“Allow me, Madame, to count them again with you. You’re just upset, Madame, I’m sure we haven’t lost any. Here’s the last one; it fell on the floor. Allow me to pick it up and return it to you, Madame.”
“Oh, so it is, I’m sorry, Monsieur,” the lady replied with her most sour smile, “it’s just that when cupboards are turned out like this, things disappear if you’re not careful.”
Nevertheless, he’d found a way to cajole them. “Naturally, we have no right to ask you to lend us these things,” he said, saluting solemnly. “You know we’re not entitled to them . . .”
He even implied that the General shouldn’t find out: “He’s so strict. He’d tell us off for behaving impertinently, but we’re so bored. We want to have a wonderful party. It’s a favour we’re asking of you, Madame. You are perfectly free to refuse.” Magic words! Even the most sullen face lit up with a hint of a smile (like the pale and dismal light of the winter sun, thought Bruno, shining on one of your opulent, decrepit houses).
“But why shouldn’t you enjoy yourselves, Monsieur? You will take good care of these tablecloths, won’t you? They were part of my dowry.”
“Ah, Madame! I give you my word of honour that they will be returned to you intact, washed and ironed . . .”
“No, no! Just give them back as they are, thank you. Wash my linen! But we don’t send them to the laundry, Monsieur. The maid launders them under my supervision. We use fine ashes . . .”
Then all he had to do was smile sweetly and say, “Well, what do you know! So does my mother.”
“Oh, really? Your mother too? What a coincidence. Perhaps you could use some napkins as well?”
“Madame, I didn’t like to ask.”
“I can let you have two, three, four dozen. Would you like any cutlery?”
The soldiers had come out of the houses weighed down with clean, scented linen, their pockets full of dessert knives and holding, as if it were the Holy Sacrament, an antique punchbowl or some Empire coffee pot whose handle was decorated with ornamental leaves. Everything was stored in the château kitchens until the celebration.
The young women laughed and called out to the soldiers, “How are you going to dance with no women?”
“We’ll have no choice, ladies. That’s war for you.”
The musicians would play from the conservatory. At the entrance to the grounds were pillars and poles decorated with garlands of flowers that would be used to hoist the flags: the regimental flag, which had been carried during the campaigns in Poland, Belgium and France and had emerged victorious from three capital cities, and the swastika—stained, Lucile whispered, with the blood of Europe. Yes, sadly, all of Europe, Germany included: the noblest, youngest, most fervent blood, which is always the first to be shed in battle. And with whatever blood remained, the world would have to be rebuilt. That is why the aftermath of war is so difficult . . .
Every day, from Chalon-sur-Saône, Moulins, Nevers, Paris and Epernay, military trucks arrived with cases and cases of champagne. If there couldn’t be women, there would at least be wine, music and fireworks down by the lake.
“We’re going to come and watch,” the young Frenchwomen said. “Forget the curfew for one night, all right? Since you’ll be having fun, you could at least let us have a good time, too. We’ll take the road down to the château and watch you dance.”
Laughing, the girls tried on party hats made of silvery lace, masks and paper flowers for their hair. What party had they been meant for? Everything was slightly crumpled, faded, as if it were second-hand or from some costume wardrobe in Cannes or Deauville belonging to a nightclub manager who, before September 1939, was counting on future seasons.
“How funny you’ll look in all this,” the women said.
The soldiers strutted about making funny faces.
Champagne, music, dancing, a rush of pleasure . . . so they could briefly forget the war and how quickly time was passing. The only thing they worried about was the possibility of a storm that night. But the nights were so clear . . . Then, suddenly, there was this terrible disaster! A comrade murdered, unheroically, killed by some drunken cowardly farmer. They had considered cancelling the celebration. But no! The warrior mentality reigned supreme here: the tacit acceptance that, immediately after you had died, your comrades would dispose of your shirts, your boots, and spend the whole night playing cards while you lay in the corner of some tent—if your remains had been found, that is. Yet it was also a mentality that accepted death as something natural, an ordinary soldier’s destiny, and therefore refused to sacrifice a moment’s pleasure because of it. Besides, the officers’ main responsibility was to think of their men, to distract them from demoralising thoughts about future dangers and how very short life was. No, Bonnet had died without suffering much. He’d been given a beautiful funeral. He would not have wanted his comrades to be disappointed because of him. The celebration would take place as arranged.
Bruno gave in to the childish excitement around him. It was mad and slightly desperate—the kind of excitement that a truce brings out in soldiers, who see the possibility of a moment’s relief from the day-to-day boredom. He didn’t want to think about Bonnet, or about what was whispered behind the closed shutters of these grey, cold enemy houses. Like a child who’s been promised to go to the circus and is then told he must stay home because some old, annoying relative is sick, Bruno wanted to say, “But what has that got to do with it? That’s your problem. What has it got to do with me?” Did it have anything to do with him, Bruno von Falk? He wasn’t just a soldier of the Reich; he wasn’t motivated uniquely by what was best for his regiment or his country. He was a sensitive human being. He, like everyone else, was looking for happiness, the unhampered development of his abilities. Yet (like everyone else, sadly, during these times) his justifiable desires were constantly being thwarted by certain national interests called war, public security, the necessity of maintaining the prestige of the victorious army. A bit like the children of princes whose sole reason for existence is to carry out the wishes of their father, the king. He felt this majesty, the way the greatness and power of Germany reflected on him, as he walked through the streets of Bussy, as he rode through a village on horseback, as his spurs rattled at the doorstep of a French home. But what the French would never understand was that he was neither proud nor arrogant, but sincerely humble: terrified by the magnitude of his task.
But he didn’t want to think about that, not today. He preferred to enjoy the idea of the ball, or to dream about things he could never have: Lucile by his side, for example . . . Lucile who could come with him to the ball . . . “It’s madness,” he said to himself, smiling. “Oh, I don’t care. In my soul I’m free.” He imagined the dress Lucile would wear: not a modern dress, but the kind you might find in some romantic print; a white dress with layer upon layer of chiffon, billowing out like a flower, so that when he danced with her, when he held her in his arms, he could feel the frothy lace brushing against his legs. He went pale and bit his lip. She was so beautiful . . . Lucile close to him, on a night like this, in the Montmorts’ grounds, with the fanfares playing and fireworks in the distance . . . Lucile who, above all, would understand and share the almost religious thrill he felt in his soul when, standing alone in the dark, he felt the distant presence of a vague and terrible multitude—the regiment, the soldiers—and even further away, the army that fought and suffered, and the victorious army that occupied the cities.
“With her,” he said to himself, “I would be inspired.” He had worked very hard. He used to live in a state of perpetual creative exaltation, mad about music, he would say, laughing. Yes, with her and a little freedom, a little peace, he could have done great things. “It’s such a shame”—he sighed—“such a shame . . . one of these days we’ll receive orders to leave and we’ll be at war again. There will be other people, other countries, such extreme physical exhaustion that I’ll never be able to finish my military career. And the music, still waiting to fin
d expression. Musical phrases, delightful chords, subtle dissonances stand poised . . . wild, winged creatures frightened off by the crash of weapons. It’s such a shame. Did Bonnet care about anything besides war? I have no idea. No one can ever truly know another human being. But what if . . . he . . . who died at the age of nineteen, found more fulfilment than me, who’s still alive?”
He stopped in front of the Angelliers’ house. He was home. In three months he had come to think of all this as his own: the iron door, the prison-like lock, the hall with its musty smell, the back garden—the garden bathed in moonlight—and the woods in the distance. It was a June evening, divinely sweet; the roses were in bloom, but even their perfume was overpowered by the smell of hay and strawberries that hovered everywhere since the day before, for it was harvest time. On the road, the Lieutenant had come across some wagons full of freshly cut hay, drawn by cattle as there were no horses left. He had silently admired the slow, regal pace of the cattle pulling their sweet-smelling goods. The farmers looked away as he went past; he had noticed . . . but . . . he felt happy again and light-hearted. He went into the kitchen and asked for something to eat. The cook served him unusually quickly and without replying to his pleasantries.
“Where is Madame?” he said finally.
“I’m here,” said Lucile.
She had come in without making a sound as he was finishing a slice of cured ham on a big piece of fresh bread.
He looked up at her. “You’re so pale,” he said softly, sounding worried.
“Pale? Not really. It’s just been very hot today.”
“Where is your good mother?” he asked, smiling. “Let’s go for a walk outside. Meet me in the garden.”
A little later, as he was walking slowly down the wide path, between the fruit trees, he saw her. She came towards him, her head lowered. When she was a few steps away, she hesitated. Then, as she always did as soon as they were hidden from sight by the great lime tree, she went up to him and slipped her arm through his. They walked a while in silence.
“They’ve cut the hay in the meadows,” she said finally.
He closed his eyes, breathed in the aroma. The moon was the colour of honey in a milky sky where wispy clouds drifted by. It was still light out.
“It will be nice weather tomorrow, for our celebration.”
“Is it tomorrow? I thought . . .”
She didn’t finish what she was saying.
“Why not?” he said, frowning.
“Nothing, I just thought . . .”
He nervously flicked at the flowers with the riding crop he was holding.
“What are people saying?”
“About what?”
“You know very well. About the crime.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone.”
“And what about you? What do you think?”
“That it’s terrible, of course.”
“Terrible and incomprehensible. After all, what have we, as people, done to them? It’s not our fault if we upset them sometimes, we’re just following orders; we’re soldiers. And I know for a fact that the regiment did everything possible to behave properly, humanely, didn’t they?”
“Certainly.”
“Naturally, I wouldn’t say this to anyone else . . . Among soldiers it’s understood that we don’t show pity towards a comrade who’s been killed. That would go against military thinking, which requires that we consider ourselves solely as part of a whole. Soldiers can die just so long as the regiment lives. That’s why we’re not postponing tomorrow’s celebration,” he continued. “But I can tell you the truth, Lucile. My heart breaks at the thought of this nineteen-year-old boy being murdered. He was a very distant relative of mine. Our families know each other. And then, there’s something else I find stupid and revolting. Why did he have to shoot the dog, our mascot, our poor Bubi? If I ever find that man, I’d happily kill him with my bare hands.”
“I expect that’s what he must have been saying to himself for a long time,” Lucile said softly. “If I ever got my hands on one of those Germans, or even one of their dogs, how happy I’d be!”
They looked at each other, dismayed; the words had slipped through their lips, almost against their will.
“It’s the same old story,” said Bruno, forcing himself to sound light-hearted. “Es ist die alte Geschichte. The conquerors don’t understand why people want nothing to do with them. After 1918, you tried in vain to make us believe that we were stubborn because we couldn’t forget our sunken fleet, our lost colonies, our destroyed empire. But how can you compare the resentment of a great nation with one farmer’s blind outburst of hatred?”
Lucile picked a few sprigs of mignonette, smelled them, crushed them in her hands. “Has he been caught?” she asked.
“No. Oh, he’ll be long gone by now. None of these good people would dare hide him. They know only too well they’d be risking their own lives and they’re fond of their lives, aren’t they? Almost as fond of their lives as their money . . .”
Smiling slightly, he looked around at all the low, squat, secret houses slumbering in the dusk. She could see he was imagining them full of chatty and emotional old women, prudent and nit-picking middle-class ladies, and further away, in the countryside, farmers who were more like animals. It was almost true, partly true. Yet there remained something shadowy, mysterious, impossible to articulate, and over which, Lucile suddenly thought, remembering something she’d read at school, “even the proudest tyrant will never rule.”
“Let’s walk on a bit further,” he said.
The path was lined with lilies; their silky buds had burst open under the last rays of the sun and now the sweet-smelling flowers blossomed proudly in the night air. During the three months they had known each other, Lucile and the German had taken many walks together, but never in such splendid weather, so conducive to love. By tacit agreement they tried to forget everything except each other. “It’s nothing to do with us, it’s not our fault. In the heart of every man and every woman a kind of Garden of Eden endures, where there is no war, no death, where wild animals and deer live together in peace. All we have to do is to reclaim that paradise, just close our eyes to everything else. We are a man and a woman. We love each other.”
Reason and emotion, they both believed, could make them enemies, but between them was a harmony of the senses that nothing could destroy; the silent understanding that binds a man in love and a willing woman in mutual desire. In the shade of a cherry tree heavy with fruit, near the little fountain where the frogs croaked, he tried to take her. He pulled her into his arms with a violence he couldn’t control, tearing at her clothes, crushing her breasts.
“No, never!” she cried out. “Never!” Never would she be his. She was afraid of him. She no longer craved his touch. She wasn’t depraved enough (or too young perhaps) to allow her fear to be transformed into desire. The love she had welcomed so willingly that she didn’t believe it could be shameful, suddenly seemed to her disgraceful madness. She was lying; she was betraying him. How could you call that love? What had it been, then? Simply a moment of pleasure? But she was incapable of feeling even pleasure. What now made them enemies was neither reason nor emotion, but the secret movements of blood they had counted on to unite them and over which they were powerless. He touched her with his beautiful slim hands. She had so desired them, yet she felt nothing, nothing but the cold buckle of his uniform pressing against her chest, which froze her to the core. He was whispering to her in German. Foreigner! Foreigner! Enemy, in spite of everything. Forever he would be the enemy, with his green uniform, with his heavenly beautiful hair and his confident mouth.
Suddenly, it was he who pushed her away. “I won’t take you by force. I’m not a drunken boor . . . Just go.”
But the chiffon ties of her dress were caught on the officer’s metal buttons. Slowly, his hands shaking, he freed her. She, meanwhile, was looking anxiously towards the house. The first lamps were being lit. Would Madame Angellier r
emember to close both sets of curtains so the fugitive’s silhouette couldn’t be seen through the window? People weren’t careful enough on these beautiful June evenings. Secrets were revealed through open bedroom windows, where anyone could see in. People weren’t careful enough . . . They could distinctly hear the English radio coming from a neighbouring house; the cart passing by on the road was full of contraband; weapons were hidden in every home. His head bowed, Bruno held the long ties of her flowing belt in his hands.
“I thought . . .” he finally said sadly. He stopped, hesitated, then continued, “that you cared for me . . .”
“I thought so too.”
“And you don’t?”
“No. It cannot be.”
She took a few steps back and stood slightly away from him. For a moment they just looked at each other. The heart-rending blast of a trumpet sounded: it was curfew. The German soldiers walked through groups of people in the village square. “Go along now. Time for bed,” they said politely. The women protested and laughed. The trumpet blasted again. The locals went home. The Germans remained. The sound of their monotonous rounds was the only thing that would be heard until daybreak.
“It’s curfew” said Lucile impassively. “I have to go back. I have to close all the windows. I was told yesterday at Headquarters that the light from the sitting room wasn’t blocked out enough.”
“As long as I’m here, you don’t have to worry about anything. No one will bother you.”
She didn’t reply. She held out her hand to him; he kissed it and she walked back to the house. Long after midnight, he was still walking around in the garden. She could hear the brief, monotonous calls of the guards in the street, and beneath her window her jailor’s slow, steady walk. Sometimes she thought, He loves me, he doesn’t suspect anything, and sometimes, He’s suspicious, he’s watching, he’s waiting.
Suite Française Page 37
