‘There’s news,’ he continued, gently stroking the end of his beard, ‘good news and bad news, as they say. Some that will hurt you, my dear Rose, and some that can only please you, as long as you are both prepared, you and Guy, to forget about certain misunderstandings between you and your mother.’
‘Is she … worse?’ asked Rose quietly.
‘Alas, yes, and that is the upsetting part of my message. When the war started she took on an enormous amount of work, as you know. Her male colleagues were mobilised and she never trusted women. To sum it up, she worked too hard and had quite a serious heart attack; and her physical condition influenced her morale.’
Rose cut in. ‘She isn’t in any danger?’
‘No, she isn’t … But what can you do? She feels old; she’s all alone. Her existence is gloomy. She loved you more than you knew, my dear child. She has a tyrannical nature, so maybe she’s unhappy because she has no one to tyrannise,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘Forgive me, Rose, you know that I have the utmost respect for Madame Burgères. In any case, she wants to make up with you. Once the war is over, she would like to share the burden of power with Guy and, until then, she is asking that you, Pierre, come to her at once. Her very words were, “Ask him to come quickly, to hurry,” to help her run the factory, for she is at the end of her tether.’
He insisted for a long time before Pierre agreed. Perhaps Pierre did not want to admit the inner satisfaction he felt; his inactivity weighed heavily on him; he felt weak, useless, old. Energy flowed through his body at the idea that he would work again, have problems to resolve, orders to give, responsibility. At times the factory had seemed horrible to him; now he thought about it nostalgically, as a widow thinks of a husband who may have been cantankerous but with whom she shared her bed for nearly twenty years.
He resisted for a long time, however, out of a sense of decency. They ended up by assenting. Rose, it was universally decided, must immediately defer to her mother’s wishes. It would be better, more fitting, if the child were born in Saint-Elme, where from now on he belonged, to a certain extent. So Rose would leave the next day. Pierre would accompany her and, once there, he would see; he would speak to Simone; he would decide one way or the other. As for Agnès, she would go along as well and take advantage of the trip to spend time with her mother.
They planned the future slowly, cautiously, choosing their words carefully, prudently, like a child building a house of cards while holding his breath. However, the child understands that the house is fragile, while these middle-class people were certain they knew what tomorrow would bring. Despite Europe’s terrifying chaos, despite the social problems, despite the wars, they had inherited a sense of security; it was passed down through their blood. They counted on the future just as their forefathers had before them. The months, the years to come unrolled before their eyes in slow waves, in gentle undulations, like the flat fields and roadways of their home. Even the smallest detail was planned in advance: Rose decided she would give birth in her mother’s house; in her mind she was organising the large linen cupboard where she would keep the baby’s clothes and picturing, in the alcove, between the prayer stool and her bed, the baby’s cradle. Agnès was already worried about moving in October, if Pierre decided to stay in Saint-Elme … unless the war ended between now and then. She sighed. How sad. The war wouldn’t be over. It would last as long as the one in 1914. Many people thought the same. The events of the past cast a long shadow and their bloodstained light coloured the times they were living through. They could imagine nothing but the repeat of those four years of glory and horror, the immense, superhuman need for patience until it might end. Pierre dreamed of his son’s return. He himself had come home safely from the last war and that seemed a pledge of goodwill on the part of fate towards the Hardelot family. Once Guy was home, Pierre would say to him, ‘Everything is in order. I’ve worked hard. I’ve kept your house safe for you.’
And so, as his grandfather had believed with such unshakeable faith, it was decreed that the factory would remain in the hands of the Hardelots for all eternity. Only the elderly Hardelot-Demestre was thinking of more immediate, more easily achievable rewards: a trip to the Paris Casino that evening, and the following week a wonderful, if discreet, dinner to celebrate the reconciliation between Simone and her children. He drank his coffee, making little slurping noises, and planned the menu: a good thick soup, some lovely fried sole, roast beef, a juicy chicken, asparagus and an icecream bombe.
The radio was playing dance music interspersed with snatches of political speeches; it washed over them like warm milk; they were only half listening. They paid more attention when the news bulletins came on, but there was nothing to report. Rose went to lie down. Agnès went out to do the shopping. The two men remained alone, discussing factory business and talking about Saint-Elme.
That night, 10 May 1940, after spending the evening at the Paris Casino, Hardelot-Demestre went to sleep and dreamed about a little dancer with rosy skin, who wore a G-string covered in golden stars and leaned over him to pull at his beard using little tongs. In his dream, Hardelot-Demestre was tickling the dancer; she resisted, let out tiny birdlike cries, then grabbed a toy trumpet (the old man had played with such a trumpet when he was a child and he had never forgotten the power it had, its strident sounds, the red and yellow tassels that decorated it). The dancer whispered something in Hardelot-Demestre’s ear but, little by little, her whispering became increasingly mournful, loud and alarming until Hardelot-Demestre woke up, rubbed his eyes and realised he was hearing the sound of the air raid sirens. The Hardelots had made up a bed for him at their home. He hesitated. Instinct told him to go down into the basement and, besides, he respected the laws that required everyone to take shelter whenever there was an air raid because one of them might prove dangerous. On the other hand these Parisians might make fun of him. So he waited, then coughed a little, so Pierre and Agnès, whose room was next to his, would know he was awake. After a while he heard them get up and come and stand at his door.
‘Did something wake you, Uncle?’
‘I’ll say. What’s going on?’
He understood by the tone of their voices that they were smiling.
‘If you can’t sleep, slip on a cardigan and come and have a cup of coffee. The anti-aircraft defence system is making a racket.’
They all met up in the sitting room. Agnès lit the gas cooker in the kitchen and soon brought them some steaming hot coffee. All of Paris was awake; the weather was too lovely, too warm; people couldn’t stay tucked in their beds while the birds were singing with a kind of joyful intoxication. Out on the terraces women walked slowly back and forth in their dressing gowns or pyjamas. On the balcony opposite the apartment where the Hardelots lived, a very pretty blonde with dishevelled hair looked up at the sky. Agnès too went over to the open window and gazed up.
Hardelot-Demestre followed her. He cleaned his pince-nez, stared at the birds as they flew from north to south. ‘The planes must be coming from over there,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to see them soon.’
But the birds obeyed their own laws and paid no attention to the planes; or perhaps the planes were simply too high to worry about, up there in the dazzling blue. They were invisible. Only their sound told of their presence, like a cloud of hornets in a summer sky – and the furious sharp explosions that seemed so close by. Agnès had planted flowers on the balcony. It felt strange to see these sweet peas entwined in the railings, though no one could say why. Stranger still was to feel the first rays of sunshine on one’s neck and cheeks, to breathe in this innocent May morning air while hearing the sound of gunfire. No one was terribly worried; it was a false alarm, like so many others, but it put their nerves on edge and made their senses more alert. The beauty of this spring dawn pierced their hearts and filled them with pain, as if a sharp needle were hidden beneath all this sweetness.
At last, Pierre motioned to them. ‘Oh, that’s it, it’s over.’
He h
ad heard the first blast of the all-clear, that sound which is like a deep breath pulling in all the surrounding air before releasing it in a wail that is both a bellow and a lamentation.
They drank the rest of their coffee and went back to bed.
At that very moment the enemy was marching into Belgium.
28
The Hardelots didn’t delay their journey because of political events; quite the contrary, they hurried to get to Saint-Elme. All of France was in danger and some vague instinct made everyone want to endure these perilous times in the bosom of their family. Nothing really terrible could happen along the calm streets between the factory and the church, thought Rose. Of course, during the other war, Saint-Elme had been destroyed, but we consider everything that happens before we are born as mythical, with no true link to reality. In Rose’s mind Saint-Elme was indestructible. The dull, solid provincial family comprised of all the Renaudins, the Hardelot-Demestres, the Hardelot-Arques seemed as enduring to Rose as the rocks and the earth. She had never known her family to suffer, to be impatient, anxious, or want for anything in the world. If Saint-Elme were bombed, the thick walls of their cellars would provide safe shelter; their vast cupboards contained sufficient provisions to withstand a siege, she was certain of it. So what if her contractions began in the middle of a night-time air raid? The doctor who had delivered her lived close by. Even if she died, five pairs of arms would stretch out to take in her child; the entire region was full of friends and relatives. She trusted in Saint-Elme just as she trusted in her mother: harsh, badtempered, difficult to live with, but, nevertheless, a refuge, a rock.
Pierre and Agnès, however, did not share these feelings. They weren’t the ones who needed Saint-Elme; Saint-Elme needed them. They were thinking about the houses, the people, the factory; they remembered various faces: the distant cousin who had three sons, all soldiers, the other cousin whose husband had gone to fight in Belgium. The workers needed the Hardelots; they were infuriated by the war and wouldn’t put up with its ordeals for long without reacting with hatred and revolt; yes, they needed them, thought Pierre. There were so few men left in Saint-Elme. Of course, everything had been anticipated: civil defence, evacuation, if necessary, though this was hardly something to worry about. In spite of everything, Pierre said to himself, ‘No one knows this place like we do …’ His anxious heart beat with affection.
They arrived. Everything was calm. Children were playing. The workers were coming out of the factory. The little girls from the orphanage were going to prayers. The sky was a pure, dazzling blue. It was the season when all the lilacs were in bloom, so every house was full of flowers. In the lower part of the village you could see, through the rough lace curtains, large bouquets on dining tables set for supper. The ironmonger’s and butcher’s wives had them on their counters and in their windows, and from the open doors of the church floated the smell of lilac, as sweet and fresh as a trickle of water flowing through the shadows.
Rose did not expect to find her mother so ill. Madame Burgères was not in bed: in Saint-Elme, unless you were at death’s door, taking to your bed was considered peculiar and somewhat disgraceful. She was waiting for her visitors in the little downstairs reception room, corseted, dressed, breathing with difficulty, sitting up straight in her chair. When she saw her daughter her cheeks turned red. She placed her hand on her chest for a moment, with that anxious gesture common to people with heart problems. She immediately looked at Rose’s face and figure. Then she smiled; Rose guessed that her fit, robust looks pleased her mother. A healthy pregnancy was cause for pride in the family, like a son’s university degree or an ancestor’s fortune.
‘You look well,’ said Simone.
They kissed, then stood facing each other, hesitant and shy.
‘Have you forgiven me, Mama?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Simone, looking away. ‘I’m very weak,’ she continued. ‘It’s time someone took over from me.’
The front doorbell rang. People had heard that the Hardelots had arrived and were coming to get the latest news. ‘What are they saying in Paris?’ they whispered in anxious, subdued voices. Women with grey faces, wearing mourning dresses and leather gloves, wrung their hands as, one after the other, with courteous greetings and apologies, they entered the sitting room. Each one of them asked the same question, ‘What are they saying in Paris?’
‘But everything is fine,’ replied Rose, ‘just fine,’ as she automatically offered her cheeks for the weak kisses of the ladies of Saint-Elme.
Pierre and Agnès were staying with the elderly Madame Florent. In the middle of the night, both of them woke up, at the very same moment. They could hear the nightingales in the Coudre Woods and, every now and then, a low, muted sound.
‘It’s gunfire.’
Where was Guy? Had he been sent to Belgium? He hadn’t written for several days. Pierre imagined himself back once more in the fields where he had fought, where now, without a doubt, his son was on the march. The evening news had been ambiguous, hardly reassuring …
‘They’ll take a hammering at the beginning. It’s always like that for us at the start,’ Pierre said to himself. ‘They trust to luck, make no preparations and stupidly send men off to be killed. Then, at the very last moment, somehow or other things come together and everything turns out all right. That’s how it was in 1914.’
Yes, that’s what had happened in 1914 and it was impossible, unimaginable, that this time would be any different. He tried to reassure himself, but he was still restless. He got out of bed quietly, went into the dark sitting room, switched on the radio, twiddling the dial anxiously in an attempt to find a French or foreign station that might be broadcasting the latest information, for if he only could hear some good news it might ease the anxiety that was growing within him. He couldn’t understand a thing. The sounds were muddled; other stations played bits of dance music. Finally, he made out a distant voice. ‘All day long our troops have been engaged in bitter combat. Everywhere, they have tenaciously fought off the enemy …’
Angrily he switched off the radio, went over to the window and looked out at a rose bush in full bloom lit up by the moonlight, but without actually seeing it. Such a night, such a beautiful night … it clenched at his heart, filling him with feelings of indignation and anguish.
‘Any news?’ his wife called out.
‘No, nothing.’
He went back to bed. Neither he nor Agnès could sleep. Lying side by side, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, they listened to the sound of gunfire.
Suddenly, Agnès sat up. ‘On the road, down there, on the road …’ she said.
‘What? What is it? I can’t hear anything.’
Then almost immediately he heard the sound of cars driving through the streets, the first refugees. They were recognisable, somehow: perhaps by the way they sped along the empty streets, perhaps by the impatient hooting of their horns, perhaps by the ever-growing rumbling sound as after one car came another, then another. And when they heard this strange noise, all of Saint-Elme opened their doors, their windows, came out into the streets, stared and wondered.
‘They’re coming from Belgium,’ said Pierre.
They had both got up, crossed the hall and gone into the sitting room. The road passed a few metres from their house. Yes, they had guessed correctly; it was the first refugees. Mattresses were tied to the roofs of the cars and luggage spilled over on to the running boards and bumpers.
The cars continued to come all night long, all through the next day. No one had any news of the fighting, but they could sense defeat. There was something in the air, something heavy with despair, that seeped into the most isolated houses, the most peaceful fields, into each and every home, into the very heart of France. No one could sleep any more. Everyone had lost their appetite. They trotted out the same boring words of comfort: ‘As long as they stand firm, that’s what’s most important … It’s not that we’ve heard anything new … After all, in 1914 they only managed to get t
o Compiègne …’
They had no idea what was happening to Guy. No one knew anything about the men out there. They had suddenly all vanished, like passengers on a burning ship who disappear into the smoke and flames, before the very eyes of the few survivors. Now, it was the people of northern France who were fleeing. Everyone questioned them anxiously; where had they come from? Every day the places they named were a bit closer; some neighbouring villages had been bombed. No orders had been received; they didn’t know whether they should stay or go. Each area had to look out for itself, relying on the courage or cowardice of a handful of men and often there weren’t any men. A nervous woman, or a hysterical old spinster could evacuate an entire village, causing waves of refugees to flee along the roads and spread panic. Panic: it grew from one place to the next. It pervaded all of France, just as the sea rushes on to the beach during spring storms.
One day bombs finally fell on Saint-Elme. Planes appeared in the sky; they dived low, narrowly missing the rooftops. Moments later the little railway station seemed to shoot into the air, as if sucked up by a gigantic gust of wind, before crashing back to the ground in flaming pieces.
A few days earlier Rose and her mother had left Saint-Elme. Experience had shown that taking shelter in the provinces was not as safe as they had thought. Their walls and roofs were not bombproof, and their very way of life was buckling and collapsing. You couldn’t count on anyone; people who had been considered pillars of society, up until now, revealed themselves incompetent and cowardly. Both the mayor and the ministerial representative had fled. Moreover, in the terrible confusion that began to reign all orders were suspect; no one could say with certainty if they came from French leaders or the enemy. The policemen disappeared; later on they learned they had been tricked by a misleading telephone call. Only a small group of men and women remained in charge of Saint-Elme and, among them, Pierre and Agnès held pride of place. This happened in spite of themselves. They were the only ones who had remained calm; they alone knew how to talk to people quietly, pleasantly, how to encourage them. They alone still thought of others throughout those days of blood and battle when so many could think of nothing but themselves, their own survival. All day and night, now, refugees from the north and Belgium passed beneath Agnès’s window. The ones from the north didn’t have cars. They slung packs over their backs; they carried their children in their arms. Old women ran through the dust behind their terrified cows. Someone found an abandoned baby in a ditch, wearing nothing but a vest and wrapped up in a tablecloth. Agnès could no longer sleep or eat. And besides, there was hardly any food left; what hadn’t been given away had been stolen by bands of marauders who followed the refugees and mixed with them. And so, while Agnès fed the elderly, changed the babies, dressed wounds, gangs of men were getting into the kitchens, breaking into the cupboards, grabbing everything they could get.
All Our Worldly Goods Page 17