer work was her mother’s way of coping and prayed that Guy would remain safe. She added a prayer for Edward and, as an afterthought, one for Francois.

  During ten months of operation, the hospital had grown in size and reputation, and as a result, Beaufort bustled with Red Cross nurses and doctors while the streets were crowded with arriving and departing ambulances as well as trucks bringing endless rolls of bandages, surgical supplies, linens and food. When Helene went into town, she often saw wounded soldiers in wheelchairs pushed by orderlies or limping by on crutches. Those bearing maple leaves on their epaulets made her think of Edward, who was never far from her thoughts. Since making love, she knew with surprising certainty that she could spend the rest of her life with him.

  Three years in Beaufort, she mused once more. If we had remained in Paris, I would never have met him. Would I have met someone else whose blend of intensity and calm makes me feel so safe? Someone whose thoughts seem so much in tune with mine and whose touch makes me melt?

  The thought of Edward’s touch brought a smile to her thin, drawn face. His latest letter made her blush, and she had hidden it within the pages of an old encyclopaedia at the bottom of a pile of books in the attic; a place her mother would never look. When no one else was home, she went upstairs to read it again and again.

  Helene never imagined making love with someone before marriage. Throughout her upbringing, she had been taught that women should protect their virginity at all costs and that sex outside marriage was a sin. She wondered whether war somehow suspended these values or whether taking on so much responsibility made her see life differently. Being intimate with Edward felt so natural, an act that was meant to be.

  She shook her head and returned to pie making. With Maman so busy at the hospital, the house had become Helene’s domain, and after the pie, she prepared stew with leftover pork and vegetables from their garden. Just about time to turn the garden, she thought, making a mental note to mention it to Jean. Once the stew was simmering, she gather soiled clothes and sheets for their weekly laundry, scrubbing, rinsing and wringing each item by hand before hanging them outside in the pale sunshine. It won’t be long until the weather turns, she thought, noticing birds flying south on their annual pilgrimage and small squirrels darting about searching for fallen nuts.

  As the years passed, Helene had become more accustomed to the rhythms of country life and now noticed the subtle changes marking each season. Instead of resenting cold and rain, she thought of them as renewal, God’s plan for protecting the earth. And she thought of her fellow villagers as the stable foundation on which societies grow and prosper. The older she got, the more worried she became, and now that France was entering its fourth year of war, she wondered if their world would survive and whether Edward would be part of her future.

  A crashing boom echoing long into the distance made her jump.

  Where are you, Edward? How long until I see you again?

  *

  Dearest Helene,

  You are always in my thoughts. Every day I picture your sweet lips and imagine your soft touch, and suddenly, the war seems far away. Unfortunately, duties bring me back to reality, or Earnshaw yells for something that he needs “on the double” as he always says. It’s a wonder the army hasn’t invented the phrase “on the triple” to signify even more urgent items.

  I am stationed northeast of Beaufort. (Perhaps you have read the newspapers and can imagine where.) We’ve had a very difficult few weeks, and I’m sorry that my letters have been less frequent, but there have been days when I’ve had no sleep at all. Keeping our equipment working has proven very difficult with so much enemy shelling and deep mud holes to contend with. We are constantly repairing our lines, and now that we are pushing forward, our unit has had to deal with abandoned German communications equipment as well.

  I’m pleased that your mother is looking forward to my next visit, however, I worry that it will be many weeks before I have any leave. I’m too far away for a twenty-four-hour pass. When I do get a chance, you know that nothing will keep me from seeing you.

  All my love,

  Edward

  *

  Dear Maman

  We departed two days ago, heading north to join the British for a further push. It was still dark and pelting rain when we left. Spent most of the day on the road. You have no idea how difficult it is to transport our artillery with the roads so damaged and muddy. When we arrived, we were lucky enough to have accommodation in underground cellars, and for once, warm food was ready for us.

  The logistics of moving thousands of men and material around the country are staggering. The other day, I spoke with one of our supply sergeants, who told me of complexities that would take your breath away. He said it’s almost like moving a small town including water, food, stores, ammunition, animals, cooking facilities, petrol, lumber, trucks, ambulances, clearing stations–I could go on and on. Getting everything moved correctly and in a timely fashion is next to impossible.

  But now we are here and I believe we will be for a while. Yesterday, I sent a group out to consult with our engineers and discover what we are up against while I met with some British artillery officers. They proved friendlier than I thought they would be. The condition of the ground is terrible, all churned up and full of craters made by exploding shells, so I expect we will have a lot of hard work to do.

  I was very happy to receive your package before we left and shared your delicious cakes with my men. Fresh socks and underclothes were also very welcome. I’m glad to hear that you are continuing your hospital work. I’m sure that many of the soldiers will think of you as their guardian angel.

  You hinted that one of the Canadian soldiers is fond of Helene. Our allies are fighting very bravely and the Canadians are known as our shock troops–the men who get tough things done. It pleases me to know that she has an admirer. I’m sure her life in Beaufort is not what she expected, so different from Paris. Papa told me of Jean’s escapades. I’m sorry that I’m unable to provide the guidance that an older brother should. Tell him that he owes me a letter.

  I know that you worry about me, but I am well and as careful as I can be under the circumstances. Your letters give me great comfort.

  Your loving son,

  Guy

  *

  Dear Helene,

  I was so pleased to receive your letter. I hope I didn’t badger you too much to continue writing to me. Your stories about Beaufort provide a welcome glimpse of normal life, or as normal as it can be. I imagine you knitting socks around the fire and baking bread–such domestic activities for my friend! The man with the pigs must be an amusing character–in my mind, he’s as rotund as a pig, although I doubt he has a wet pink nose.

  I am sad to tell you that three of my men sustained casualties recently. We were on a routine job repairing railway lines when two explosions hit. One of the men died instantly, and we sent the other two to hospital. Their injuries are such that they will not return.

  This war is destroying an entire generation of young men. I often wonder how our leaders allow such destruction. The costs are enormous, not only in casualties but also in damage to our way of life. How will France rebuild itself? Every family will have great sadness to endure after this war is over. We see some glimmers of hope now that the Germans have been pushed back at Aisne and Ypres–but the toll was horrific.

  My engineers continue to dig tunnels, camouflage our defences and build our railways, but we have added more dangerous activities like removing booby traps as we clear German lines, preparing grenades and mortars and handling deadly chemicals. There are days when I feel that my soul is lost, and
I wonder if I will ever find it.

  I’m sorry to finish this letter on such a troubled note, but dear cousin, I do appreciate that I can tell you my thoughts. Please write again.

  Francois

  *

  Helene sealed a letter to Francois, planning to take it along with one to Edward into town the following day. At times, she found it difficult to write to two such different men, one a dear friend and the other her lover and the man she hoped to marry. Letters to Francois were full of everyday incidents, designed to bring comfort and thoughts of a future without war, and she tried hard to make them amusing. The story of Monsieur Garnier’s pig winning a local competition for pig of the year had been one of them. She and Maman still chuckled at the memory of Monsieur Garnier beaming proudly and sporting a blue and red ribbon while standing next to his pig on a raised platform.

  Letters to Edward consisted of feelings, words of encouragement and serious reflections on the war. Each time she wrote, she reiterated her love for him. Although she could not bear to think of either man being killed, she knew which death would destroy her completely.

  “Helene! Where are you?” Her mother’s voice was sharp, and Helene rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  “What’s happened, Maman?”

  Maman’s face was sombre but not distraught, and there was no sign of tears. Thank God, it’s not Guy, Helene thought.

  “It’s Germaine’s fiancé. He’s been killed near Verdun. I heard it from Doctor Valdane, who had to prescribe a remedy for Jacques’s mother.”

  “Oh, Maman. Germaine will be terribly upset. Do you think I should go into town?”

  “That would be the best kindness you could do for your friend. She will need someone her own age to talk to.”

  *

  By the time Helene arrived in Beaufort, it was early afternoon, and the wind had reddened her cheeks and loosened tendrils of hair from the chignon she had quickly fastened before leaving. She had walked briskly, encountering no one except a young boy playing with a stick at the side of the road, and had crossed the square and turned up the narrow street where Germaine lived with her family. She found a piece of black cloth hanging on their door.

  “Germaine will be grateful that you’ve come,” said Madame Dubois as she hung Helene’s coat on a hook beside the door. “She’s in the parlour. She heard the news this morning and has been with Jacques’s family until a short while ago.”

  “How is she?” Helene whispered, feeling that death demanded quiet.

  Madame Dubois shrugged. “It’s been a bad day.”

  Helene went along the corridor and into the parlour, located at the back of the narrow house behind the kitchen, where she found Germaine lying on the sofa with a compress across her brow.

  “How are you, my friend? I’m so terribly sorry to hear about Jacques.”

  Germaine removed the compress and opened her red-rimmed eyes. “Thank you for coming.” She reached out a hand, which Helene enclosed in hers feeling a slight tremor.

  After releasing Germaine’s hand, Helene brought a chair close to the sofa. “Your mother said you’ve been with Jacques’s family.”

  Germaine nodded. “They’ve been so good to me. Ever since … ever since Jacques went away, they’ve treated me like one of the family. Almost as though we had married. He …” She stopped talking and swallowed then took several deep breaths. “He was supposed to come home in a few weeks for a brief leave. We even talked about getting … getting married instead of waiting any longer. Maman and I were planning to alter her wedding gown. But now …” Germaine said nothing more as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Helene took Germaine’s hand again but remained silent, uncertain what words might offer comfort.

  They sat that way for a while until Germaine started speaking again. “He was shot, but that’s not why he died. He died because he fell into a deep crater as he tried to make it to safety and drowned before anyone could rescue him. They were in the midst of battle so no one could …” her voice trailed off again.

  “Oh, chérie, how dreadful.”

  “When they send his body home, we can bury him. You’ll come to the funeral, won’t you, Helene? It would give me great comfort to have you there.”

  “Bien sur. Of course I will be there. And I’ll be there for anything else you need.”

  “Will you come again tomorrow?” Germaine sounded as though she had been turned inside out.

  “You should get some rest now. I’ll come again tomorrow.”

  *

  “You have been a good friend, chérie,” her mother said when Helene returned to Tante Camille’s, feeling as though her world had tipped and was spinning out of control. “I’m sure Germaine appreciated your visit.”

  “I promised I will see her again tomorrow.”

  “Then you must. I’ll come with you and pay my respects.”

  Helene wiped away her tears. “Where does all that love go? All Jacques’s love for Germaine and hers for him. I was thinking about that on the way home. It’s such a powerful emotion, and suddenly, it’s gone.”

  “I don’t think love disappears. It stays in the memories you have of that person and in the way that person’s love changed you. Germaine still loves her Jacques. He’s still by her side whenever she thinks of him. That’s what I believe.”

  “Thank you, Maman. I’ll tell her that.”

  Helene wrote to Edward before she went to bed. Writing brought him close, and she needed him close after such dreadful news. She told him about Jacques and said she was desperate to see him and feared for his life every day. Who, she wrote, will tell me if something happens to you?

  *

  Dearest,

  I am safe, and you are correct about my current location. I am so sorry to hear about Germaine’s loss. Please send her my deepest condolences. She is a wonderful woman and has been very good to us.

  There is no way for you to travel here to see me. Conditions change so rapidly that what might seem safe one day will not be safe a day or two later. In any event, there are rumours that we’ll be on the move again soon.

  I have given your address to two people–Eric Andrews, since he’s my closest friend, and Captain Earnshaw. They are aware that you are very important to me.

  All my love,

  Edward

  Chapter 32

  January 1918

  “Where are my glasses? Helene, have you seen them? I can’t possibly go to Paris without them.”

  Helene’s mother bustled about the kitchen and salon looking in all the usual places. Since she only needed her glasses for distance, when reading or sewing she took them off, which often led to a rather frenzied search until they were found. As she helped her mother search, Helene tried to stifle her own anxieties. The sooner Maman left, the sooner Helene’s plans could commence.

  A few days earlier, her father had written that because he had been unable to come to Beaufort at Christmas, he wanted his wife to come to Paris for a few days. January was bitterly cold, snow lying like a thick crust over the countryside, flurries erupting, dashing here and there like a swarm of angry wasps. Within the hour, Gaston would arrive with his horse and wagon to take Maman to the station. Nothing, not even Gaston’s magic, could make the Tonneau come to life in such weather.

  “Found them,” her mother called out from the kitchen. “Chérie, can you get my black shawl? The train will no doubt be frigid.”

  Maman hurried upstairs humming the same tune she had hummed all morning. Helene wished she would sing something else, but was so pleased to see her mother’s happiness she restrained herself from saying anything. Papa will be glad to see her, she thought. I wonder how he has coped without her for so long?

  Now that she had experienced sexual intimacy, she could imagine the intense longing of her parents’ separation, a desire for skin touching skin, lip to lip, tongue to tongue. The very thought stirred emotions deep within Helene’s body.

  Hurry, hurry, she urged silent
ly, wishing for her mother’s departure.

  “Will you be all right on your own?”

  “Maman, you know Jean and I have managed before. Papa needs your company. We’ll be fine.” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I’m almost twenty, you know, and I look after the house every day.”

  Maman’s smile faded. “Never would I have imagined this life for you. You’re much more capable than I was at that age. More mature than … oh, there’s my book.” Her voice drifted away as she gathered her toiletries and tucked several handkerchiefs and a book by Marcel Proust into a small valise.

  As Helene and Jean waved good-bye, another flurry of snow descended, obscuring the wagon from view. Only the clip-clop of the horse and muffled rumble of wheels marked their mother’s departure.

  “When will he get here?” Jean asked.

  “Today or tomorrow. Promise me again that you won’t tell.”

  Helene could think of no other way to spend time with Edward than to tell her brother that he was coming. It was serendipity that Edward had leave at the same time as her mother’s trip and pure luck that Helene had not already disclosed his visit, otherwise her mother would never have gone to Paris. Although Germaine had arranged a place for him to sleep, the cold was too severe for them to meet at their hut in the hills. Edward would have to come to Tante Camille’s.

  “I’ve already promised a hundred times.” Jean looked up towards the ceiling and shook his head.

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry to pester you.”

  After Jean left for school, she climbed the attic stairs to her old bedroom. This would be their refuge, the one place in the house not claimed by her mother’s presence. She surveyed the room, trying to imagine how Edward would see it. It should look more adult, she thought and proceeded to gather reminders of her childhood—a rag doll with one button eye missing, a pillow embroidered with her date of birth, a music box Grandmere had given her when she turned eight, a red ribbon announcing the winner of a spelling contest, a scarf she knitted the first winter in Beaufort, several schoolbooks—and tuck them into the leather trunk that sat beneath one window. This trunk was where she already kept her diary, which now had many entries to hide from her mother.