Annette remained fiercely hostile. She never spoke to him except to answer his direct questions and as soon as it was possible went to her own room. When it was so cold that she couldn’t stay there she sat by the side of the kitchen stove, sewing or reading, and took no more notice of him than if he hadn’t been there. She was in radiant health. There was colour in her cheeks and in Hans’s eyes she was beautiful. Her approaching maternity had given her a strange dignity and he was filled with exultation when he gazed upon her. Then one day when he was on his way to the farm he saw Madame Perier in the road waving to him to stop. He put his brakes on hard.
‘I’ve been waiting for an hour. I thought you’d never come. You must go back. Pierre is dead.’
‘Who’s Pierre?’
‘Pierre Gavin. The teacher Annette was going to marry.’
Hans’s heart leapt. What luck! Now he’d have his chance.
‘Is she upset?’
‘She’s not crying. When I tried to say something she bit my head off. If she saw you today she’s capable of sticking a knife into you.’
‘It’s not my fault if he died. How did you hear?’
‘A prisoner, a friend of his, escaped through Switzerland and he wrote to Annette. We got the letter this morning. There was a mutiny in the camp because they weren’t given enough to eat, and the ringleaders were shot. Pierre was one of them.’
Hans was silent. He could only think it served the man right. What did they think that a prison camp was-the Ritz?
‘Give her time to get over the shock,’ said Madame Perier. ‘When she’s calmer I’ll talk to her. I’ll write you a letter when you can come again.’
‘All right You will help me, won’t you?’
‘You can be sure of that. My husband and I, we’re agreed. We talked it over and we came to the conclusion that the only thing to do was to accept the situation. He’s no fool, my husband, and he says the best chance for France now is to collaborate. And take it all in all I don’t dislike you. I shouldn’t wonder if you didn’t make Annette a better husband than that teacher. And with the baby coming and all.’
‘I want it to be a boy,’ said Hans.
‘It’s going to be a boy. I know for certain. I’ve seen it in the coffee grounds and I’ve put out the cards. The answer is a boy every time.’
‘I almost forgot, here are some papers for you,’ said Hans, as he turned his cycle and prepared to mount.
He handed her three numbers of Paris-Soir. Old Perier read every evening. He read that the French must be realistic and accept the new order that Hitler was going to create in Europe. He read that the German submarines were sweeping the sea. He read that the General Staff had organized to the last detail the campaign that would bring England to her knees and that the Americans were too unprepared, too soft and too divided to come to her help. He read that France must take the heaven-sent opportunity and by loyal collaboration with the Reich regain her honoured position in the new Europe. And it wasn’t Germans who wrote it all; it was Frenchmen. He nodded his head with approval when he read that the plutocrats and the Jews would be destroyed and the poor man in France would at last come into his own. They were quite right, the clever fellows who said that France was essentially an agricultural country and its backbone was its industrious farmers. Good sense, that was.
One evening, when they were finishing their supper, ten days after the news had come of Pierre Gavin’s death, Madame Perier, by arrangement with her husband, said to Annette:
‘I wrote a letter to Hans a few days ago telling him to come here tomorrow’
‘Thank you for the warning. I shall stay in my room.’
‘Oh, come, daughter, the time has passed for foolishness. You must be realistic. Pierre is dead. Hans loves you and wants to marry you. He’s a fine-looking fellow. Any girl would be proud of him as a husband. How can we restock the farm without his help? He’s going to buy a tractor and a plough with his own money. You must let bygones be bygones.’
‘You’re wasting your breath, Mother. I earned my living before, I can earn my living again. I hate him. I hate his vanity and his arrogance. I could kill him: his death wouldn’t satisfy me. I should like to torture him as he’s tortured me. I think I should die happy if I could find a way to wound him as he’s wounded me.
‘You’re being very silly, my poor child.’
‘Your mother’s right, my girl,’ said Perier. ‘We’ve been defeated and we must accept the consequences. We’re got to make the best arrangement we can with the conquerors. We’re cleverer than they are and if we play our cards well we shall come out on top. France was rotten. It’s the Jews and the plutocrats who ruined the country. Read the papers and you’ll see for yourself?’
Do you think I believe a word in that paper? Why do you think he brings it to you except that it’s sold to the Germans? The men who write in it-traitors, traitors. Oh God, may I live to see them torn to pieces by the mob. Bought, bought every one of them-bought with German money. The swine.’
Madame Perier was getting exasperated.
‘What have you got against the boy? He took you by force-yes, he was drunk at the time. It’s not the first time that’s happened to a woman and it won’t be the last time. He hit your father and he bled like a pig, but does your father bear him malice?’
‘It was an unpleasant incident, but I’ve forgotten it,’ said Perier.
Annette burst into harsh laughter.
‘You should have been a priest. You forgive injuries with a spirit truly Christian.’
‘And what is there wrong about that?’ asked Madame Perier angrily. ‘Hasn’t he done everything he could to make amends? Where would your father have got his tobacco all these months if it hadn’t been for him? If we haven’t gone hungry it’s owing to him.’
‘If you’d had any pride, if you’d had any sense of decency, you’d have thrown his presents in his face.’
‘You’ve profited by them, haven’t you?’
‘Never. Never.’
‘It’s a lie and you know it. You’ve refused to eat the cheese he brought and the butter and the sardines. But the soup you’ve eaten, you know I put the meat in it that he brought; and the salad you ate tonight, if you didn’t have to eat it dry, it’s because he brought me oil.’
Annette sighed deeply. She passed her hand over her eyes.
‘I know. I tried not to, I couldn’t help myself, I was so hungry. Yes, I knew his meat went into the soup and I ate it. I knew the salad was made with his oil. I wanted to refuse it; I had such a longing for it, it wasn’t I that ate it, it was a ravenous beast within me.’
‘That’s neither here nor there. You ate it’
‘With shame. With despair. They broke our strength first with their tanks and their planes, and now when we’re defenceless they’re breaking our spirit by starving us.’
‘You get nowhere by being theatrical, my girl. For an educated woman you have really no sense. Forget the past and give a father to your child, to say nothing of a good workman for the farm who’ll be worth two hired men. That is sense.’
Annette shrugged her shoulders wearily and they lapsed into silence. Next day Hans came. Annette gave him a sullen look, but neither spoke nor moved. Hans smiled.
‘Thank you for not running away,’ he said.
‘My parents asked you to come and they’ve gone down to the village. It suits me because I want to have a definite talk with you. Sit down.’
He took off his coat and his helmet and drew a chair to the table.
‘My parents want me to marry you. You’ve been clever; with your presents, with your promises, you’ve got round them. They believe all they read in the papers you bring them. I want to tell you that I will never marry you. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that I could hate a human being as I hate you.’
let me speak in German. You understand enough to know what I’m saying.’
‘I ought to. I taught it. For two years I was governess to two little gir
ls in Stuttgart.’
He broke into German, but she went on speaking French.
‘It’s not only that I love you, I admire you. I admire your distinction and your grace. There’s something about you I don’t understand. I respect you. Oh, I can see that you don’t want to marry me now even if it were possible. But Pierre is dead.’
‘Don’t speak of him,’ she cried violently. ‘That would be the last straw’
‘I only want to tell you that for your sake I’m sorry he died.’
‘Shot in cold blood by his German jailers.’
‘Perhaps in time you’ll grieve for him less. You know, when someone you love dies, you think you’ll never get over it, but you do. Won’t it be better then to have a father for your child?’
‘Even if there were nothing else do you think I could ever forget that you are a German and I’m a Frenchwoman? If you weren’t as stupid as only a German can be you’d see that that child must be a reproach to me as long as I live. Do you think I have no friends? How could I ever look them in the face with the child I had with a German soldier? There’s only one thing I ask you; leave me alone with my disgrace. Go, go-for God’s sake go and never come again.’
‘But he’s my child too. I want him.’
‘You?’ she cried in astonishment ‘What can a by-blow that you got in a moment of savage drunkenness mean to you?’
‘You don’t understand. I’m so proud and so happy. It was when I knew you were going to have a baby that I knew I loved you. At first I couldn’t believe it; it was such a surprise to me. Don’t you see what I mean? That child that’s going to be born means everything in the world to me. Oh, I don’t know how to put it; it’s put feelings in my heart that I don’t understand myself.’
She looked at him intently and there was a strange gleam in her eyes. You would have said it was a look of triumph. She gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t know whether I more loathe the brutality of you Germans or despise your sentimentality.’
He seemed not to have heard what she said.
‘I think of him all the time.’
‘You’ve made up your mind it’ll be a boy?’
‘I know it’ll be a boy. I want to hold him in my arms and I want to teach him to walk. And then when he grows older I’ll teach him all I know. I’ll teach him to ride and I’ll teach him to shoot. Are there fish in your brook? I’ll teach him to fish. I’m going to be the proudest father in the world.’
She stared at him with hard, hard eyes. Her face was set and stern. An idea, a terrible idea was forming itself in her mind. He gave her a disarming smile. ‘Perhaps when you see how much I love our boy, you’ll come to love me too. I’ll make you a good husband, my pretty.’
She said nothing. She merely kept on gazing at him sullenly.
‘Haven’t you one kind word for me?’ he said.
She flushed. She clasped her hands tightly together.
‘Others may despise me. I will never do anything that can make me despise myself You are my enemy and you will always be my enemy. I only live to see the deliverance of France. It’ll come, perhaps not next year or the year after, perhaps not for thirty years, but it’ll come. The rest of them can do what they like, I will never come to terms with the invaders of my country. I hate you and I hate this child that you’ve given me. Yes, we’ve been defeated. Before the end comes you’ll see that we haven’t been conquered. Now go. My mind’s made up and nothing on God’s earth can change it.’
He was silent for a minute or two.
‘Have you made arrangements for a doctor? I’ll pay all the expenses.’
‘Do you suppose we want to spread our shame through the whole countryside? My mother will do all that’s necessary.’
‘But supposing there’s an accident?’
‘And supposing you mind your own business!’
He sighed and rose to his feet. When he closed the door behind him she watched him walk down the pathway that led to the road. She realized with rage that some of the things he said had aroused in her heart a feeling that she had never felt for him before.
‘0 God, give me strength,’ she cried.
Then, as he walked along, the dog, an old dog they’d had for years, ran up to him barking angrily. He had tried for months to make friends with the dog, but it had never responded to his advances; when he tried to pat it, it backed away growling and showing its teeth. And now as the dog ran towards him, irritably giving way to his feeling of frustration, Hans gave it a savage brutal kick and the dog was flung into the bushes and limped yelping away.
‘The beast,’ she cried. ‘Lies, lies, lies. And I was weak enough to be almost sorry for him.’
There was a looking-glass hanging by the side of the door and she looked at herself in it. She drew herself up and smiled at her reflection. But rather than a smile it was a fiendish grimace.
It was now March. There was a bustle of activity in the garrison at Soissons. There were inspections and there was intensive training. Rumour was rife. There was no doubt they were going somewhere, but the rank and file could only guess where. Some thought they were being got ready at last for the invasion of England, others were of opinion that they would be sent to the Balkans, and others again talked of the Ukraine. Hans was kept busy. It was not till the second Sunday afternoon that he was able to get out to the farm. It was a cold grey day, with sleet that looked as though it might turn to snow falling in sudden windy flurries. The country was grim and cheerless.
‘Your cried Madame Perier when he went in. ‘We thought you were dead.’
‘I couldn’t come before. We’re off any day now We don’t know when.’
‘The baby was born this morning. It’s a boy.’
Hans’s heart gave a great leap in his breast. He hung his arms round the old woman and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘A Sunday child, he ought to be lucky. Let’s open the bottle of champagne. How’s Annette?’
‘She’s as well as can be expected. She had a very easy time. She began to have pains last night and by five o’clock this morning it was all over.’
Old Perier was smoking his pipe sitting as near the stove as he could get. He smiled quietly at the boy’s enthusiasm.
‘One’s first child, it has an effect on one,’ he said.
‘He has quite a lot of hair and it’s as fair as yours; and blue eyes just like you said he’d have,’ said Madame Perier. ‘I’ve never seen a lovelier baby. He’ll be just like his papa.’
‘Oh, my God, I’m so happy,’ cried Hans. ‘How beautiful the world is! I want to see Annette.’
‘I don’t know if she’ll see you. I don’t want to upset her on account of the milk.’
‘No, no, don’t upset her on my account. If she doesn’t want to see me it doesn’t matter. But let me see the baby just for a minute.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to bring it down.’
Madame Perier went out and they heard her heavy tread clumping up the stairs. But in a moment they heard her clattering down again. She burst into the kitchen.
‘They’re not there. She isn’t in her room. The baby’s gone.’
Fierier and Hans cried out and without thinking what they were doing all three of them scampered upstairs. The harsh light of the winter afternoon cast over the shabby furniture, the iron bed, the cheap wardrobe, the chest of drawers, a dismal squalor. There was no one in the room.
‘Where is she?’ screamed Madame Perier. She ran into the narrow passage, opening doors, and called the girl’s name. ‘Annette, Annette. Oh, what madness!’
‘Perhaps in the sitting-room.’
They ran downstairs to the unused parlour. An icy air met them as they opened the door. They opened the door of a storeroom.
‘She’s gone out. Something awful has happened.’
‘How could she have got out?’ asked Hans sick with anxiety.
‘Through the front door, you fool.’
Perier went up to it and looked.
&nbs
p; ‘That’s right. The bolt’s drawn back.’
‘Oh, my God, my God, what madness,’ cried Madame Perier. ‘It’ll kill her.’
‘We must look for her,’ said Hans. Instinctively, because that was the way he always went in and out, he ran back into the kitchen and the others followed him. ‘Which way?’
‘The brook,’ the old woman gasped.
He stopped as though turned to stone with horror. He stared at the old woman aghast.
‘I’m frightened,’ she cried. ‘I’m frightened.’
Hans flung open the door, and as he did so Annette walked in. She had nothing on but her nightdress and a flimsy rayon dressing-gown. It was pink, with pale blue flowers. She was soaked, and her hair, dishevelled, clung damply to her head and hung down her shoulders in bedraggled wisps. She was deathly white. Madame Perier sprang towards her and took her in her arms.
‘Where have you been? Oh, my poor child, you’re wet through. What madness!’
But Annette pushed her away. She looked at Hans.
65 Short Stories Page 31