All alone with the German! If I was as strong as him! thought Elise, and began staring intently at the sacristy. Marie-Louise came over to Danielle, wondering how she could protect them. But what could she do: she was only a cook, who had been unable even to save her husband.
“Be strong,” she told Elise. “This morning Father Marcel told me Henri’s brother is coming for him tomorrow.”
“Where is Father Marcel?” Danielle asked. Marie-Louise lowered her eyes and remained silent.
Before Henri reappeared, the miliciens had already led Elise to the sacristy entrance. The two of them glanced at each other as they passed in the doorway.
“They’ll soon be gone and leave us in peace,” Elise said. As she suppressed her fury, a tear rolled down her cheek.
Shortly afterward, Henri came out of the sacristy red-eyed. He hurried to rejoin Danielle, looking to her like a scared boy. The German officer followed him, marching across the courtyard before coming to a halt in front of Father Auguste and the two mimes. Elise remained motionless at the threshold of the sacristy, alone.
“Where are you keeping the officer?” the German said to the old man, who said nothing. He ordered the miliciens to start the search. Turning to the two mimes, he forced them toward the kitchen at gunpoint.
Danielle began to shake and murmur inaudible phrases. Reading her lips, Henri understood she was praying a silent Our Father.
“Stay calm,” he told her.
“The suitcase,” Danielle said faintly. “The suitcase is in Father Marcel’s cell.”
The men searching the abbey entered the room next to the kitchen and switched on the radio. They turned up the volume and the sound of a speech in French drifted out into the courtyard, only to be brusquely cut short. It was followed by piano music, then the sound of a trumpet accompanying a woman’s voice.
“It’s a broadcast by the Allies,” explained Henri, trying to contain his excitement. “It must be an American song!”
The words reached them through the crackle of static like a distant lament. “I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places . . .”
The German officer took the two mimes into the room. Out in the courtyard all they heard was the deep voice of a woman singing on the radio, abruptly interrupted by the sound of blows, shouts, and furniture being moved, chairs toppling over.
Elise fixed her eyes on Henri and Danielle.
Then the first shot rang out and everything remained in complete silence. After the second shot, cries of panic broke out all over the courtyard. The third produced an overwhelming emptiness.
The German officer opened the door and came defiantly out into the courtyard, his lips a taut line. Casting a disdainful glance at them all, he strode out of the abbey. Behind him, the miliciens hurried to the exit, carrying the bloody body of another German officer.
Now there’ll be explosions, flames. They’ll burn us alive and throw us all into the same grave. Elise was convinced.
Running into the room, Marie-Louise smacked the radio to the floor, but it kept playing. “I’ll find you in the morning sun, and when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you . . .” Making a supreme effort, Father Auguste shuffled inside, followed by Elise. Danielle and Henri remained in the courtyard, where time had stood still.
Clutching the open trapdoor, Marie-Louise started down the steps. From up above, Elise and Father Auguste could glimpse the two mimes. They had both been shot in the forehead; the cracked layer of white on their faces was stained red. At the far end of the basement lay the body of Father Marcel, a bullet hole through one eye. Blood streamed from his head. Marie-Louise’s anguished cries drowned out the voice of the woman singing on the radio.
“How long until the song is over?” murmured Elise, her lips trembling.
Nobody answered.
44
The winds swept out of the village, leaving only dust and traces of blood on the walls of the abbey basement. Elise was on her own in the dormitory; her face was wet, but she wasn’t sure whether it was from tears or sweat. She didn’t know when she had closed her eyes, or how she had reached her bed, if she had slept with Danielle.
She got out of bed and went to the kitchen. Danielle and Marie-Louise were there. When they saw her they fell silent, and she knew they were trying to hide something. But she didn’t need protection anymore. What else could happen to her, when she had already lost so much? Paris, the uncle in New York—it all meant nothing to her now. They were condemned to stay in this windswept village. Her last and only hope was Henri.
“Good morning, Elise. How’d you sleep?” said Marie-Louise. When Elise didn’t answer, she added, “Everything is going to be all right.”
Elise was weary of hearing that stupid, senseless phrase. All right? How can someone still tell me that everything is going to be all right?
“Henri is gone,” Danielle blurted. “His brother came to fetch him, but he’d already vanished. No one saw him go.”
Elise’s stomach sank.
“Couldn’t he be hiding? Or maybe he was arrested. They might have found that pamphlet hidden under his mattress . . .”
“Henri ran away, Elise,” said Danielle. “It was his fault they killed Father Marcel.”
“Danielle, you don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t blame Henri.”
“After he came out from talking to the German officer, they went straight to the basement. What more proof do we need?” Danielle spat out the words contemptuously.
“We can’t be sure,” Marie-Louise interceded. “I told him his brother was coming the next day. Perhaps he was scared; he didn’t want to go and live with him. You two both knew that.”
“It’s not Henri’s fault!’ cried Elise, her voice cracking. She ran to a corner of the kitchen and stood trembling. “It’s not his fault; it isn’t!” she shouted through her sobs.
“Well, we’re not to blame either!” Marie-Louise burst out. “Nobody’s to blame. This is a war,” she added, tired of trying to comfort other people. “It’s good you can still weep. I have no tears left.”
The radio had ended up in the kitchen, beneath the window, in full view. They no longer had to hide to listen to it.
That morning, the light was streaked with violet rays, and the beams of dust shone in the air like extinct stars. Elise stared at them one by one, her eyes cloudy with tears. She thought of Henri and all the miles he would have to walk in the hot sun to reach the south, where the Germans couldn’t reach him. She once fancied herself all grown-up, almost as tall as Henri. She even dreamed that Henry looked at her differently and together they walked hand in hand without Germans or miliciens to fear. It was only a dream.
On the radio, she heard the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. It was Henri who had told her they represented V for victory in Morse code. Henri knew everything, and now, yet again, she had lost her friend. How many more would abandon her? There would be no more verbal jousts with him. No one would be able to tell her their plans for defeating the Nazis or for raising the French flag over Place de la Concorde.
“Ici Londres! Les français parlent aux français . . .” Elise heard on the radio. This was not a coded message, but someone speaking directly to them. All three of them went closer to the speaker, and the irritating German interference fell silent. “Today, August twenty-third, 1944, the French Forces of the Interior have liberated Paris.” “An American army unit has occupied Grenoble.” “Allied forces advance on the Robots bases.”
“Is the war over?” asked Elise.
The other two didn’t know what to say. Marie-Louise switched off the radio.
“Let’s go home, quickly. Don’t say anything: it could be a false alarm or a fake message to scare the Germans,” she said, removing her apron. They left the kitchen.
The struggle against the Germans might have ended, but the abbey was still shrouded in silence. Father Auguste had shut himself in his cell; a group of children was pla
ying in the dust of the courtyard, and the room next to the kitchen had been locked. Elise didn’t have the courage to ask what had happened to the bodies of the two mimes and Father Marcel, if they had been tossed into abandoned graves in the monks’ cemetery, or been given the Christian burial they deserved.
Danielle ran to retrieve the suitcase, then joined Elise and Marie-Louise.
“It’ll be safer in your house,” she told Marie-Louise, holding on tight to her treasure.
The village streets were deserted, although behind the shut doors and windows they could hear shouts, applause, isolated words they couldn’t make out.
In the distance they saw a group of men kicking something crawling along the ground. At first, Danielle though they must have caught a deer.
A Boche. They’ve caught Father Marcel’s murderer. I hope he suffers; he deserves to, Elise said to herself, with contained rage.
They came across a red high-heeled shoe in the dust of the road. A few steps farther on they saw some long, chestnut-colored locks of hair that couldn’t be a German soldier’s. As they drew closer, they could hear the moans, and finally made out the badly beaten face of a woman with a shaved head. A bare-chested man tore her dress off and she collapsed naked onto the cobblestones. Blood was coming from between her legs; she was desperately clutching her belly to protect herself.
“She’s pregnant,” Marie-Louise confirmed in a whisper. “You animals!” she shouted, and the mob began to disperse.
It was Viviane. Marie-Louise approached her and held out her hand. Viviane refused to take it, waving for her to go away and leave her alone.
“Let them finish, let them finish what they started . . .” Her voice was deep and firm; her eyes flashed. “I’ve got nothing more to lose.”
Marie-Louise stared defiantly at the attackers, then helped Viviane up out of the dust and traces of spit. She dragged her to her house. Elise ran to help, while Danielle opened the front door.
Viviane had cuts on her skull. A few strands of hair still hung down the back of her neck; there was a purple bruise around her right eye, and she had lost some of her upper front teeth. Her breasts were smeared with blood and dirt.
Marie-Louise shut herself in the bathroom with her. The girls heard the sound of running water, which drowned out Viviane’s muffled sobs.
“One war has finished,” said Elise. “Now another one begins. What about us? What’s going to happen to us?”
They went into the living room and switched on the radio. The Germans had begun their retreat. The general was on his way to Paris. The swastika had finally been uprooted from Place de la Concorde.
They spent the evening gathered round the darkened kitchen table, quietly sipping herbal tea. Viviane was wearing a white bathrobe. With her shaven head, as she leaned over her drink, she looked even younger.
“Let’s go to Paris,” said Elise, risking breaking the silence. The others simply smiled.
Elise didn’t know what it meant to live at peace. Ever since she could remember, there had been enemies lying in wait. Ever since she could remember, her only thought had been to survive. What would Paris be like without swastikas? Paris was the photograph of Maman Claire smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower. The Germans might be retreating, the Allies might be advancing, the French army might have liberated Paris, but none of that would bring Maman back.
“We’re going to be living days, weeks, and maybe even months and years of real chaos,” said Marie-Louise. “France is a country without a government. God knows how many Germans are still hidden here and there. And how many others, like the son of the baker’s wife, who won’t know what to do with their shame and fear. Desperate people are capable of anything.”
Danielle couldn’t take her eyes off Viviane. She felt overwhelming pity toward her. She saw her as a victim of the Germans, not as the collaborator that the villagers loathed.
Viviane sipped her tea, trying to avoid the cuts in her mouth. Her eyes were still filled with tears, but she was no longer sobbing. When she realized she was being looked at, she lowered her head still further.
“Tomorrow is another day,” she murmured, and closed her eyes.
She no longer felt ashamed; she didn’t care what else they did to her, if they beat her to death or sent her to jail. She had thought she was already dead, until she felt the intermittent movements in her belly that at first she confused with the shuddering of her whole body. She was bearing another life inside her: a child of shame, as they had shouted at her, but her child all the same. Another kick from the baby made her forget her pain, and she tried to smile, or at least that was what she thought: the others did not detect it. All they saw was her bruised and battered face, still bearing traces of blood.
“I may have made a mistake,” she went on in a dull monotone voice. “But my child is not a mistake. We are at war, and the father of my child is the enemy, but we won’t be at war forever. I’ve no intention of running away for the rest of my life, or of hiding my child. What is my baby guilty of?”
The following day they avoided listening to the radio, not wanting to risk any disappointment. Maybe the Germans had counterattacked, or the reinforcements meant to bolster the weak French army had somehow vanished on the outskirts of Paris. Perhaps, as many people suspected, that army itself was a chimera.
They leaned out of the window and could feel how the summer was beginning its retreat as well. Marie-Louise could sense it would be a harsh winter.
At dusk they returned to the abbey, while Viviane remained at the cook’s house. She needed to rest, to sleep as much as she could for several days. Elise had heard her talking to herself and pacing round the room, eyes downcast and burdened by the guilt her child would be born with. Whenever the pains in her legs and back grew too much for her, she sat on the windowsill, and then a few seconds later, she stood up again and repeated the same routine.
At the abbey, Father Marcel’s absence could be felt everywhere: in the corridors, at the altar, in the courtyard, in the grieving faces and sad eyes of the children who had not yet found anyone to adopt them. Marie-Louise plunged into the darkened kitchen, where Elise silently observed her pained face.
“Once, pilgrims used to come here,” Marie-Louise said softly, not realizing anyone was listening. “Now no one comes to study. What has become of these walls, that in the past gave shelter to so much ancient wisdom, produced such images of splendor, what became of the smell of incense, the chants . . . ?”
Hearing this, Elise no longer saw the cook as someone capable of confronting the most menacing German soldier, of saving Viviane from being stoned, of giving refuge to two abandoned little girls. Now she was no more than a frail old woman lost in the labyrinth of her memories.
Meanwhile, Danielle wandered aimlessly among the pillars of the church, avoiding any children she encountered. For her too, the end of the war meant nothing. She was as lost as Marie-Louise. Perhaps it was better to live life stealthily like this, in a constant flight that gave purpose to waking up each morning, rather than to sleep peacefully after losing her mother. What would she do, what could she do, from now on? Weep?
45
Little by little, smells were returning to the village, as if everyone had decided at the same time to light their ovens or to bring their remaining stores out of the larder. The war was over; it made no sense to continue hoarding. The time had come to have a proper feast. From out in the street dinner-table conversations and music could be heard, as well as family arguments that only a few days earlier would have been carried on in silence.
Marie-Louise’s house was the only one in darkness. All the windows in the village were lit up, except for hers. With the two girls, she climbed the wooden stairs she knew from memory: this one creaked, that one was firmer, that other one had a crack in it. She avoided the noisiest ones so as not to wake Viviane, who seemed to have finally managed to fall asleep after nights of insomnia.
Marie-Louise stood at the top of the stairs without swi
tching on the light. She turned to Elise, who saw a look of terror flash across her face. The cook had a premonition. She dragged her feet ever more slowly along the passageway. Seeing that the only closed door was to the bathroom, she drew back from it in horror.
You have to be able to anticipate sorrow, thought Danielle. So that when it catches you by surprise, you’re ready for it.
In the half-light, Marie-Louise’s face had become a straight line plunging down from forehead to mouth. Chin drawn back, cheeks sunken, her expression haggard. Elise could see that her lips were trembling. Marie-Louise seemed to already have seen what she was about to face. She was anticipating sorrow.
She switched on the bathroom light from outside. The door was still shut, but a shaft of light shone through the cracks in the frame. Like a perfect wound, this luminous slash turned the three of them into silhouettes. Marie-Louise leaned her head against the door, gathering strength and trying in vain to consider all the different possibilities, although she was sure none of them made sense. If only she had stayed home, if she had devoted more time to her, listened to her. A tiny part of Marie-Louise thought there might still be some hope, and so she called out in a low voice as she banged on the door.
“Viviane . . .” she called several times, wishing for a miracle.
She slowly turned the doorknob, sure by now that the woman she had protected was another distant memory. Her face ashen, she opened the door.
The bathroom window was open; beyond it the night sky was a deep purple, studded with stars.
“Where has the moon gone?” Elise sighed.
The cold air blowing in from the street sent a shiver down her spine, then Marie-Louise’s howl made her jump. When the cook fell to her knees on the cracked floor tiles, Elise saw what had so horrified the woman. Viviane’s naked body was floating in the bathtub, covered by a thick veil of dark blood. The wounds had disappeared from her pale, innocent face; her lips were pink once more; her eyes seemed to be staring out at the stars. There was a fixed smile on her mouth; a smile without a future. At the base of her throat, between her collarbones, was the open wound. It was as if her head had wanted to detach itself and follow its own destiny. Her left arm was dangling from the side of the bath, and close to the bloodstained hand shone an open razor with an immaculate mother-of-pearl handle.
The Daughter's Tale Page 21
