There were a number of tourists milling around, so Alex and Natalie stood in line to pay their fee, then waited for their turn to ascend. They passed the time in a small exhibit set up in the rooms of the former keeper’s home.
There were photographs of the last lightkeeper, Henri Thomas, as well as several of the tower when it was under construction. This stretch of Brittany’s coast, the Côte Sauvage, was peppered with smaller lighthouses, which were incredible feats of engineering and determination, built around the tides and the weather.
“Listen to this: ‘The Fresnel lens casts light that can be seen for twenty-seven nautical miles, all the way to the coast to the north, not far from Brest,’” Natalie read aloud. “The original was built in eighteen thirty-nine, but the Germans dynamited the lighthouse when they left the island at the end of World War Two. It was rebuilt in nineteen fifty-one.”
“Why would they blow up the lighthouse?” Alex asked.
“They didn’t want the Allies to have any help navigating the waters. It was war. Things got ugly.”
The ticket taker announced it was their turn to mount the 249 steps of the narrow, winding metal staircase, their feet clanging on each one, the muscles of their thighs burning by the time they reached the top.
Natalie hadn’t been in the lighthouse since she first arrived on the island. She remembered François-Xavier had tried to beg off, but she had insisted. That was back when she was able to cajole him into doing things she wanted to do. He had teased her, acting as though he was looking up her skirt as she preceded him up the steps. Climbing the stairs of a lighthouse with her prince charmant . . . she had felt so carefree, so sexy, so optimistic for their future.
The moment Natalie and Alex emerged onto the catwalk, they were slammed with wind from all directions. Natalie was surprised to see Alex holding on to the railing so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Alex always used to climb rocks and scamper up trees, seemingly unafraid of heights.
The tower was so tall they could see the S of the island laid out before them, with the village huddled on the far shore, its buildings nestled together, shimmering through a saltwater haze. Innumerable rocks and shoals peeked up from the open ocean in all directions. Several of the larger rock outcroppings—not quite large enough to be called islands—sported feux, or small lights.
“Which is that one?” Alex asked, pointing to a lighthouse on a larger but forbidding-looking rock in the strait about halfway between the Île de Feme and the mainland. “I saw it from the ferry on my way over.”
“The Phare de la Vieille. Can you believe there used to be a keeper living out there? They say it was such a hardship post that the keepers had to be rotated out every six weeks.”
“I don’t think I’d mind being a lighthouse keeper.”
“It sounds romantic, doesn’t it? But the reality was pretty harsh. Keeping a light here was one thing—there’s an actual island attached; you could walk around and even grow things—but the Phare de la Vieille is nothing but a rock. One false step out the door, and you’re in the ocean.”
“Still.”
“A lot of sailors mourn the loss of the keepers. They say it’s not the same when you’re out at sea at night, that knowing there was a person tending to a lighthouse made all the difference. Now that they’re all automated, it’s just an empty tower.”
Was that what she was? An empty tower? The light was on, but nobody was home. Ugh. Couldn’t write that on social media.
“What’s that?” Alex gestured to a small stone building not far from the lighthouse, the rocks covered in lichen. “It looks old.”
“A chapel was originally built there in the twelfth century. It’s been rebuilt a few times since. We can take a look, if you’d like.” Chilled by the wind, Natalie pulled her sweatshirt tighter around her. “Ready to head down?”
Alex nodded, and they proceeded carefully down the narrow stairwell, stepping into the small niches by the windows to allow those coming up to pass.
“It’s called the Chapel of Saint Corentin,” Natalie said as they walked toward the chapel. “It’s also where people come to pay their respects to the Gallizenae. There’s another, larger church in the center of the village that is dedicated to Saint Guénolé. He and Corentin are the saints most associated with Brittany. Saint Guénolé is considered a phallic saint.”
“I hope that’s not what it sounds like.”
Natalie chuckled. “They say the women of the island used to stick pins into the feet of his statue, hoping for romance and fertility. But I can’t help but feel like there’s something special here, something ancient. Like I said, the Druids arrived on the island long before the Catholic priests. In fact, the Île de Feme was mentioned by Pomponius Mela, the earliest Roman geographer, who wrote in the very first century AD.”
Natalie snapped a few more photographs. This is good. She could post these to her social media accounts and feel that she was getting back on track. She made a mental note to write a post about Pomponius Mela. Her followers would like that.
“How do you know all this?” Alex asked.
“Research. I’m writing a book, remember?”
“Oh, right. What’s the title?”
“Still working on it. Titles are hard.”
“Anyway, it’s impressive,” said Alex. “But then, you always were impressive.”
“You never used to think I was impressive. You were always Dad’s little pet, doing everything right all the time. You used to call me Nat-the-Gnat.”
“I said you were annoying. I never said you weren’t smart.”
Natalie had always known she was intelligent and had an excellent memory, able to recite long passages from an author’s explorations of life and death. But that very ability also made her doubt herself: Her mind was crowded with other people’s thoughts and ideas, the ponderings of dead philosophers and poets, words and sentences and whole paragraphs from books she had read in her search for truth. Sometimes it felt like all those ideas left little room for her own thoughts.
No wonder I can’t figure out how to write my damned book. Books had to be brutally honest, to come from one’s heart. But other people’s ideas were the only ones she appreciated and held close.
Another wave of panic washed over her. What am I going to do?
They headed back toward town, down the other side of the island, and finally turned into the narrow stone passages that wound between the houses and walled gardens.
“And yet another cemetery,” said Alex.
“This is the main one,” said Natalie.
“Are we allowed to go in?”
“If the gates are unlocked,” Natalie said, but Alex was already pushing in the tall iron gates, the rusting hinges squeaking a protest.
Marble slabs lay atop the graves, many sporting little ovals with photographs of the deceased. Most were decorated with flower arrangements or some form of greenery.
“Many graves are still tended by family members,” said Natalie. “A lot of the islanders trace their families back for generations. Properties are handed down through the family, so it’s firmly rooted in history.”
“There’s something sort of comforting about that, isn’t there?” said Alex. “A sense of permanency and roots. Or do you think it gets claustrophobic after a while?”
“I think there are probably as many answers to that as there are personalities on the island.”
“I guess I’ve always felt sort of rootless,” said Alex. “At least, since the compound fell apart and we all split up.”
Natalie had never thought about it that way. She had been overjoyed to see the mountains recede in the rearview mirror of that logging truck, so very many years ago. She missed her mother, and had some fond memories of her sisters and parents together, sitting and talking around a warm fire, back when she was young enough not to realize everything she
was missing. But after the horrors of The Commander’s training sessions, and as she grew older and read more, her sense of not fitting in increased until Natalie realized she had to leave, to experience for herself what the world had to offer. And she had never looked back.
The cemetery gates creaked loudly, and François-Xavier’s aunt Agnès appeared, a basket of flowers looped over one arm.
“Bonjour, Tante Agnès,” said Natalie, hurrying to her side and kissing her on both cheeks.
Agnès was in her eighties, with the sturdy frame typical of the Bretons. She wore her white hair in a short, practical bob, her hand-knitted sweater closed at the neck with a cameo brooch. François-Xavier’s extended family consisted of several aunts and his uncle Michou, and though many of the younger cousins had left for better opportunities on the mainland, there were enough still on the island to make Natalie feel part of a network—or perpetually under surveillance, depending on her mood. Several of his relatives had read the French translation of her memoir and felt sorry for Natalie, especially because of her lack of family, in the way of old people who had always lived in a small, tight-knit community.
“Bonjour, Natalie! What a lovely surprise!” Tante Agnès said in French. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m showing my sister around the island. I’m so glad to see you. I’d like to introduce you to her. This is Alex.” Natalie spoke in French to Agnès, then switched to English when she spoke to Alex. “Alex, this is Tante Agnès. She’s one of François-Xavier’s extended family, and Michou’s cousin.”
“Enchantée,” said Alex, who looked unsure when Agnès responded in French. “Pardon, that’s all I know.”
Natalie translated for Tante Agnès, who laughed and waved off Alex’s concern, continuing to speak in French as she explained that she had just come to lay flowers on her father’s grave.
“He went to England in answer to the call of Général de Gaulle, during the last World War,” said Tante Agnès.
“I’d love to hear more about that,” Alex said. “If Tante Agnès doesn’t mind, of course.”
Natalie translated Alex’s request, and Agnès smiled warmly. Natalie marveled at the immediate connection her sister seemed to have made with the older woman. Not that Agnès wasn’t friendly with Natalie; Agnès considered herself une personne très sociable, or a very social person. Unlike most of the native Fémans, she enjoyed chatting with new people, even the tourists.
But Natalie always felt as if Tante Agnès was holding back, holding Natalie at arm’s length. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that Natalie was connected to François-Xavier. The extended family was ecstatic to have him back on the Île de Feme, but seemed to worry about how realistic his plans—their plans—were. It had taken numerous assurances from Natalie that she had the money and determination to restore the Bag-Noz into the guesthouse it had once been. Only after François-Xavier left did Natalie wonder if his family might have reason to question his reliability. After all, they had known him all his life.
Wish someone had warned me, Natalie thought, though if someone had tried, she suspected she wouldn’t have listened. Not when her dreams seemed to be coming true.
As they stood by the grave, Agnès reached for Alex’s hand, and to Natalie’s surprise, Alex did not protest. Natalie translated as Agnès recounted the story of her father being killed at war.
“I was just a child at the time, of course. A toddler. So I don’t really remember when he left, though I do recall my mother’s reaction.” Agnès nodded, a faraway look in her eye. “She was pregnant with my younger brother, and was angry that my father was leaving her and their children here, alone, to face the German soldiers. The Vichy government declared the island men traitors—or worse, Anglais, or Englishmen—so our families received no military pay, no support at all. It was a struggle to survive.”
“How did you get by?” Alex asked.
“We had some animals, a few cows for milk. And we children helped to keep the gardens, raising carrots and potatoes, peas and beans—if we could save them from the rabbits. The Germans brought their own rations but stole whatever they liked from us. I remember going to the beach to scavenge for snails and clams in the mud, looking for mussels in the shallows, anything at all. It was a never-ending search for food. We ate a lot of goémon.” Agnès chuckled and shook her head. “It doesn’t taste like much, but it keeps you alive. I still eat it occasionally, mostly for the nostalgia. It’s supposed to be good for you.”
“I’ve heard that,” Alex replied. “Did the women fish?”
“Some tried. But the men took the best boats to England.”
“Could you relocate to the mainland?”
Agnès shook her head. “Even if we had boats to sail, the Germans controlled our movements. You had to be granted special permission to leave the island. The entire community was under suspicion because the men had left. Did you see the monument to the French Naval Forces? It was inaugurated by Général de Gaulle himself in honor of our men’s enthusiastic response to his call.”
Natalie nodded. “We did, yes. I was sure to show her.”
“And then my father died,” Agnès said, laying her flowers on a simple grave of pale pink granite. “He was inducted into the British navy with the rest of our boys because of their knowledge of the sea, and was killed off the coast of Normandy.”
Tante Agnès showed them to another plot, for the large Fouquet family.
“These are the women from the Bag-Noz?” asked Alex.
“Yes, my aunts.” Agnès placed a single flower in each of the sconces next to the names Violette and Doura. Both had died in the 1990s.
Natalie was distracted by the names of several babies also listed on the family plinth: Josée, Nicole, Esprit, Jean-Yves. All deceased at less than a year old during the war, from 1940 to 1944.
“Babies die,” said Agnès with a shrug, the look on her face belying the casualness of the words. She pushed her chin out. “C’est ainsi . . . C’est comme ça.”
“That’s just how it is,” Natalie translated for Alex, then said to Agnès: “I keep hearing references to the two sisters who ran the guesthouse after the war. But no one has any details.”
“Violette and Doura . . . well, there was some gossip after the war, but . . . I don’t put any stock in that. I’m sure they were loyal and brave, like all the women on the island.”
“I saw a photograph of them,” said Alex. “Wearing the black outfits.”
“Yes, they both wore the jibilinnen until the day they died, long after the other women on the island had given it up.” Agnès nodded, a faraway look in her eye. “As a child, I remember running to the Bag-Noz to beg for cookies. They grew herbs in their garden, made tinctures, and mixed teas. They became quite well-known for it. And when they died, they said they wanted to be buried in seaweed and shells, the treasures of the sea.”
“Do you have any other stories from the war years?” Natalie tried again.
“Some stories are best left in the past,” said Agnès. “If they wanted it remembered, they would have written it down. Everyone who remembers the war is dead or dying now, anyway.”
Natalie clamped down on her frustration. This was a typical response when she asked the island elders about World War II.
“By the way,” Natalie said, “Alex found an old photo album. If I bring it by, would you help me identify the people in the photographs?”
“I could try,” Tante Agnès said.
Natalie and Alex walked Tante Agnès home, passing through a narrow walkway to a cottage made of stone, with lace curtains in the windows, a cat on the windowsill, and a lush walled garden full of flowering plants.
“I am very proud of my gardens . . . but I stay with a daughter on the mainland in the winter. Too cold and stormy on the island for my old bones. And speaking of storms, there is one blowing in, Natalie. Have you and Fran
çois-Xavier fixed the roof yet?”
Natalie didn’t translate this question.
“We’re working on it,” Natalie said. “I hope to have it done soon.”
“There’s a storm coming,” Agnès repeated as she waved good-bye.
There’s always a storm coming.
As the sisters headed back home, Alex asked Natalie: “Why did the Germans occupy this island, anyway? There isn’t much here.”
“Whoever controls the island controls the shipping lanes, and the Raz. Also, the island was part of the ‘Atlantic Wall’ the Germans were trying to establish to prevent an invasion of the mainland from the Allies based in England.”
Natalie snapped a few more photos as some old women passed by.
“I would have thought you’d have your fill of photos by now,” said Alex.
“They’re not for me. They’re for my readers.”
“You’re going to publish a book of photographs?”
“No, I’ll post them on my social media. You know. Online.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s part of my job. People love photos of the island.” They approached a small grass-covered plaza studded by two large rocks standing on end in front of a small church. “These are the menhirs I was telling you about. They look like they’re gossiping, don’t you think? Want to go check out the museum?”
“I think I’ve had my fill of history and sightseeing for the day,” said Alex.
“It’s almost time for lunch. Hungry?”
“Maybe later. I’m thinking I should get back to work. If you can’t hire a crew to work on the roof, maybe we could hire a helper? You could ask Milo, from last night. He stuck you with his Parisian, after all.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“What about Christine?”
“What about her?”
Alex shrugged. “She looked like she might know how to swing a hammer.”
“Alex, I can’t ask her to do that. She doesn’t have time to come fix my roof. She’s busy fishing or taking care of her catch. Anyway, it’s lunchtime, and people here don’t skip meals. So should we go back to Milo’s, or . . . ?”
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 14
