“Can’t we just make a sandwich?”
“We could, if I had anything to eat at home, which I don’t. I put in a grocery order before we left this morning, but it won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“How about buying something here?” suggested Alex as they walked by the general store, La Melisse.
“It’s expensive,” said Natalie, her tone doubtful. “And I don’t have a bag.”
“What bag?”
“A shopping bag. You have to bring your own.”
“I have two good arms, Nat, as do you. Between us, I bet we can manage a few groceries.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Violette
They aren’t all Nazis,” said Marie-Paule as we gathered goémon in the shadow of the lighthouse. Half a dozen children—the eldest was eight while the youngest, my niece Agnès, was barely out of diapers—dug in the sand nearby, searching for clams and razor shells.
“What do you mean?” I asked, grimacing at the unpleasant slime of the seaweed, the sea brine stinging a small cut on my hand. “What’s the difference between a German soldier and a Nazi?”
We had so little access to news and information that the gossip mill was running on high. The elders who had lived through the Great War were full of stories about that conflict, but to my mind, at least, the situations were hard to compare. In the Great War, the enemy had remained in the north of France, but this time the Germans had occupied our country and invaded our island. And their charismatic leader, Adolf Hitler, spewed rhetoric about world domination. . . . It was difficult to understand.
Earlier in the week a newspaper had been passed from one island house to the next, showing a photograph of German soldiers goose-stepping down the Champs-Élysées. So we knew things would be different this time.
Nazis, in Paris.
“A lot of the regular soldiers were drafted into the military,” Marie-Paule explained. “They didn’t have a choice.”
Noëlle snorted. “They had a choice. We all have a choice. If every decent German man stood up and refused to fight for the Führer, there would be no war.”
We women discussed the Germans often, trying to figure out who they were, what they wanted, what made them tick. When we passed them in our passageways or on the quay, they seemed gruff and pushy, their guttural language falling harsh upon our ears. But some of them—a lot—were young, boys really, with open, clear-eyed gazes that reminded me of Marc.
“Marie-Paule’s right,” said Irmine. “I read about it in the paper, before they got here. The Nazis follow a certain set of beliefs, but most of these men are just following orders. They do not understand the war any more than we do.”
“What difference does that make?” Noëlle demanded, casting a quick glance at the young soldier who stood guard over us. He leaned back against a strange rock formation we called the Sphinx, smoking and looking out to sea. He didn’t understand French, and as long as we kept our voices low, he didn’t care that we talked. In a fierce whisper, she declared: “They have occupied us; they are all culpable. I would happily kill each and every one of them, slit their throats if I could. And so should every one of you.”
“I don’t want to slit anyone’s throat,” Marie-Paule said, looking troubled. “That is not what a Christian woman should do.”
“Then embrace your pious principles and welcome the invaders into your bed, Marie-Paule,” Noëlle said, sneering. “You appeasers make me sick.”
“Noëlle, that’s unfair,” I said. “Marie-Paule suggested no such thing. We’re all just doing our best to get by.”
That brought the discussion to a halt, and we worked in silence for a while. Three of us wrenched and hauled the slimy weed from the sea, which did not gladly relinquish its greenery; two others wrung out the water; and two more wound the cakes and set them on the rocks to dry in the sun. Our arms ached from the effort, the skin on our hands and wrists wrinkling and turning white from the salt water. My stomach growled; breakfast that morning had been a cup of tea and a small potato in a little broth. I supposed I was lucky that I felt nauseated much of the time because it made me care less about not having enough to eat.
“At least we have no Jews here on the island,” said Lazarette.
“That’s something else I don’t understand,” I said. “Why don’t the Nazis like the Jews?”
We used to receive our post, and newspapers, twice a week. But now the boat came once a week, if that. The newspapers were censored, so we had access only to Nazi propaganda, and those of us with men in England received no mail at all because even the Red Cross letters were intercepted.
“They despise them,” said Marie-Paule with a shrug.
“How do they even know who is Jewish?” I asked. “I met a Jewish man last year, a sailor who took shelter with us during a storm. He had dark features, but he looked just the same as anyone else. I can’t understand why, or even how, someone like him would be separated out from the rest of us.”
“They’re making them wear the six-pointed star in Poland,” said Irmine. “I saw a photograph in the newspaper.”
“But if they didn’t wear the star, how would anyone know?” I persisted.
“Maybe they round them up at religious services. Jews go to church on Saturdays,” said Corinne, who prided herself on knowing more about the world than the average islander.
“Some of them dress differently,” suggested Angelique. “Like the jeweler in Quimper.”
Corinne cast Angelique a quelling look. Angelique’s aunt had married a man from Quimper, and Angelique visited them once or twice a year, earning a reputation for worldliness that Corinne envied. We islanders might rely on one another in times of need but we had our share of petty jealousies, made all the worse by the special disdain fostered by familiarity.
“We separate shipwreck victims when we bury them,” Denise pointed out. “People of different religions are . . . different. Maybe we’re no better than the Nazis.”
“I thought that was out of respect for their wishes, in case they did not want a Christian burial,” I said.
“Maybe. I never thought of it as segregation, either,” said Marie-Paule. “But who knows? A lot of people are afraid of outsiders; living on the Île de Feme in the modern day, we are exposed to sailors from far and wide. Not everyone is as tolerant of difference.”
“I’m just glad we have no Jewish neighbors on the island to be sent to work camps,” said Irmine. “Can you imagine seeing your neighbors hauled off in trucks? I heard they are rounding up other people, too, and forcing them into the camps.”
“What do they do in these work camps?” I asked.
Irmine shrugged. “I suppose they work in war factories for the Third Reich. Making weapons, perhaps?”
“And the Germans take their land and all their possessions?”
“That’s the first thing anyone does when they invade,” said Noëlle. “They take what they want. They’re like badly behaved children, with no mother to scold them. Murderous, thieving little children.”
Her voice grew louder, and the soldier guarding us roused and barked, “Sei ruhig!”
“That means ‘Be quiet,’” Marie-Paule said, and we fell silent.
Late that afternoon our small group walked toward town, weary but satisfied. We had made a record number of goémon cakes, which were drying on the rocks in the sun. Goémon was proving to be our salvation. We incorporated it into our meals more than ever, grateful for the vitamins and nutrition. It was in demand in the war clinics and hospitals as a source of iodine, so we were able to make a deal with the soldiers: They allowed the boat from the mainland to pick up the cakes in return for most of the money we earned. A little money was better than none.
A very little.
Noëlle, of course, disapproved of the arrangement, stating that we were supporting the enemy by providing iodine for their si
ck and injured. But what choice did we have? The money was essential to buy food. Starving would not help win France’s freedom. Even Noëlle conceded that much.
And besides . . . now that the Germans were here, living with us, playing pétanque on the quay, and drinking in the cafés, we saw a different side to these invaders. Some were cruel, but occasionally a soldier stopped to assist an old woman, or fed the cats and dogs that ran loose on the island. I saw their pink cheeks, the dewy youth of so many of the young infantrymen, some not yet old enough to grow a full beard.
They were the enemy, and thus to be despised. But it was hard to imagine denying these boys medicine if they lay stricken on a hospital cot.
As we reached the patchwork of stone-walled gardens and fields, we noticed a commotion ahead.
In a field, standing in front of her two cows, old Madame Canté was arguing with four soldiers. Madame was eighty years old, and tiny. She used to be fierce, reminding me of one of those diminutive dogs that attacked things ten times their size, not realizing how vulnerable they were. But after her grandsons left for England, she seemed to lose her capacity to fight.
“What’s going on, Madame Canté?” asked Marie-Paule.
“They want to slaughter my cows!” wailed Madame Canté.
The German soldiers were strapping young men. They had their army rations but hungered for fresh meat.
“Non,” said Noëlle.
“C’est le ravitaillement,” insisted one of the men, referring to the policy of requisitioning our property.
“But we need the milk for the children,” said Lazarette, stepping forward, ever the peacemaker. “Please, sirs, have mercy. Without our men here—”
“It is hardly our fault that your men are cowards who left you to starve while they amuse themselves with English whores,” one of the men replied in heavily accented French. I recognized him as one of the soldiers in our guesthouse. He was handsome, but his pale gray eyes were flat and empty, and he spoke in a snide, disdainful tone. I had determined to give him a wide berth.
But now I stepped forward beside Lazarette, hoping to intercept Noëlle, who was practically vibrating with fury at my side. I feared things might escalate.
“Monsieur,” I said. “Bitte, the milk from these cows might be the only thing keeping our children alive. Couldn’t we work something out? Perhaps my mother could cook for you. She is very talented and could make something delicious out of your rations.”
Madame Canté began to mewl. Her begging put my teeth on edge. Something told me these soldiers would not respond well to weakness.
I stood taller, holding my breath while the man’s cold gaze raked over me.
“You are the daughter of the guesthouse,” he said.
“Yes, monsieur, and my mother is a very fine cook. Please, let us go there now and we will create a tasty menu for you.”
“Your father and brother are Anglais now as well, are they not? They have run away to England?”
I felt the color rise in my cheeks.
“Les Anglais,” he said, and spat on the ground. “May they all rot in hell, felled by our German bullets.”
Noëlle rushed toward him, her fingers splayed like claws, and spat on his uniform.
Livid, he backhanded her, sending her sprawling to the ground. Noëlle cried out, blood streaming from her mouth.
I started to lunge toward him but was held back by a pair of strong hands: our other lodger Rainer.
“Hans!” Rainer yelled. “Halt!”
Shoving me aside none too gently, he stepped up to face his colleague and they began arguing in rapid-fire German. I could make out only an occasional word, not enough to understand what they were saying. A muscle worked in the other man’s jaw; Rainer’s voice was low and intent, not cajoling but insistent. His expression remained implacable in the face of the other man’s fury.
Rainer took out a handkerchief and handed it to Hans, to wipe his uniform.
“You have goats as well, do you not?” Rainer asked me.
I nodded.
“We will slaughter one goat,” Rainer said, “and leave you the cows.”
“But—”
“Or we will slaughter one cow,” he insisted. “It is your choice.”
I looked to the other women. Reluctantly, we agreed. The goats gave milk, but there were more of them. We had only half a dozen cows, and we needed their milk and cream.
“You will please bring a goat to the butcher to be prepared,” Rainer told me. Then he turned to Hans. “And we will leave these cows to their grazing.”
Hans glared and said something in German. Then he snapped his heels, held up one arm, and declared: “Heil Hitler!”
After a brief moment, Rainer raised his arm and, in a soft voice, repeated those ugly words: “Heil Hitler.”
* * *
• • •
That evening, I happened upon Rainer in our parlor, sitting in a comfortable chair with one of our books in his lap. But he was not reading. He seemed lost in thought, looking at nothing at all.
I started to leave when he saw me. He placed his finger in the book as though to keep his page. He seemed to favor one leg as he stood.
“Madame,” Rainer said, inclining his head slightly. “Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir, monsieur. I am glad to see you. I . . . I owe you thanks.”
His eyebrows rose.
“For the . . . for saving our cows. The children need the milk. They are hungry.”
“I am afraid it will not last, sorry to say.”
“The hunger?”
He gave a sad chuckle and shook his head. “No, that will most definitely last, and probably intensify. I mean the cows. I’m a customs officer; I’m not in charge of the soldiers stationed here. I will do what I can, speak to their commanding officer, but I imagine the soldiers will get to the cows eventually. They are hungry as well.”
My heart fell. I forced myself to tamp down the incipient panic, wondering what we would do without the animals. “In any case, I appreciate what you’ve done so far. Even a few more days with milk will make a difference.”
“How is the girl? The one who was struck?”
“Her tooth is loose and she will have an angry bruise.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Old Madame Thérèse will make her a plaster.”
My eyes fell on the book in his hands. Green leather cover, gilt letters. Claudine à l’école by Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette. It was a book by a woman, for an audience of women. It seemed strange to imagine the story filtered through a man’s eyes and emotions.
“That is one of my favorites,” I commented.
“I know,” he said.
I frowned. “How would you know something like that?”
He flipped open the book and held it up. “‘To my loyal customer,’” he read. “‘Mademoiselle Violette Fouquet, on her eighteenth birthday. Your favorite book.’”
“Monsieur Saint-Just owns the bookstore in Audierne,” I explained, relaxing a bit. “I rarely had money to buy books, so he allowed me to read in his store. He gave me that one as a present.”
“Sounds like a kind man.”
“Actually he’s very grumpy, but we share a love of books. He has been kind to me.”
“I imagine you won him over with your charm.” Rainer smiled. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to your library.”
“Not at all. Books are meant to be shared.”
“I agree. It’s a charming novel. Tell me, why is it your favorite?”
I felt a little thrill at the question. No one ever asked me such things. The villagers had more practical matters to attend to and had neither the time nor the interest to discuss things that weren’t real.
“Have you ever . . . ?” I tried to formulate my thoughts. “Have you eve
r read a book and tripped over a phrase or an idea, and thought, That’s exactly how I feel! but had not been able to put into words?”
Rainer nodded slowly. “Yes, I know that feeling very well indeed.”
I quoted from the book: “‘Je sais très bien, depuis longtemps, que j’ai un coeur déraisonnable, mais, de le savoir, ça ne m’arrête pas du tout.’”
He repeated the phrase: “‘I have known for a long time that I have an unreasonable heart, but even knowing that, it does not stop me in the least.’ Do you feel you have an unreasonable heart, madame?”
I gave a wry laugh. “Quite unreasonable, yes.”
“The unreasonable heart is a gift.” He waggled a finger at me in mock admonition. “Don’t let anyone try to tame it.”
I smiled, then sobered upon realizing I was chatting in the parlor with the enemy. Our conversation had seemed so natural that I had forgotten with whom I was speaking.
“I saw you that first day, when we came off the boat,” said Rainer. “I noticed you in the crowd.”
“When you arrived on the island?”
He nodded. “You were with the young woman, the one who was fighting with Hans about the cows. What is her name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Please, I wish your friend no harm.”
Rainer’s actions this afternoon suggested I could believe his words, but still I hesitated. Then I realized he could find out who she was easily enough. “Noëlle. Noëlle Guilcher. She is my belle-soeur.”
“Please tell your sister-in-law that she must learn to control her anger. I would hate something worse to happen to her.”
“Is that a threat?” I blurted. It was too easy to think of Rainer as a charming man, to chat with him about books and unruly hearts as though he were a friend.
“Not at all. I am trying to be helpful. I hope you will believe that I wish you and your friends no harm.”
I stared at him. He returned my gaze but did not speak.
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 15
