by Sharon Maas
A metre-wide path had been dug into the snow. The snow itself was a hand’s-width deep, the walls of the shovelled channel about twenty centimetres deep. Jacques had made swift progress – there he was, already near the front gate, his dark form briskly shovelling away. She walked towards him. His back towards her, intent on his work, he did not see or hear her approach.
‘Good morning, Jacques!’ she called, once in hearing distance. ‘Joyeux Noël! Hard at work, I see!’
He swung round. ‘Marie-Claire! Joyeux Noël! Did you sleep well?’
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘It is good to be in my own home, my own room again!’
‘I can imagine. But hopefully it’s not too bad at Tante Sophie’s.’
‘Oh, it’s not bad at all and I’m not complaining. A bit small, a bit cramped, but that is the price I am willing to pay for my independence. Still, it’s good to come home and enjoy a few home comforts again. And what a beautiful day!’
Jacques slammed his spade into a mound of snow and grasped her upper arms, drawing her close. They cheek-kissed in greeting, then pulled apart. He glanced at the spade, and Marie-Claire got the hint. He wanted to return to his work. Dismissed, already? It couldn’t be.
‘Jacques,’ she said, and paused. He tilted his head.
‘Yes?’ She was astute enough to understand that this was not exactly the seductive opening or setting she needed. But an alternative was immediately to hand.
‘Well – I was hoping we could talk some time, about, well, about what I’m doing at the Mairie. If you’re satisfied?’
His face broke out into a grin. ‘Satisfied? Marie-Claire, I’m more than satisfied! That spool you sent, it’s worth gold. Absolutely top-notch information. You couldn’t have done better.’
She beamed. ‘Really? It was useful?’
‘Excellent. You did good work, Marie-Claire!’
‘Well. There’s more to come. You just have to make sure that I have new spools to replace the used ones.’
‘That’s not a problem.’ He glanced at his spade again. She took the hint.
‘So, you want to get back to work. I’ll leave you to it – I might go for a little walk. I love crunching into fresh snow, leaving footprints in pristine snow. It’s not too deep, I think.’
‘No – you’ll be fine in those boots. But I didn’t know you liked walking in the snow! Or walking at all!’
She gave him an enigmatic smile.
‘You don’t know much about me at all, Jacques!’
‘Well, you’ve changed a lot. I remember, as a child, nothing would bring you out from the salon, next to the Kachelowa; you preferred playing with your dolls or reading a book to snow-fights with the rest of us.’
‘I’m not exactly going off to have a snow-fight now! Unless you want one?’
She winked, and was rewarded with a mischievous grin. He bent down, digging into the snow with his gloved hand. In playful menace, he formed a tight ball with both hands.
‘Well, that’s an idea! Why not? Better late than never, Marie-Claire!’
She let out a shriek and ran back down the path, towards the house. The snowball landed with a splat against her back. She swung round.
‘Right, that does it!’ She dug into the snow herself, made her own ball, flung it towards him, but it missed its mark as he leapt aside. Already he was forming a new ball, and she had plunged off, laughing, to the side of the shovelled path, across the snowed-over meadow, shrieking, stumbling in the snow, bending over to collect another handful of it. Jacques plunged after her, bending now and then to collect a handful of snow, pelting her with sloppily formed balls, most of which missed their mark. She fled, darted away, screeching in mock-terror, zigzagging across the field, stopping just once to bend over for her own ammunition, flinging it at him in retaliation.
She reached the wooden fence and stopped, panting, laughing, against it. Jacques caught up with her, flinging away the last ball of snow. He too was out of breath, also laughing. They stood side by side for a moment, catching their breath, leaning against the fence. Marie-Claire clutched her side.
‘And now I’ve got a stitch, and it’s all your fault!’ She bent over double for relief.
He chuckled, and gave her a playful punch.
‘What’s got into you, Marie-Claire? I’ve never seen you so playful.’
‘Like I said, Jacques, you don’t know me, not at all! You’ve put me in a little box and you just never made the effort to get to know me!’
‘You’re right about that – I’m already seeing a few new sides to you.’
‘Nobody in the chateau really knows me, Jacques, including you, and it’s – well, it’s irritating. Everybody hates me.’
He chuckled.
‘Don’t be silly, Marie-Claire. You’re being overdramatic. Nobody hates you. Of course not! You’re my sister! Well, almost…’
She did not laugh back. Her eyes no longer twinkled. Her face, just a moment ago rosy with a winter blush and radiant with joy, now a pale and sullen mask.
He held out a hand to gently grasp hers, but she snatched it away, spun round, strode away, towards the closed gate that led into Chemin des Sources, her body stiff with snubbed pride, hands stuffed into coat pockets. He hurried to catch up. She opened the gate, slipped through it, and was about to close it behind her, but he was right there behind her, so she left it and walked into the road. The snow here was completely untouched, pristine, glistening in the early-morning sun. She walked briskly away, boots crunching into the deep unblemished whiteness, leaving footprints behind.
‘Marie-Claire, wait! What’s the matter? Why’re you running away? What did I say wrong?’
Marie-Claire finally stopped and turned to look at Jacques. Her glistening eyes caught his in a pleading, almost desperate gaze. He could not meet it; he looked away.
‘Jacques: look at me! Just look at me!’ she demanded.
He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘I’m looking. What is it, Marie-Claire?’
‘You don’t know? You really don’t know? You don’t feel it?’
‘Feel – what?’
She stamped her feet in frustration.
‘Christ, you’re so – so dense! Obtuse! Do I really have to spell it out? Jacques, what are you, a robot or what? Have you ever actually been with a woman? Do you even know what a woman is? Who I am?’
‘You are Marie-Claire, and I don’t know what the problem is.’
‘Yes, you do. You know very well but you refuse to confront it. Yes, I am Marie-Claire, that is who I am, but do you know what I am? I am a woman, Jacques, a flesh-and-blood woman, and you are a man. And I am not your sister, never was, so don’t come to me with that rubbish. You did that before, remember?’
He smacked his forehead with a gloved hand.
‘Ah, yes. I remember. That night when you got drunk and you played a stupid game of seduction, which didn’t go too well.’
‘Yes, I was drunk, and you are right, it was stupid and awkward but I was young, just a teenager still, and now I am a woman and I stand before you asking you if you ever really saw me as I am, instead of as a silly child who made a mistake back then. If you cannot see past that embarrassing blunder. If all you are thinking is zut alors, silly Marie-Claire, just a little drunk girl who came into my bedroom by mistake one night, and I told her off and that was that, if that’s the box you have put me in, if you are so arrogant as to refuse to see that I have grown into a woman, a beautiful woman, then…’
She stamped her foot in exasperation. Her eyes shone bright with fervour, trying to hold his but failing, for Jacques’ gaze was fixed beyond her, towards the purple snow-capped mountains of the Vosges. Her words exhausted, silence descended between them as she waited for a response, she watching him, him looking away into the distance, their breath forming white dissolving clouds in the crisp cold morning air.
Finally, he spoke. Slow, calculated words; it was as if in the preceding silence he had weighed each one, chosen each one
for its ability to make its meaning clear, unambiguous, while simultaneously not cause offence, a tightrope strung between two mutually exclusive goals, tact and candour.
‘Marie-Claire. I understand now. At least I think I do. I am not as – what did you call me? Obtuse. I am not as thick-headed as you think. I had indeed forgotten that incident, and I beg your forgiveness. I did not take it seriously at the time and I never held it against you – to me, it was not embarrassing; we all make mistakes when we have had too much to drink. I am the same, and the best thing to do is to let it be as if it never happened, and that is what I have done, and only now that you have reminded me—’
‘Jacques, you are talking too much.’
‘Yes, yes, I am. I am very sorry. What I wanted to say is that the slate has been wiped clean. You are my sister as you have always been—’
‘I am not your damned sister! That is Juliette!’ She cried the words, stamped her feet, pummelled the air.
‘You are like my sister, as I said then. I know what you are trying to say. Yes, you are indeed a beautiful woman, and as a man I can appreciate that, but—’
‘And I have abandoned all pride and all modesty and am throwing myself at you. I love you, Jacques. Can you not see it, feel it? I have always loved you, since we were children. I have tried to fight it but I cannot. I know we are very different, so very, very different, and I have tried to push my love away, but it only comes back stronger than ever. I am almost the opposite of you and yet still I love you with all my heart and all my being and I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you can’t, why you can’t just…’
She paused, openly weeping now, tears leaking from her eyes; she wiped her glove against them, sniffed, and then, with clear eyes locked into his, she whispered the rest of the sentence:
‘…just love me back.’
Jacques held the silence that had closed them in. His carefully selected words had failed; but then, words had never been his strength, nor the adequate formulation of feelings. In fact, his words had not just failed, but produced the opposite effect he had hoped for: instead of easing her gently and discreetly away from further intimacy, more confessions, they had brought out this, an unabashed declaration of love – a thing Jacques was totally unprepared for and for which no words could ever be adequate, except the four she was begging for. Now that was embarrassing.
All he could do, now, was speak the truth: ‘I-I don’t know what to say, Marie-Claire.’
‘So it is quite clear, then; you don’t love me, except as a bland sister.’
It was a statement, not a question. He answered truthfully, no awkward searching for words this time.
‘Yes, Marie-Claire, I love you as a sister, and a friend.’
‘What if I said, I don’t demand or expect your love, but I would like to give you mine, in every way possible, mind, soul and, especially, body; if we made love, perhaps, you could learn to—’
He could not let her finish. ‘No, Marie-Claire, it is out of the question! I cannot, I could not possibly – even the thought of it – just no.’
She cried out: ‘I can’t believe you are so – so totally sans passion! You are a robot, an empty excuse for a man. I bet you’re a – a bloody damned faggot?’
She almost spat that last word, her mouth distorted into a sneer, her eyes glaring with naked animosity, no longer pleading, no longer begging for love, filled now with a wild, furious loathing, the hideous backside of love, her whole face transformed into an ugly, distorted mask. She swung round then and ran, away from him, up the middle of the snow-blanketed road, boots crunching into the crisp white snow. He made to follow her, again, but she turned and shouted at him: ‘Leave me alone! Don’t you dare – just leave me!’
So he stood in silence, hands once again shoved into pockets, watching as she ran away.
A woman scorned… he thought, and an inexplicable sense of foreboding washed through him, a sense of evil descending, almost a premonition, an intimate perception of some intangible but awful thing lying in wait, a dark and nebulous creature waiting in the shadows.
He shuddered to shake it off, turned and returned to the chateau.
Twenty-Nine
Victoire
She was the first to get up and go downstairs, as usual; but then, she had gone to bed early, whereas Maman had stayed up late, after they returned from Mass, to talk to Leon and Lucien, along with Uncle Max, Eric and Jacques. Tante Sophie had gone up to bed with her, and Marie-Claire – she had not even gone to Mass with them. Heaven only knew what was going on in her mind. She had been dressed so inappropriately – didn’t she realise, couldn’t she see for herself, that it was insensitive to doll oneself up like a Paris mannequin when she knew perfectly well that nobody else had the luxury of new and stylish clothes? Not for the first time, Victoire felt a wave of resentment against her father, who made it so blindingly obvious just which of his two daughters was his favourite. But, ever quick to monitor her feelings, Victoire switched off her own sense of – what was it? Jealousy? A feeling of unease that poisoned the entire family unit? – and returned to the task at hand.
First, lighting all the wood-fired stoves in the house; the tall, thin bathroom stove, the black bowlegged kitchen stove and the magnificent Kachelowa. By the time the others woke up and came down for breakfast the rooms so heated would hold a delicious warmth.
She visited Leah and Estelle with boiled eggs for their breakfast, and words of cheer. Then, she was out feeding the animals, letting the chickens and the goats out of their pens; all of them reluctant to emerge because the ground was covered in a thick layer of fresh snow, which had fallen in the hours between their return from church and dawn.
She loved the snow; but when one had a little farm to run, there was no time to enjoy the beauty of the landscape, or indulge in a lengthy morning walk, which is what she would have liked to have done. Hearing a scraping sound, she walked round the house and saw that Jacques had started to clear a path to the gate.
‘Good morning, Jacques! Merry Christmas!’ she called.
He saluted her. ‘Merry Christmas, Victoire! May this be the first and last Christmas under the Nazi jackboot!’
‘Let us pray for that!’ she called back, and returned to the animals. Jacques had a one-track mind: it was never far away from the disaster that had fallen upon them. Even at Mass last night, she had seen him kneeling at his pew, head bent over clasped hands, and she had known exactly what he was praying for. Jacques had no personal life outside of his self-chosen obligation to expel the Boche. And it was good so.
Stoves lit, Leah and Estelle cared for, animals fed and comfortable, Victoire returned to a kitchen now cosily warm and began to prepare breakfast.
Sometimes, quite often, in fact, Victoire felt that she was the head of this household, not her mother. Increasingly, she was the one who ensured that everyone was fed and warm and comfortable. If she knew Maman, that talk with Leon and Lucien and Max and Jacques – essentially, a talk with ‘the men’ – had been fuelled by bottle after bottle of wine. Indeed there, in the basket next to the sink, were all the empties, waiting to be cleaned and refilled and relabelled. She could well imagine it all: Maman refilling everyone’s glass again and again and again, and finally staggering up the stairs to bed, knowing full well that she, Victoire, would take care of everything come the morning.
It wasn’t that Maman was lazy, or negligent of her own duties. Maman had a business to run, and did it well, but in her own time and manner. It had been increasingly difficult for Alsatian winegrowers and businesspeople since the coming of the Nazis: Margaux and her colleagues had had to find a completely new market, a German one, and somehow deal with the fact that they could only keep going through transactions with German buyers; by forming pacts with the devil. Margaux had managed to turn this awkward situation round by using it to its opposite effect: the bribing of Nazis in order to undermine their dominance had become her strategy, a ruse by which she had been able to deceive
them again and again. A risky game, but one she had perfected. Maman was now a master at twisting Nazis round her little finger. ‘They all have a weak point,’ Maman said. ‘You have to find it.’ Catching flies with honey, she called it, a Dolch family motto she’d taken on from Maxence.
But that had meant that Maman’s hands were full, and the day-to-day running of the household had automatically fallen to Victoire. Aimee came in once a week to clean the chateau from top to bottom, but now all the cooking, the care of the animals and garden, the heating of rooms and general upkeep fell completely into Victoire’s hands. She didn’t particularly like it, but it had to be done and it made no sense to complain.
But then she remembered: in January everything would change. She had finalised the arrangements for her Red Cross nursing course, and even found a place to stay, with Evelyne, a friend who lived in Colmar and who had invited her to share her bedroom in her parents’ house. It was all coming together. She would play a part in resisting the Nazis. She could not just sit back and watch the disaster as it happened.
She lugged the basket of empty bottles out of the back door, hung up her coat, rolled up her sleeves, turned on the tap over the sink, placed a kettle of water on the hob of the now scalding hot wood burner and set to work to clear up the kitchen from yesterday’s festivities. There were dirty dishes piled on the central table and in the sink; pots and pans to be cleaned; and, of course, wine and water glasses. She sighed, and entered the dining room to assess the mess left there. Indeed more glasses, left right there where Maman and the men had sat, philosophising and arguing and bonding into the wee hours.
Well, at least Leon and Lucien were back, and safe. Victoire loved her brothers, though she wasn’t particularly close to them, and looked forward to hearing their stories of captivity and eventual release. She also looked forward to feeding them up: they both looked skeletal, and must have been half-starved. She wondered if last night’s overindulgence had not been too much for their first night home. But it was Christmas, they were home, and that was the main thing.