All Our Wordly Goods

by Irene Nemirovsky

  Agnès, her teeth clenched, went from one person to the next, from the house to the gate, bringing milk, eggs, a crust of bread. Yet the night was serene and superb. A thousand stars were shining. The garden was full of white roses.

  It was at that moment that she was handed a crumpled letter by a woman from Arras who had come back to the area to look for her children. Agnès read,

  ‘Mama is very ill. We stopped on the road near Gien. We can’t go any further. We have no more petrol and the roads are so crowded that it is impossible to imagine how we can go on. I’m afraid. Please come, I’m begging you. Rose.’

  The woman was about to leave in a little truck and there was room for Agnès. Once in Arras, the trains would be running … perhaps.

  ‘But we must stay together!’ cried Agnès.

  She had lost all heart. She threw herself into her husband’s arms. To die together, to suffer together, was nothing. But she couldn’t bear the idea of being torn away from Pierre.

  ‘If it were for my son. But for her …’

  ‘She’s his wife, Agnès.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘What can you do here? Let’s both go. How am I supposed to get there all alone? Why are you so determined to stay here? You can see very well that it’s all over.’

  ‘You’ll get there. You have to.’

  ‘But what about you, Pierre? What about you?’

  ‘Me? I’ll stay here of course,’ he said quietly.

  For a long time they held each other close, silently saying goodbye. Then Agnès left. Pierre had a moment of weakness. All in all, why risk his life? Why give up the only consolation possible in these terrible times: to die with his wife of so many years? He wasn’t a soldier any more. Who had made him responsible for looking after the workers, the farmers of Saint-Elme? And what could he possibly do for them?

  But he didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself. Along the road, interspersed with the refugees, came the first of the defeated soldiers, those who had survived in Belgium. The Germans were right behind them. They had broken through all the defences; they were flooding into the very heart of the country. At the canal, a regiment was re-forming and, in an hour perhaps, there would be fighting in Saint-Elme. The soldiers said that it had been the same in the north. Civilians had been caught up in the tank attacks.

  ‘You can’t imagine what it’s like until you’ve seen it for yourself. You just can’t …’ exhausted voices murmured.

  ‘But then, what should we do for ourselves, for the children?’ asked the women.

  The soldiers shrugged their shoulders; they didn’t know and didn’t care. They felt they were destined to die; why should everyone else be spared?

  A crowd gathered around Pierre.

  ‘We have to leave. Leave, while there’s still time,’ shouted the women.

  But he knew it was impossible. He could picture the crush along the road. And, most importantly, he believed that if the civilians continued to flee the army would be finished.

  Near to Saint-Elme were the Coudre Woods, where excavations (the vestiges of a quarry) had left natural shelters; part of the population could take refuge there. Pierre thought for a moment, then said, ‘My friends, go home quickly, pack up some food, if you can, and blankets for the children, and go into the woods. There are no military targets near there; the trees are nearly in full leaf at the moment and will hide you. God willing, you will be able to avoid the fighting, for our troops will mostly be defending the canal and the railway lines.’

  As soon as he began to speak, everyone fell silent; finally someone was in charge, someone they knew, who was from Saint-Elme, whose clear, weary, slightly dry voice was familiar to them all. The stars lit up the anxious faces that looked at Pierre; he felt someone’s warm breath against his leg and his hand touched the smooth little head of a child who had snuggled against him, feeling a reassurance and strength the boy could no longer find anywhere else. Pierre stroked his hair.

  ‘You must hurry,’ he said, ‘but some of the men will stay here with me. If the Germans march in, they mustn’t find the place deserted. But they won’t get through,’ he added, even though, at that very moment, he knew deep down that all was lost.

  Silently, they obeyed. He watched the women from the factory run towards their houses, come back carrying bundles of blankets, dragging their children along by the hand. One of them cried out, as she passed the gate, ‘But it’s just so hard.’

  Out of habit, she blamed her tough life on her boss. She carried two children in her arms; their heads stuck out of a quilt she had thrown over them.

  Pierre took them from her. ‘They’re too heavy for you. I’ll carry them some of the way.’

  He held the children and the quilt close, and ran on ahead. The woman hurried beside him. Behind them came other women, rushing along frantically. When they got close to Pierre, he greeted each one by name. ‘Hello Madame Grout, hello Madame François, hello Madame Vandeeke’ and his composed, friendly voice calmed the terrified flock.

  ‘You don’t think it will be too awful, do you?’ some of the women dared ask.

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied. ‘Just one difficult night to get through. No need to be afraid; I’m here,’ he added, smiling to himself at the naïvety of his words, but knowing how much store was set by simple words and especially by the sound of a calm voice.

  Halfway there he handed the children over to their mother and headed back to Saint-Elme. The night was now vibrating with the roar of planes. They were still very high in the sky, very far away. Suddenly he heard the sound of an explosion and realised they were bombing the roads. That’s where Agnès must be. He imagined the tragic confusion of horses, people and cars.

  ‘I mustn’t think about it,’ he murmured, ‘I mustn’t. If we have to die now … well, it’s better this way than being old and sick. Besides,’ he thought, ‘we’ll make it through.’

  When he got back to Saint-Elme, bombs were falling around the wrecked railway station. You could clearly hear the din of fighting. Pierre was sure the battle would take place at the canal, as in 1914. That canal was the key to the region; there was no doubt that Saint-Elme would be caught in the artillery fire of the opposing sides.

  ‘There won’t be a building left standing,’ he said to himself. ‘Ha! We’re starting to get used to it around here …’

  He waved to an old factory worker sitting comfortably in front of his house on a little wooden bench, his legs stretched out, smoking, as if it were a sunny Sunday afternoon. ‘It’s heating up, Monsieur Pierre,’ the man said, taking off his cap.

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s a difficult time we have to get through.’

  ‘What about your missus? She in the woods?’

  ‘No. She’s gone to Arras. Guy’s young wife is about to have the baby.’

  ‘She’ll have trouble getting there. Seems like people are getting killed on the roads.’

  ‘Yes … I know.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, Monsieur Pierre.’

  ‘Yes. Are you staying here, my friend?’

  ‘I don’t want to leave my house.’

  ‘I’m going to take a look around the village, make sure all my workers have gone.’

  Patiently, he visited each of the houses in the workers’ neighbourhood. He pushed open the doors with his shoulder, went inside, saw the empty rooms, the sheets trailing on the floor, the wardrobe left open (he imagined they had hurried to take the savings hidden beneath the sheets on the shelves and had left everything else). In some houses the fire was still lit, the beds made, a discarded newspaper lying on a table. He nearly fell over in the dark; he’d stumbled into a pram, left behind in the middle of a path. He hadn’t gone far when he found three children in the dark of the François’s house. Their mother had run away, leaving them on the large bed, crying; in the back room of the shop her paralysed grandmother had also been left behind.

  ‘What can I do with them?’ he thought.


  There were many trucks left, but not a single can of petrol. First the refugees, then the soldiers, had taken everything. He got a garden wheelbarrow and lifted the paralysed woman into it.

  ‘Jesus, Blessed Virgin,’ she groaned, then whispered, ‘save us …’

  He grabbed the children, the pillows and the blankets all together, put them in beside her and headed back to Coudre Woods. It was slow going; with such a heavy load, the wheelbarrow kept slipping on the pebbles.

  ‘Thank goodness it isn’t raining,’ he thought.

  Twice, bombs fell close by. He threw himself on top of the wheelbarrow, instinctively using his own body to protect the children and the sick woman. The little ones talked incessantly. He carried on walking. At the second explosion he tipped everyone into a ditch.

  Blazing flames now rose up from Saint-Elme.

  ‘The church is on fire,’ he said.

  Everyone in Saint-Elme was so proud of that poor church: after it was destroyed in 1914, a daring architect had rebuilt it, using stones of different colours. He thought of Guy, of Colette, of Agnès, his heart breaking with love. He righted the wheelbarrow, picked up the old woman and put her in it.

  ‘Now then, you see, you weren’t hurt. Come along; no, children, get in quickly.’

  Finally, they reached Coudre Woods.

  ‘Is there any room here?’

  He could hear movement beneath the trees, in the undergrowth. Anxious faces appeared.

  ‘Are our houses on fire?’ they asked.

  ‘Yes, the ones near the station and the church.’

  ‘That’s my house,’ said a woman, crying.

  ‘Look after these children and push the wheelbarrow further away,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t pay my respects to Madame François. What she did was vile; saving herself and leaving her children behind.’

  ‘She was blind drunk, of course.’

  He left, reassured that the survivors would be all right. Indignation over Madame François would make this woman forget her own problems and give her strength. Once again, he headed back towards Saint-Elme. How long the road seemed; in the past he’d covered it in a few moments behind the wheel of his car. It was the same road that, in his youth, had taken him to his secret meetings with Agnès. If he had to die, better to die here than anywhere else. He knew, he loved, every stone of this road.

  A wall of flame seemed to hover in front of Saint-Elme. He couldn’t imagine how he would ever get through. He covered his face with his hands and started to run.

  ‘Is anybody there?’ he called out. ‘Is anybody still there? Answer me!’

  Only the roaring of the flames replied. Planks of wood fell all around him and shattered. The factory was on fire. Two men knocked into him; they were carrying buckets of water and trying to put out the flames. But their efforts were in vain. Saint-Elme was lost. He needed to find any survivors who might still be among the ruins. He wandered from one street to the next, unable to see, choking from the smoke; abandoned dogs who had been left chained up filled the air with the sound of their terrified leaps and their heartbreaking howls. One of them had broken his chain and ran past Pierre, his coat on fire. Pierre picked up a bundle from the stream. A child. How did he get there? He was still alive. Pierre held him under his jacket. He went past the house where he had spoken to the old factory worker, barely an hour before. The house was on fire. The man had fled. Pierre was running now, holding the child close. Every now and then columns of smoke and flame rose up in his path. He skirted round them; he got through, he didn’t know how. He seemed endowed with amazing strength and agility. Finally he made it back to the road. He ran, crawled, fell, got back up, eyes fixed anxiously on the woods, feeling himself responsible for every human being he had hidden there, for every breath that rose in their poor bodies. The woods hadn’t been touched. He dropped down and rolled on to the grass, at the feet of a group of women who were scanning the horizon.

  ‘Monsieur Pierre!’ they cried out.

  He was a terrifying sight; his clothes were in ribbons, his hair and eyebrows singed. The swaddled baby fell from beneath his jacket.

  ‘My baby!’ cried a woman, laughing and sobbing hysterically. ‘My Jeannot! I thought he was with his grandmother. Oh, thank you, Monsieur, thank you …’

  They brought him some water, washed his hands and face. Then, sitting on the grass, they stared at the fire. The flames were so strong at times that they could see clearly what was being eaten away.

  Then someone would let out a sigh, a cry in the darkness. ‘That’s where I live; that’s my house that’s burning. Is there nothing we can do, Monsieur Pierre?’

  ‘No, nothing. But our lives have been spared. The rest we can rebuild. Saint-Elme has been destroyed and rebuilt so many times … so we’ll do it once more. Don’t cry, Madame Vandeeke, and give me something to drink, please,’ he said and his clear, low, clipped voice hadn’t changed, the women thought.

  All that night and all the next day they watched Saint-Elme burn. They also saw the retreating soldiers pass by, the ones who had managed to survive and not get captured after the battle at the canal, lost once more, alas. They saw the first Germans march through the ruins.

  They couldn’t even begin to consider organising any defence; they had neither men nor weapons.

  ‘We must go now,’ said the women, ‘we must take the side roads and try to get to Arras.’

  ‘No,’ said Pierre, ‘it’s pointless. It’s the same everywhere. What we must do is go back to our homes. Salvage what we can and wait for better times.’

  Slowly, they all went back to Saint-Elme.

  29

  The flood of refugees was moving south, towards the Loire. The cars drove day and night. Their registration plates indicated where they came from; that was how everyone knew which regions were in danger. At first, only people from the northern and eastern provinces fled. ‘It’s always the same people who suffer,’ they said, shaking their heads, remembering the military campaign in 1914. Then the inhabitants of Reims and its surrounding areas were evacuated in an orderly fashion; it didn’t seem as if they had suffered too much during the journey. Next, everyone in the region of Paris got out, followed by the people of Dijon, Belfort and Yonne. Finally came the remains of the troops: carts and tanks, some still camouflaged with branches and leaves, carried a jumble of exhausted soldiers, along with women and children they’d picked up on the way. Agnès had managed to get hold of some petrol between Arras and Saint-Quentin. She was driving; Simone looked as if she were dying. Rose helped her mother-in-law as best she could, despite the tiredness caused by her pregnancy and the pain she was starting to feel in her back and legs; she took the wheel when Agnès needed to rest, for it was unthinkable to stop. There was not a single room, a single bed, a single square inch of space left in any of the villages; they had to keep going at all costs. Miraculously, they avoided the bombing of Vierzon. Barely an hour after they had gone, bombs fell on to the airfield. After Vierzon they moved off the main highway and took the smaller roads through the fields. These were less crowded and safer, but they led nowhere. They were going round in circles, constantly finding themselves back where they’d started. It was driving them mad. They knocked at doors, in vain; they were all locked, the houses empty. Some had been forced open and pillaged by the refugees. They kept going.

  It was night; they had found some fruit in a town and, further along, they managed to buy a bit of soup at the buffet of a train station. Rose hadn’t said a single word since morning. She held her mother in her arms; every now and then she pushed back the locks of grey hair that fell over Simone’s eyes.

  They crossed a small town in the centre of France. Here the crowd was less desperate. They still hoped the enemy would be stopped by the Morvan mountains. In a little café Agnès got some fruit, beer and hot tea for Simone. While they were eating, Rose whispered in her mother-in-law’s ear, ‘Don’t tell Mama, but I don’t think I can go any further. Is there a hospital here? Or a doctor,
or a midwife who could take me in? I think … I think it will be soon.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Agnès softly.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ the young woman replied. ‘It’s just that I know I can’t go on.’

  ‘I’ll have a look around the town,’ said Agnès, after thinking for a moment. ‘I’ll find a bed.’

  The people wounded in the bombing had just been brought to the hospital by truck. They were stretched out on the floor; there weren’t enough beds. In the few hotels, people were sleeping on billiard tables, in bathrooms, in the corridors. It was a sweltering June day. Agnès walked from street to street, to save petrol. All the roads looked alike with their little low houses, their gardens full of roses. She crossed a bridge. On the parapet two little boys with fat, swarthy cheeks were staring attentively as the cars filed past. She stopped for a moment beside them, utterly exhausted.

  ‘There’s lots of cars, aren’t there, Madame, lots and lots!’ one of them said, looking delighted.

  He probably hadn’t budged from this spot on the parapet for three days, thought Agnès; at this very moment he was most likely the only happy person in France. She smiled at him. ‘Is it fun watching?’

  ‘Oh, yes, for sure,’ said the lad.

  He took an apple out of his pocket and bit into it; he couldn’t be more content, Agnès thought.

  ‘You wouldn’t know, by any chance, of a hotel or a house that could take us in? I’m with two other ladies and one of them is very ill.’

  ‘Are you refugees?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too,’ said the boy. ‘My mother was evacuated with her factory and my dad’s a soldier.’

  ‘Well, then, you must know the area. Think hard. Is there anywhere we could spend the night?’

  The second boy, who hadn’t spoken until now, cut in. ‘My aunt has a lot of people staying with her, but you might find a room there. She’s got a big house,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Well, where does your aunt live?’

  ‘Oh, you have to head out of town and then take the first left turn. It’s a mill.’