The roar of a convoy of trucks bearing the swastika on their sides and packed with soldiers woke Danielle. They were not headed toward the abbey, but in the opposite direction. The two girls looked at each other hopefully before terror struck. Maybe the Germans were on their way back from there after wiping out everyone, including Father Marcel, the only person who could have saved them.
Elise got up and walked a few steps away from Danielle. For a few seconds, the red taillight of the last German truck lit her face up. A soldier saw her, quickly put on his helmet, and sat staring at her. Elise wasn’t afraid: she stared back at the youth as his truck sped down the road, growing smaller and smaller in the rain and dust.
The soldiers are fleeing, ashamed of the crime they’ve committed, Elise dared to hope.
She was sure they wouldn’t come back just for her. The German soldier must have thought she was a ghost. Or maybe he didn’t see her because she no longer existed. She had died several hours earlier, like all her neighbors in the village. In the church, the square, the barns.
She had also died two years earlier, that night in the forest, before she woke up burning with fever in Maman Claire’s arms. Now she was living another of her deaths. God only knew how many more deaths she would have to escape.
Even the worst murderers can have an ounce of pity, she thought. By not giving her away, Elise saw something akin to compassion in the young soldier. Even so, she would have preferred to be taken to the nearest village. There she would be given water, maybe even a piece of bread. The soldier had not saved her, she decided, he had abandoned her to her fate. To her death.
“We have to stay away from the main road,” Danielle warned her, standing up and starting to walk away without looking at Elise, who followed her silently.
“I don’t think I can keep walking without water . . .”
The rain had soon ceased, barely moistening her lips. Danielle walked on without replying; they couldn’t go down to the river either, that would be too dangerous. This was no moment to look for water, let alone food.
“When we reach the abbey, let’s say as little as possible,” Danielle said. “We’ll stay together all the time. We don’t know if the Germans will be there as well; we’ll have to find out before we reach it. Keep going a little while longer, we’re almost there. Can you make it?”
Elise said nothing, but followed Danielle as best she could, trying to avoid putting any weight on her right heel. It was difficult not walking on the road: the ground under the trees in the forest gave off a warm vapor that disorientated them. When they came to a clearing surrounded by undergrowth, they decided to stop for a rest. Curled up together, they shared a troubled sleep.
It was late morning by the time they set off again. The closer they got to the abbey, the slower Danielle walked, dragging the suitcase along with one hand, supporting the limping Elise with the other. She was tormented by the image of her mother lying among the rubble in the square. It was only her solemn promise to her that kept her going.
“Look after Elise as if she was your sister,” her mother had asked her as she put a Bible in the suitcase, a change of clothes for each of them, and three thick coats. Why is she doing that, Danielle had thought, when we’re at the height of summer . . .
It was a heavy, annoying burden, but she had to carry it with her. She tried to understand why her mother had gone to the village with a suitcase when nobody else had, what had really happened, why they had survived. What did her mother know, what had she foreseen? The suitcase was a reminder, a record of scattered memories. The suitcase is Maman, she told herself as she continued walking.
Though they kept on, both of them were convinced they had died in the square together with Maman Claire. The path to the abbey was an illusion. They were still there, next to Claire’s body, waiting to be buried in a mass grave.
When at last they spied the abbey walls on the horizon, a stab of fear returned. There were no Germans in sight. As the two girls approached it warily, the massive building rose silently in the glow of sunset. Danielle squeezed Elise’s hand; they gazed at one another for a few seconds and then prepared to cross the threshold of the rusty, iron-studded oak door.
Perhaps they were safe, for now.
34
The main nave of the abbey was packed with children running, tumbling, crying, laughing. There was a smell of manure, butter, sweat, and rancid cheese, broken pipes, stagnant water. The dim light made their weary faces—the pallid, sunken cheeks—seem like pathetic ochre visions.
Father Marcel was standing in a corner flanked by worn stone pillars, his head soaking wet to calm the stifling heat. The girls didn’t recognize him, even though they had last seen him only two weeks earlier at one of their Friday night suppers. He had not shaved for days, and his greasy black hair was plastered to his skull. His cassock was mud-stained, with white patches on the chest and under the arms.
Sitting to his right was Father Auguste holding the abbey’s heavy baptismal register, writing down the names of the children who were arriving. With his crabbed, elderly hands he was jotting down the details of the new arrivals on separate sheets of paper: who had brought them to the abbey, what village they came from, what school they went to, their parents’ professions. If they had brothers and sisters, he also asked their names and dates of birth and added them to each note. A little girl was standing in front of him, replying in low murmurs that exasperated him. He waved her away to sit with the others.
He was about to close the baptismal book when Father Marcel stopped him.
“I’ve just been told two more girls have arrived. I hope they’re the last today.”
The priest lifted up a small two-year-old boy who had been crying for hours. Taking a handkerchief from his cassock, he wiped the boy’s runny nose. The little one nestled against his chest, flung his arms round him, and gradually began to relax. It seemed as if this was the first physical contact he had enjoyed in a long while.
“Here come the girls,” Father Auguste said as he saw them enter the nave. Father Marcel sat the little boy down on a bench to receive the newcomers.
When he saw who they were, he rushed up and embraced them. All three remained silent for a few moments. There was no need for questions; there was nothing to explain. They were safe. Father Marcel closed his eyes and gave thanks: his prayers had been answered.
“Danielle and Elise Duval,” he called out to Father Auguste. “They’re sisters, I baptized them both.”
Danielle clasped Elise’s hand as tightly as she could. Elise was breathing heavily. Father Marcel stroked their heads, and led them from the nave into the kitchen.
“Trust me, everything will be all right,” he said. “Now you must eat something.” Seeing that the girls still seemed lost and afraid, he went on, looking them straight in the eye: “The time for secrets is over. Now we can try to find Claire’s brother in America. Your uncle,” he turned to Danielle, “will take charge of you. This accursed war will soon be over.”
Reassured by his words, the girls ran to get a glass of water while Father Marcel went back to complete their details with Father Auguste. It was important for the children to appear on the register: it was a kind of legal guarantee for the Germans, and would be helpful after the war, when their relatives came looking for them. Father Marcel wanted everything concerning Elise and Danielle to be in order, especially since, so far, they appeared to be the only survivors from their village. He even thought that perhaps he should change the name of their place of birth. His sole mission now was to protect these orphans. To do that, he was capable of anything, even lying. God would forgive him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, a sense of anguish, and the frustration that all he could do was wipe noses and bow his head.
He sensed that the crime committed against his parishioners had been a last-gasp act. The Germans were losing the war: the end was drawing closer and closer. Father Marcel saw the fact that he had survived as a punishment: he should have been
there with all the others in the village square. He was sure that his presence would have acted as a restraint on the bestiality of the soldiers thirsty for revenge. What did they expect to find, weapons? There were only defenseless, docile villagers, and yet they unleashed their fury on them. They’ll pay soon enough, he told himself. At moments like these, the Bible wasn’t his most reliable ally. He couldn’t help feeling hatred; he asked God to allow him to curse so that his wounds might heal. He was convinced they were all guilty for having accepted the German occupation as nothing more than an irksome imposition.
He was tempted to return to his church and amid the ruins to renounce God, the Creator who closed his eyes when faced with the crimes his creatures committed.
Kneeling at the altar that evening, he prayed with all his might for the orphans who were his responsibility. As he did so, he saw a blurred image of Claire’s face in a summer dusk some years earlier. Knowing it could be his salvation, he tried to concentrate on the image, but couldn’t make out how blue her eyes were, or the tone of her voice, or her pale freckled skin. All he could see were her delicate hands in his as she begged for his understanding: as she explained, if she was putting her family at risk it was because she felt it was her Christian duty. Now it was his duty to protect the girls.
That night, after several sleepless hours, when he finally recalled Claire’s sweet, melodious voice Father Marcel fell asleep.
At first light he headed for the dormitory. The nave that had once sheltered pilgrims was now providing refuge for more than twenty children. He checked that Danielle and Elise were there and found them lying in each other’s arms, perhaps sharing the nightmare of still being alive. He didn’t even want to think about what they had been through.
Claire was no longer able to be there for them, but he was.
35
Elise was the first to wake, surfacing from a deep, untroubled sleep. She had spent the whole night curled up with Danielle, who was still fast asleep despite the sobs of a little boy who, when he saw Elise’s eyes open, began to howl. Maybe he thought she should pick him up, give him something to eat, or take him to the bathroom. He obviously didn’t realize that she was just another abandoned child.
Elise reflected that she must have slept so peacefully because she felt protected by this fortress and the strong arms of Father Marcel, who like a knight of old was defending the territory of the abbey. No one, not even the evil Germans, could attack her there. Nobody would dare force their way through the centuries-old walls surrounding them. Father Marcel was the hero of her adventure story.
The little boy got out of bed and came teetering over to her, as if he had only recently learned to walk. Sitting next to her, he began touching her hair, which was matted with dust and sweat. He pointed to Elise’s eyes.
“Blue,” he stuttered, as if playing at identifying colors in a place where everything was in shadow, with blackened walls and dark, damp wooden beams.
Perhaps even though she was only a young girl, she reminded him of his mother. Elise thought she must smell unpleasant, possibly because she had only washed her face and hands. The rest of her body was still covered in dust, sweat, and other people’s blood. She had no idea what to do with the little boy, so they sat there waiting for Danielle to wake up and tell them whether they should go out into the courtyard, the kitchen, or attend mass, if there was one.
“What’s she doing here?” came a shout from the doorway, where an adolescent from the village had recognized her and was pointing at her contemptuously.
Elise stared back at him, then lowered her eyes. The little boy, who was still sitting beside her, took her by the hand.
“The same as you,” was Father Marcel’s only comment as he appeared at the door. “Come on, into the chapel,” he ordered the teenage boy.
The youngster left without complaint, although as he did so he shot Elise a poisonous glance. By now she was accustomed to being rejected or labeled as the enemy, to being seen as different. In the end, she was always the other, the one who didn’t belong anywhere, the one who had come to take somebody else’s place, the one who was meant to live in darkness. The old story was simply being repeated here in the abbey.
She took the little boy back to his spot and tried to get him to lie down, covering him as best she could, but he only laughed as if wanting to play. She could see a plea in his eyes for her not to leave him on his own, not to forget him.
“I think we’d better go outside,” she said. He smiled. “We should take advantage of the summer sun and get some fresh air.”
The boy held out his arms to her. Elise lifted him out of bed and walked with him down a gloomy corridor lit at the far end by stained-glass windows that gave onto the garden at the back of the abbey, which had once been a vegetable garden. For the first time in two years, she felt free. She didn’t have to live in darkness, hiding from inquisitive stares. She had a new friend. She had slept well.
“What’s your name?” she asked him. His only reply was a chuckle. “I’m Elise.”
As they approached the inner courtyard, they came across a small passageway leading to the kitchen at the rear. The door was half open, and the sound of voices was added to the news being broadcast on a radio set. Elise couldn’t make out what was being said, because the sound wasn’t clear. The little boy let go of her hand and ran into the room when he saw Father Marcel seated in front of the radio, trying to tune in a station. Elise ran after him, but came to a halt on the threshold.
“More than six hundred dead,” a terse, gruff voice was saying. “Those bastards wiped out the entire village. They left nothing standing. And meanwhile we’re here, doing nothing except listening to the news and waiting for them to come and force us out into the yard at gunpoint.”
Elise couldn’t identify the harsh voice, and motioned to the boy to be quiet. Now on the radio someone had begun a speech, but it was even more difficult to hear. All she could make out were voices shouting, followed by applause and cheering.
“The Allies are already on French soil,” said another voice. “The bombing has started. We’ll soon be free of the Boches.”
“We won’t be able to go on taking in children. It’s too dangerous,” said Father Marcel, standing up and turning off the radio. “If any of them gets ill or dies, we’ll have worse problems.”
When he saw Elise and the little boy at the door, he smiled and invited them in, opening his arms wide to receive the boy, who ran to him.
Two men were with Father Marcel, whose face was now washed and freshly shaven. He was wearing a clean cassock that was less worn than the one he had on the day before. In his right hand he was holding several leaflets, which he immediately tried to hide in his pockets. One of them fell to the floor, and when Elise bent to pick it up she could smell the fresh ink. One of the other men, a short stocky fellow, stopped her and put it into his jacket pocket. Elise noticed a deep recent wound on his left forearm.
The older man, who was wearing a clean but wrinkled white shirt, went over to the window and lit a cigarette, glancing at Elise warily. The shadows under his eyes, as dark as the stubble on his chin, contrasted with the whiteness of his hair and shirt. Elise looked around the room in astonishment: it did not seem to fit with the rest of the abbey at all. There were no religious images, no benches, no Bibles. In one corner, she could see a white rabbit in a metal cage, a black top hat, and a stick with a golden tip. There was also a rolled-up map on a tall, narrow wooden table. On it stood an empty fishbowl. Elise went over to the rabbit, which didn’t move. If it hadn’t been for the sudden twitches it gave, she would have thought it was stuffed. She studied the men, wondering which of them the rabbit and the rest of the magician’s paraphernalia belonged to.
The little boy paid no attention to the rabbit, perhaps because he didn’t even see it. His attention was focused on Father Marcel, who picked him up, tickled him, and started calling him by his name.
“Did you know that Jacques is invisible?” he sai
d. He put him down on the floor and began pretending that he couldn’t find him. He stumbled around the room, pretending not to notice the little boy, who stood there without moving, trying hard not to burst out laughing.
Elise smiled when she heard the name of the lively little boy. Now Jacques ran over to the rabbit and rattled the cage, but the animal didn’t respond. It was probably waiting for an order or a whistle to perform. There was no grass or carrots at hand, and it was useless for the boy to shake the cage or blow into its nose: it simply refused to react, realizing they were not a real audience.
There was some bread and cheese left on the table. Father Marcel waved to Jacques and Elise to help themselves, and the little boy wolfed down the crumbs and the remaining bits of cheese, except for one piece that he took over to the rabbit, which sniffed at it disdainfully. Watching this scene, Elise laughed out loud, and suddenly realized this was the first time in a long while that she had done so.
36
Outside, Danielle was confronting two boys who were busily bouncing a ball in front of her. “Don’t even think of insulting my sister again,” she growled, stressing the word “sister” as she stared menacingly at them.
“She has no right to be here. She’s a Boche,” retorted the taller of the two, dressed in short pants that showed his grazed knees. “She’s to blame for everything that’s happening to us.”
“As Father Marcel told you, she’s my sister. She has the same right as me to be here,” said Danielle, straightening up as if about to launch at him. “If you’re scared, get out of here. This yard is for everyone.”
“They should have killed you both,” the boy said, spitting on the ground.
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