“This newcomer seems to think she’s better than the rest of us,” she said, obviously intending Amanda to hear.
“Amanda. My name’s Amanda,” she called after the woman. “I came only with my daughter. They killed my husband, but I prefer not to talk about that. There’s nothing to be done now . . .”
“These Boche bastards and the French guards are going to pay dearly for it,” said the woman, retracing her steps. “I’m Bérénice. Are you from the north? I bet you’re from Alsace, with those blue eyes of yours and that hair . . .”
Amanda realized that her accent still gave her away. Lowering her eyes, she hoped Bérénice would take this as a sign of agreement.
“You can’t trust anyone in here. However French those guards seem, they’ve all sold out to the Germans. They’re only interested in getting paid, and it doesn’t matter if it’s by the Germans or Pétain. They’re such cowards they avoid any trouble with the men, because they know that when they get out of here, if they’re free one day, they’ll immediately want to settle scores.” She paused, then added, “And there’ll be a high price to pay.”
Without realizing it, Bérénice had provided Amanda with valuable information. She realized she would have to use the guards’ fear for her own ends. It would only take a friendly gesture that might guarantee a safe-conduct at the conclusion of the war, which, however endless it seemed, was bound to end one day.
Despite the harshness of her gaze and her challenging gestures, Amanda saw a hint of kindness in this small, muscular woman. With Bérénice looking on curiously, she opened her suitcase and put the coat inside. As she was bending down to slide her things under the bed, she saw Frau Meyer sitting bewildered in a corner. She ran to help her up. Completely lost, Frau Meyer began to wander around leaning on the walls, repeatedly bumping her forehead against them. She stumbled from corner to corner, as though trying to find a secret exit.
“A stinking Jew. It’s because of her that all us French are suffering,” said Bérénice. Amanda frowned at her.
“All right, don’t get mad. She may well be a good woman. But you can’t deny she stinks.”
Amanda led Frau Meyer to a window. Outside they could see Lina with a gaggle of children running after a skinny dog. Amanda tried to take off Frau Meyer’s coat, but the old woman clung to it, her terrified eyes begging her not to touch it: the coat was all she had left.
That night Amanda slept hugging Lina close. She slept so deeply she didn’t even notice the arrival of dozens more women and children. Awaking the next morning, she realized that not only had she lost all notion of night and day, but that sounds had also turned into an indistinguishable murmur, that voices were nothing more than noise, that the stench in the hut had become a vague, distant smell, and that colors had become blurred. Nothing was black or white anymore. Brown and gray had faded into a neutral paleness. There was no place for the red, blue, or orange of sunrises. They had started to live in a perpetual night that obliterated any contrasts or shadows. They had learned to breathe just deeply enough to take in the air their lungs needed to expand, but keeping out any overpowering smells. It was the only way to survive. Above all, she needed to learn to rediscover silence. At every moment a groan, a cry, or a blow reminded her she was not alone.
The morning began with the intermittent wailing of a baby who clung to the dry breast of a woman furiously squeezing her withered flesh as if it wasn’t part of her body. Apparently whenever she pressed down on the milkless ducts, the baby calmed down briefly, but then his body would begin shaking with involuntary sobs.
Exhausted, utterly dispirited, the mother crawled to a corner of her bed and dropped the trembling baby onto the bare mattress. He fell silent, perhaps stunned by this sudden abandonment.
An old woman from the top bunk came down and sat on the edge of the bed. Pulling on a pair of filthy socks, she completely ignored the baby, who lay there, eyes wide open, possibly because he didn’t have the strength to close them.
He won’t survive another day¸ thought Amanda so coldly that for a moment she was horrified at herself. The idea of reaching out her hand flitted through her mind, but she realized at once that this made no sense. The mother had already given up.
“My husband survived malaria, a bullet in the chest, falling down a ravine, and even being crushed by a cart,” the woman said to Amanda, her eyes staring into space, anywhere away from the baby lying behind her. “Now, shut in here, he’s dying with every second. Each night he shrivels up a little more, and one morning I won’t see him come out of his hut. Nothing touches me anymore, nothing can kill me. Why grieve, if we’re never free? Neither in here, nor out there.”
She rubbed her eyes calmly, a glint of fear shining in the depths of her irises. Trying to hide it with a smile, she lifted her baby, as if he had already abandoned her, and held him out to Amanda.
Lina saw her mother cradling the baby, heard her comfort him with a lullaby that was more like a tuneless humming. Taking a piece of chocolate from her pocket, she bit into it. She pressed the remainder in her hand to soften it, then brushed it across the baby’s lips. The child tasted it slowly with a mixture of disapproval and enjoyment as he wriggled awkwardly, trying to settle into this new lap receiving him so warmly.
Amanda looked down at the baby. She was sure he would succumb before nightfall. The tiny sweet scrap of nourishment would only keep him going a few hours, but for the moment at least he had been reinvigorated, and the other women began to take notice of him. Even Frau Meyer came over, took him in her arms, and began to rock him, walking between the beds, raising dust from the floor. Bérénice approached her and she let her take him. Even the woman from the top bunk who had ignored him earlier came over to offer him toothless smiles and caresses. Surrounded by all this unexpected maternal concern, the baby remained silent.
Amanda sent Lina out to play with her friends. She returned to her own bed, did her hair up, smoothed down her dress, and even put some lipstick on her cracked lips. As she headed for the door, Bérénice, still holding the baby, followed her every movement.
“That one is up to something. In a couple of days, she’ll be as dirty as the rest of us.”
She handed the baby back to his mother and went out to see where Amanda had gone, but couldn’t spot her. Thinking she must have been to the men’s hut, she looked inside it, but Amanda wasn’t there. She went over to the children and grabbed Lina by the arm.
“Where the hell has your mother gone?” she growled.
Slipping easily from her grasp, Lina shrugged and turned her back. Bérénice wouldn’t give up, continuing on to the outhouse and then the kitchen. When she finally abandoned her search and was coming back, she caught sight of Amanda’s lilac dress behind the women’s hut. Bérénice was skirting a group of guards bringing in a group of new arrivals when a swirl of dust blinded her momentarily. When she spotted Amanda again, she was standing by a corner of the hut next to the storage shed for coal and wood. She wasn’t alone, but Bérénice couldn’t make out who was holding her hand. She went closer stealthily, but could only hear murmurs, meaningless phrases, snatches of words she tried desperately to grasp the meaning of: my daughter, a friend, Saturday night. As she drew nearer, she recognized the profile of the man in the shadows.
They were locked in an embrace, and Bérénice saw the man’s hand slide down to Amanda’s waist. She let him press her to him, apparently unconcerned about being seen, until the sound of footsteps made her react. Freeing herself from the gendarme’s arms, she ran back toward the hut.
Her cheeks were flushed with shame, but at least she had managed to slip the letter for Claire and Father Marcel into his hands. At least . . . a thick gobbet of spit brought her back to reality. Taken aback, she shut her eyes to wipe her face, and saw Bérénice standing over her, arms folded and a threatening look on her face.
“So you think that letting Bertrand paw you will help make things better for you in here? What, are you going to give us all away? You make me si
ck!”
Amanda tried to get past her to the hut entrance, but Bérénice held her back.
“Even though he’s French, Bertrand is as disgusting as those Boches, and just as guilty. Don’t you get it?”
Amanda stood with head bowed. Deep down, though, she was triumphant: the first part of her plan had been accomplished. Another gobbet of spit wasn’t going to deter her.
“You may still have traces of your rose perfume, your hair is shiny, your face still looks fresh and lovely, but in a few days, you’ll stink like all the rest of us. We’ll see then if he still wants to—”
“It’s not what you think,” Amanda butted in, without explaining any further. There was a silence as the two women faced each other. Still enraged, Bérénice didn’t go on. Amanda replied, “I’m going to do whatever it takes to save my daughter.”
As they entered the hut, they saw the mother. Her baby wasn’t there. She was smiling crazily, a strange gleam in her eyes. She kept mechanically pushing her hair behind her ears, then went back to her bed and turned the mattress over. Remaining motionless for a minute, she soon began to repeat this absurd routine all over again.
This desolate sight produced panic in Amanda. She suddenly saw herself without Lina, in a hut surrounded by women with no future. Another one just like them, waiting to be thrown into the ditch.
She turned fiercely back to Bérénice, determined not to let her come a step closer.
“I would do anything for my daughter. We don’t have much longer here, there’s no room for any more prisoners. They’re going to start taking us away, and God knows where they’ll send us. You don’t know what it means to have a child. So get this straight: I don’t care if it’s a Frenchman, a German, or whoever . . .”
“I managed to save my daughter,” Bérénice interrupted her in a whisper, without looking at her. She gathered up her long dark hair and went on: “I sent her to Spain with my sister when I saw they were coming for us.”
“So then you have to understand me. We’re not here to judge anyone.”
Bérénice moved forward, opening her arms wide as if in reconciliation, but Amanda took a step back. She was not looking for pity, and didn’t need accomplices. This was her own battle, and she had to study carefully each step she took, as if she were repairing the mechanism of an antique clock.
“You’ll have to be quick,” Bérénice insisted. “We’ve been here two weeks now. As soon as the huts are full, they’ll move us. Rumor has it that within a month we’ll be taken to Drancy. And from there, who knows. They say it’s to Poland.”
23
Amanda had studied Bertrand closely: his movements, his dealings with the other guards, how he skillfully managed to keep out of any disturbance, letting someone else intervene. She saw him leaning against the kitchen wall, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking lost, as if asking himself what he, a professional soldier, the son of a military family, was doing guarding prisoners.
Ever since she saw him arriving at Claire’s house, Amanda had noticed his voice was distant, reluctant; she could somehow identify with his proud military bearing, ashamed at being reduced to this unpleasant duty.
“What these Spanish swine need first is a good bath; and then a beating that puts them in their proper place,” one of the other guards had commented.
“Let them be, they’re not much trouble,” Bertrand retorted. “Some of them don’t even know why they’re here.”
“Don’t give me that. They’re all communist garbage.”
Whenever he met Amanda, he lowered his eyes in confusion. At those moments, she realized she could trust him, and smiled as she straightened her hair.
She was pleased with what she had achieved so far. Not only had he not rejected her, but he had agreed to pass on the letter. She also felt relieved that she had shared her plan with Bérénice, another mother who had also had to make a drastic decision.
The days were growing shorter; the nights seemed to stretch out endlessly because she could not sleep. Today was Saturday, and although she did not expect any reply from Claire or Father Marcel, she hoped against hope they would appear on the following Saturday night.
Her days had become slightly more tolerable, because Bertrand had assigned her to work in the kitchen. At first she saw this as a punishment, until Bérénice convinced her it was a great privilege, for which she should be grateful. At least she was kept busy, and from time to time could wash up. Sometimes she would leave her hands under the stream of boiling water until her skin almost peeled off. This was her way of getting rid of all the offensive dirt. Another advantage was that she could savor the coffee before it was diluted for the abandoned ones, as she preferred to call the prisoners being held against their will in the middle of nowhere.
Working in the kitchen also allowed her to take hard, black bread to Lina, poor Frau Meyer, and Bérénice, who little by little had become a kind of friend and confidant who helped her get a better understanding of the camp’s inner workings.
By now, Bérénice was convinced that Amanda was not on the enemy’s side, and had no intention of foiling any attempt at resistance, revolt, or escape. On the contrary, thanks to her relationship with Bertrand, she could be very useful to them. She said as much to her husband, who was the leader of a resistance group of men.
Sometimes Bertrand waited for Amanda at nightfall in a corner of the shed. All he had to do was come into the kitchen to inspect how their work was going: she knew this was the signal for them to meet. When they saw him enter, all the women fell silent and lowered their eyes. At that moment, Amanda would smile to herself, although her stomach immediately clenched and she felt a stab of pain in her chest. She was troubled by this fleeting sense of happiness. She couldn’t understand how she could experience even a minute’s ease with this stranger when the only man she had known was Julius. But now Julius was a phantom; he wasn’t there to help her. What most disconcerted her was how safe she felt with Bertrand. Rather than give her a shudder of aversion, their encounters offered her a sense of peace and pleasure that she had long forgotten. Each time he appeared in the kitchen to signal they were to meet, three or four days after their previous encounter, she closed her eyes and buried her head in her hands as if to drive away these sensations that could mean a risk, threatening to distract her from her goal.
Whenever they were to get together, she made sure she was the last to leave the kitchen, and took advantage of the chance to sprinkle hot water on her cheeks and lips. The heat revivified them, and despite the burning sensation, she could feel her old beauty returning. And she smiled.
That night as Amanda walked silently to their meeting place, she looked up in search of the moon. As she did so, a huge shadow loomed in front of her, stretching out a strong hand. She allowed herself to be led along by this hot hand gripping her, attracting her. Bertrand bent toward her, the enemy. He was the one who had more to lose: he was risking his rank, his security, his honor. They were both engaged in a battle against the tyranny of desire. In the darkness, the limits became blurred, their faces indistinct.
“Everything will be all right,” he whispered in her ear like a caress, though he knew that for her the only caresses that meant anything were the ones she gave her daughter. “How are they treating you in the kitchen?”
She smiled, at his mercy.
“You’ll see, your daughter will get out of here.”
Yes, her daughter would, but not her. She was beyond redemption; she had ceased to exist. She pressed herself against Bertrand’s chest, submitting herself to his will, the only one that existed in that dark corner.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be taken down unknown, shadowy paths that led nowhere. Like a sorcerer, he had her in his power, he controlled her at his whim. At least she had someone to protect her, she thought, as he quickly sated his rough desire.
He was a French officer, reduced to this after facing defeat by the invaders. An officer who, like a good soldier, simply obeyed ord
ers without stopping to think whether they were directed against his own people. This was what he explained to her whenever they met, as he conquered her with caresses and sweet words.
“You have to understand, I’m only obeying orders,” he would tell her, even though she refused to listen, as he did up his trousers, straightened his uniform, wiped away the cold sweat from his brow, smoothing down his curly oiled hair.
This time, when he had finished, his tone became harsh once more.
“Are you sure they’ll bring the jewels?”
She had promised him a diamond bracelet and her wedding ring, with the brightest diamond, a perfect specimen. She assured him that with this trophy he could be free of the ignominy of being an officer in a defeated army; he could escape far from shame and dishonor, lose himself in some small farm deep in a valley the Germans would never reach.
“I promise they’ll be yours,” she said by way of farewell.
She was drifting, as though her body had lost all its energy. When she reached the hut entrance, Bérénice was sitting on a rock, waiting for her. Amanda sat next to her, even allowing her head to droop onto her shoulder.
“Oh, Bérénice, what has become of us?” she said. “The worst of it is there’s no room for sorrow, repentance, or shame.”
“We’re being taken out of here in two weeks’ time. It’s been confirmed. You mustn’t wait any longer.”
“Everything will be all right.” Amanda repeated Bertrand’s words with a smile. “Everything will be all right, he’s promised me.”
“You trust him too much.”
The two women always spoke of Bertrand as him. It was best not to mention his name, in case it aroused suspicions.
“Do I have a choice?”
“I’d like to believe he’s a good-hearted Frenchman . . .”
“He’s running the risk for me, for my daughter.”
“Why? Have you asked him why?”
“He’ll get his reward.”
“I suppose it’ll be something more than what he is getting now.”
The Daughter's Tale Page 11
