Suite Française

by Irene Nemirovsky

  At that moment Lucile noticed a German soldier’s belt on the bed. The two women looked at each other. The dressmaker’s expression was sly, cautious and implacable; she looked like a cat who’s afraid someone is about to take her prey from her claws and so raises her head and miaows arrogantly, as if to say, “No? Well, really! Just whose is it, then?”

  “How can you?” murmured Lucile.

  The dressmaker wavered between several attitudes. Her expression was a mixture of insolence, confusion and deceit. Then suddenly she lowered her head. “So what? German or French, friend or enemy, he’s first and foremost a man and I’m a woman. He’s good to me, kind, attentive . . . He’s a city boy who takes care of himself, not like the boys around here; he has beautiful skin, white teeth. When he kisses, his breath smells fresh, not of alcohol. And that’s good enough for me. I’m not looking for anything else. Our lives are complicated enough with all these wars and bombings. Between a man and a woman, none of that’s important. I couldn’t care less if the man I fancy is English or black—I’d still offer myself to him if I got the opportunity. Do I disgust you? Sure, it’s all right for you, you’re rich, you have luxuries I don’t have . . .”

  “Luxuries!” Lucile cut in, sounding bitter without meaning to, wondering what the dressmaker could imagine might be luxurious about an existence as an Angellier: visiting her estate and investing money, no doubt.

  “You’re educated. You see people. For us, it’s nothing but slaving away at work. If it wasn’t for love, we might as well just throw ourselves in the river. And when I say love, don’t think it’s only about you know what. Listen, the other day this German, he was at Moulins and he bought me a little imitation crocodile handbag; another time he brought me flowers, a bouquet from town, like I was a lady. It’s stupid, I know, because there are flowers all over the countryside, but he cared, it made me happy. Up until now, to me men were just good for a tumble. But this one, I don’t know why, I’d do anything for him, follow him anywhere. And he loves me, he does . . . Oh, I’ve known enough men to tell when there’s one who’s not lying. So, you see, when people say to me ‘He’s German, a German, a German,’ I couldn’t care less. They’re human, like us.”

  “Yes, but my poor girl, when people say ‘a German,’ of course they know he’s just a man, but what they mean to say, what is so terrible, is that he’s killed Frenchmen, that they’re holding our relatives prisoner, that they’re starving us . . .”

  “You think I never think about that? Sometimes, when I’m lying in bed next to him, I wonder, ‘Maybe it was his father who killed mine’ (my dad was killed in the last war, you know . . .). I think about it for a while and then, in the end, I don’t give a damn. On one side there’s me and him; on the other side there’s everyone else. People don’t care about us: they bomb us and make us suffer, and kill us worse than if we were rabbits. And as for us, well, we don’t care about them. You see, if we did what other people thought we should do we’d be worse than animals. Around town they call me a dog. Well, I’m not. Dogs travel in packs and bite people when they’re told to. Me and Willy . . .”

  She stopped and sighed.

  “I love him,” she said finally.

  “But his regiment will be leaving.”

  “I know that, but Willy said he’d send for me after the war.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes, I believe him,” she said defiantly.

  “You’re mad,” said Lucile. “He’ll forget you the moment he’s gone. You have brothers who are prisoners. When they come home . . . Believe me, be careful. What you’re doing is very dangerous. Dangerous and wrong,” she added.

  “When they come home . . .”

  They looked at each other in silence. There was a rich, secret scent in this stuffy room, cluttered with heavy rustic furniture, that troubled Lucile and made her feel strangely uneasy.

  As she was leaving, Lucile ran into some children with dirty faces on the staircase; they were running down the steps four at a time.

  “Where are you rushing like that?” Lucile asked.

  “We’re going to play in the Perrins’ garden.”

  The Perrins were a rich local family who had fled in June 1940. They had been so panic-stricken when they fled that they’d left their house unlocked, all the doors wide open, silver in the drawers, dresses in the wardrobes. The Germans had pillaged it: even the large abandoned garden had been sacked, trampled, and looked like a jungle.

  “Do the Germans let you in there?”

  They didn’t reply and ran off, laughing.

  Lucile went home in the rain. She could see the Perrins’ garden. Despite the freezing rain, the village children darted back and forth between the trees in their blue and pink smocks. Every so often she glimpsed a shiny, dirty cheek gleaming in the rain like a peach. The children picked lilacs and cherry blossom and chased each other across the lawns. Perched high on top of a cedar tree, one little boy in red trousers whistled like a blackbird.

  They were managing to destroy what remained of a garden that had been so well-tended in the past, so loved—a garden where the Perrins no longer came together as a family at dusk to sit in cast-iron chairs (the men in black jackets, the women in long rustling dresses) and watch the melons and strawberries ripen. A small boy in a pink smock was walking along the iron gate, holding on to the spikes to keep his balance.

  “You’ll fall, you little devil,” said Lucile.

  He stared at her without replying. Suddenly, she envied these children who could enjoy themselves without worrying about the time, the war, misfortune. It seemed to her that among a race of slaves, they alone were free, “truly free,” she thought to herself.

  Reluctantly, she walked back to the silent, morose house, whipped by the rain.

  12

  Lucile was surprised to see the postman coming from her house: she didn’t receive many letters. On the hall table lay a card addressed to her.

  12 rue de la Source, Paris (XVI)

  Madame,

  Do you remember the old couple you took in last June? We have thought of you often since then, Madame, and your kind welcome when we stopped at your home during that terrible journey. We would be so pleased to hear your news. Did your husband come home from the war safe and sound? As for us, we had the great joy of being reunited with our son.

  We send you our best wishes,

  Jeanne and Maurice Michaud

  Lucile was glad for them. Such nice people . . . They were happier than she was . . . They loved each other. They had faced such danger together, and come through it together . . .

  She hid the card in her desk and went into the dining room. It was a nice day, in spite of the persistent rain. There was only one place set at the table and she felt happy again that Madame Angellier wasn’t home: she could read while eating. She ate lunch very quickly, then went over to the window and watched the rain falling. It was the back end of the storm, as the cook put it. The weather had changed over the last forty-eight hours, transforming a radiant spring into a cruel, vague sort of season, where the last snow merged with the first flowers. The apple trees had lost all their blossom overnight; the rose bushes were dark and frozen; the wind had smashed flowerpots full of geraniums and sweet peas.

  “Everything will be ruined! There’ll be no fruit,” Marthe groaned as she cleared the table. “I’ll make a fire in here,” she added. “It’s so cold it’s unbearable. The German asked me to make a fire in his room, but the chimney hasn’t been swept and he’ll just be breathing in smoke. Too bad for him. I told him, but he didn’t want to listen. He thinks it’s because I don’t want to do it. As if we wouldn’t give them a couple of logs after everything else they’ve taken from us . . . Listen, he’s coughing! Good Lord! What a pain to have to wait on these Boches. All right, I’m coming, I’m coming!” she said in annoyance.

  Lucile heard her open the door and reply to the irritated German, “Well, I tried to tell you! With this wind blowing, a chimney
that hasn’t been swept just pushes the smoke back inside.”

  “Well why hasn’t it been swept, mein Gott?” shouted the frustrated German.

  “Why? Why? I don’t know anything about it. I’m not the owner. You think with your war going on we can do what we like?”

  “My good woman, if you really think I’m going to let myself be smoked out like a rabbit, you’re very mistaken! Where are the ladies? If they can’t provide a habitable bedroom, then they can let me move into the sitting room. Make a fire in there.”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur. That’s not possible,” said Lucile, walking towards him. “In our provincial houses the sitting room is a formal room where no one sleeps. The fireplace isn’t real, as you can see.”

  “What? That white marble monument with the carved cupids warming their hands?”

  “Has never had a fire in it,” Lucile continued, smiling. “But do come into the dining room, if you’d like; the stove is lit. It’s true that your room is in a sad state,” she added, looking at the waves of smoke pouring out of it.

  “Oh, Madame, I nearly choked to death . . . Being a military man is clearly fraught with danger! But I wouldn’t want to impose on you for anything in the world. There are some dusty cafés in the village where they play billiards amid clouds of chalk . . . And your mother-in-law . . .”

  “She’s away for the day.”

  “Ah! Very well then, thank you, Madame. I won’t disturb you. I have important work to finish,” he said, holding up some maps.

  He sat down at the table and Lucile sat in an armchair by the fire; she stretched her hands out towards the warmth, occasionally rubbing them together absent-mindedly. “I have the mannerisms of an old woman,” she thought sadly, “the mannerisms and the life of an old woman.”

  She let her hands settle back on to her lap. When she looked up, she saw that the officer had abandoned his maps and pushed back the curtain to look at the grey sky and the crucified pear trees.

  “What a sad place,” he murmured.

  “Why should that matter to you?” Lucile replied. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “No,” he said, “I’m not leaving.”

  “Oh! But I thought . . .”

  “All leave has been cancelled.”

  “Really? But why?”

  He shrugged his shoulders slightly. “No one knows. Cancelled, that’s all. That’s life in the army.”

  She felt sorry for him: he’d been looking forward to his leave so much.

  “That’s very annoying,” she said compassionately, “but it’s just been postponed . . .”

  “For three months, six months, for ever . . . I’m most upset for my mother. She’s elderly and frail. A little old lady with white hair and a straw hat; a gust of wind could knock her over . . . She’s expecting me tomorrow night and all she’ll get is a telegram.”

  “Are you an only child?”

  “I had three brothers. One was killed in Poland, another died when we invaded France a year ago. The third one is in Africa.”

  “That’s very sad, for your wife as well . . .”

  “Oh, my wife . . . My wife will soon get over it. We got married very young; we were practically children. What’s your opinion of people getting married after a two-week acquaintance on a trip round the lakes?”

  “I have no idea! That doesn’t happen in France.”

  “But it isn’t exactly like it used to be any more, is it? When you were received twice by friends of the family and the next minute you were married, as your Balzac describes?”

  “Not exactly, but it’s not all that different, at least in the provinces . . .”

  “My mother told me not to marry Edith. But I was in love. Ach, Liebe . . . You must be able to grow up together, grow old together . . . But when you’re separated, when there’s war, when there’s suffering, and you find yourself tied to a child who is still eighteen, while you”—he raised his arms, let them drop again—“sometimes feel twelve and sometimes a hundred . . .”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating . . .”

  “But I’m not. A soldier remains a child in certain ways and in other ways he’s so old . . . He has no age. He is as old as the most ancient events on earth: Cain murdering Abel, cannibal rituals, the Stone Age . . . Let’s not talk about it any more. Here I am, locked up in this tomb-like place . . . no . . . A tomb in a country cemetery, rich with flowers, birds and lovely shade, but a tomb nevertheless . . . How can you bear to live here all year long?”

  “Before the war, we used to go out sometimes . . .”

  “But I bet you never travelled, did you? You’ve never been to Italy or central Europe . . . only rarely to Paris . . . Think of everything we’re missing . . . museums, theatres, concerts . . . Oh! It’s really the concerts I miss most. And all I have here is a miserable instrument I dare not play because I’m afraid of offending your justifiable feelings as French people,” he said resentfully.

  “But you can play as much as you like, Monsieur. Look, you’re feeling sad and I’m not very happy either. Sit down at the piano and play something. We’ll forget about the bad weather, separations, all our problems . . .”

  “Really, you’d really like that? But I have work to do,” he said, looking at his maps. “Oh, well . . . You bring some embroidery or a book and sit next to me. You must listen to me play. I only play well if I have an audience. I’m truly . . . how do you say it in French? A ‘show-off,’ that’s it!”

  “Yes. A show-off. I compliment you on your knowledge of French.”

  He sat down at the piano. The stove purred softly, its heat filling the room with the sweet smell of smoke and roasted chestnuts. Great drops of rain streamed down the windows, like tears; the house was empty and silent; the cook was at Vespers.

  She watched his slim white hands run across the keyboard. The wedding ring with the dark-red stone he wore made it difficult for him to play; he took it off and absent-mindedly handed it to Lucile. She held it for a moment; it was still warm from his hand. She turned it so it caught the pale-grey light filtering through the window. She could make out two Gothic letters and a date. She thought it was a love token. But no . . . the date was 1775 or 1795, she couldn’t tell which. It was obviously a family heirloom. Gently she put it down on the table. He must play the piano like this every evening, she thought, with his wife at his side . . . What was her name? Edith? How well he played! She recognised certain pieces.

  “Isn’t that Bach? Mozart?” she asked shyly.

  “Do you know music?”

  “No, no! I don’t know anything really. I used to play a little before I got married, but I’ve forgotten everything. I do love music. You’re very talented, Monsieur.”

  He looked at her and said seriously, “Yes, I think I am talented,” with a sadness that surprised her.

  Then he played a series of light-hearted, humorous arpeggios.

  “Listen to this now,” he said.

  He started playing and speaking softly: “This is the sound of peace, this is the laughter of young women, the joyful sound of spring, the first swallows coming back from the south . . . This is a German village, in March, when the snow first starts to melt. Here’s the sound of the stream the snow makes as it flows through the ancient streets. And now there is no more peace . . . Drums, trucks, soldiers marching . . . can you hear them? Can you? Their slow, faint, relentless footsteps . . . An entire population on the move . . . The soldiers are lost among them . . . Now there should be a choir, a kind of religious chant, unfinished. Now, listen! It’s the battle . . .” The music was solemn, intense, terrifying.

  “Oh! It’s beautiful,” Lucile said softly. “It’s so beautiful!”

  “The soldier is dying, and at that very moment he hears the choir again, but now it’s a divine chorus of soldiers . . . Like this, listen . . . it has to be both sweet and deafening at once. Can you hear the heavenly trumpets? Can you hear the brass instruments resonating, bringing down the walls? But now everything is fa
ding away, softening, it stops, disappears . . . The soldier is dead.”

  “Did you compose that piece? Did you write it yourself?”

  “Yes. I intended to be a musician. But that’s all over now.”

  “But why? The war . . .”

  “Music is a demanding mistress. You can’t abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she’s gone.” He saw Lucile staring at him. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking that people shouldn’t be sacrificed like this. I mean none of us. Everything has been taken away. Love, family . . . It’s just too much!”

  “Ah! Madame, this is the principal problem of our times: what is more important, the individual or society? War is the collaborative act par excellence, is it not? We Germans believe in the communal spirit—the spirit one finds among bees, the spirit of the hive. It comes before everything: nectar, fragrance, love . . . But these are very serious thoughts. Listen! I’ll play you a Scarlatti sonata. Do you know this one?”

  “No, I don’t think so, no . . .”

  The individual or society? she thought. Well, Good Lord! Nothing new there, they hardly invented that idea. Our two million dead in the last war were also sacrificed to the “spirit of the hive.” They died . . . and twenty-five years later . . . What trickery! What vanity! There are laws that regulate the fate of beehives and of people, that’s all there is to it. The spirit of the people is undoubtedly also ruled by laws that elude us, or by whims we know nothing about. How sad the world is, so beautiful yet so absurd . . . But what is certain is that in five, ten or twenty years, this problem unique to our time, according to him, will no longer exist, it will be replaced by others . . . Yet this music, the sound of this rain on the windows, the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside, this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war, this will never change, not this. This is for ever . . .