“Or . . . a bug-out structure?”
He sighed, annoyed, and I feared I had gone and done it, ruined his rare good cheer by screwing up again. I froze, unsure how to respond.
He took some paper and started to wrap it around the diamond frame, instructing me to tape it at key points. Then he threaded string along the edges.
“How about now? Do you recognize it?” he asked.
“Wait—it’s a kite!” I said, surprised and excited.
“That’s it! Oh, I know you can buy one at the dollar store, but isn’t it more fun to make it ourselves? My brothers and I used to make these on the ranch when we were kids.”
“Fun” was not a word in my father’s daily vocabulary. But here he was, his face shining with little-boy joy as he crafted this toy on his worktable. He was being honest, I realized. He was excited about making a kite.
My ten-year-old heart turned to the possibility of flying it, even while telling myself that there had to be a lesson in there, somewhere. I must be missing it, and would be called to account. I racked my brain. I thought of the story I had read of Benjamin Franklin and a kite trailing a key during a thunderstorm. Was The Commander experimenting with electricity, maybe? He liked to play with electricity.
He wrapped a long piece of string around a pencil and attached it to the kite.
“Follow me,” he said, and led the way to the meadow, where the kite caught the breeze and began to fly, higher, higher. I jumped up and down, thrilled at the sight of the kite dancing in the air.
“See that, Nat?” The Commander said, and I nodded. “Want to try? Don’t be afraid. It’s not hard. Just hold it like this and keep it away from the trees.”
As he handed me the string-wrapped pencil, the wind kicked up, and the kite bucked and jerked about. “Hold it tight, Nat,” he said. “Don’t let it near the trees.”
“I won’t!” I said, and for a few moments I watched the kite fly.
“Watch the trees, Nat!” my father barked. “Steer it away!”
“I don’t know how!” I said, as the kite took a sudden nosedive and crashed into a tall pine tree, becoming entangled in the upper branches.
The Commander swore and shook his head, his mood now black. He yanked on the string, but the kite did not budge.
“Stay there, idiotic ding-dong thing,” he yelled, and walked off in disgust.
The kite remained in the tree for months, waving in the breezes, taunting me in silent reproach, until at last a storm carried away its tattered remains.
Natalie sat back, drained but satisfied. The language needed tinkering, of course, but at least she had written something. Unfortunately, the story was more suited to Pourquoi Pas? than to the new book she was supposed to be writing. But she would figure that out later. The point was, it felt good to be writing again. And after all, it seemed her readers couldn’t get enough stories of her strange upbringing.
Next, Natalie posted a few photos from today’s tour of the island, and wrote a short blog post about her sister surprising her with a visit. Natalie wished she had more to say, something of greater import. But instead she wrote a few words about how great it was to see relatives.
Finally, Natalie opened her e-mail to find a note from her agent, Sandy. The subject line read: Good news!
She opened the message, hoping her publisher was able to give her another advance after all, or that Pourquoi Pas? was being translated into Lithuanian or one of the other languages that had not yet picked it up.
Instead, the note read: Your book has been optioned for a movie!
Natalie sat back, stunned. Film options rarely amounted to much, but this one came with a nice chunk of change. So she really could finish up the renovation properly.
Except . . . Pourquoi Pas? was all about finding her happiness. And she had lost it again.
Natalie brought a lavender sachet to her nose. The scent was calming. Usually.
But in this moment Natalie kept thinking about what Alex said: that in actuality the island smelled of fish, not of lavender.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Violette
Rainer appeared in the kitchen doorway, in his hands a large package wrapped in newspaper stained pink with blood.
“Excusez-moi, Madame Fouquet,” he said to my mother, his tone respectful. “Would you be willing to cook this meat for the officers staying here? I will pay you for your time and effort, of course.”
My mother’s mouth gaped open, as though she were unable to find the words to respond.
“Bien sûr,” I jumped in. “May we share in the meat as well?”
“There is plenty for all,” he said, setting the package on the counter. “The goat belongs to the Fémans, after all.”
With that, he nodded curtly, smiled, and left us.
“You would break bread with the enemy?” my mother asked me, appalled.
“Better that they eat our animals while we go hungry?” I replied in a fierce whisper. My mouth was already watering at the prospect of fresh meat, something we had not enjoyed for far too long.
“You forget yourself, Violette,” said Maman, shaking her head.
“I forget nothing, Maman. You are the one who always speaks of survival. Well, now this is our survival. And have you forgotten that I am carrying your grandchild?”
Maman sighed and pulled her cookbook toward her on the counter, flipping through the pages in a familiar ritual, looking for the right recipe.
I began to unwrap the bloody package.
As an island girl, I was accustomed to killing, gutting, and scaling fish. Slaughtering and plucking chickens were also common, if unpleasant, chores. But the meat of cows, goats, and pigs had always left me vaguely nauseated, the sinew and the blood reminding me of the gruesome nature of our carnivorous ways.
Now, as the musky scent of the raw meat wafted up toward me, I could think of nothing but dinner.
* * *
• • •
Rainer worked with German customs control, the GAST, which was short for Grenzaufsichtstelle. His was an important position, which reflected his education and linguistic abilities. In addition to his native German, Rainer spoke French fluently and English and Spanish passably as well as speaking a smattering of other languages.
The GAST had decreed that ships passing the Île de Feme must pull into the harbor so that Rainer’s men could inspect their cargo. Our harbor, once so full of fishing boats, now welcomed vessels from Africa and Spain, even, occasionally, from the Americas. Once daily life under occupation settled down and the bureaucracy of the Vichy government had been set in motion, the island’s little store La Melisse began to receive regular supplies, most of which, from meat to coffee to soap, were distributed according to the rationing system.
Monsieur Kestel, the baker, was granted small shipments of flour and other grains, sometimes even flour made of ground turnips or tulip bulbs, and whenever he was able to bake some bread, his shop was mobbed. But no one complained about the long lines. It was a rare chance to exchange information, because other gatherings of islanders in groups of more than three were verboten. Waiting in line, collecting goémon, and being at home with family members were the only exceptions to the rule of three.
“On dit”—“they say”—became a favorite refrain, a way to discuss news and events, whether speculating on what was happening to our men in England, or wondering if a shipment of potatoes was expected anytime soon, or gossiping about the shameful Parisian women—actresses and dancers, mostly—who cavorted with German officers in cafés and cabarets, committing that greatest of sins: la collaboration horizontale.
On the Île de Feme, there was a clear divide between the customs officials, the GAST, and the regular soldiers. The GAST’s duties were to control the ferry, inspect the ships, and wave through the boat that came to pick up the dried goémon cakes.
The soldiers, on the other hand, were there to occupy the island as part of what Hitler called his “Atlantic Wall.” Convinced the Allies would attack from the West, Hitler ordered troops to take up positions on the shores of Normandy and the Côte Sauvage, on the Channel Islands, and on the numerous rocky reefs, such as the Île de Feme, that dotted the Atlantic between France and the south of England. Above all, the Germans were intent upon controlling the port of Brest, the westernmost point of mainland France, whose deepwater docks were being used to build and repair Nazi ships and submarines.
The soldiers assigned to our island watched over our small population of women, children, and old people. They did drills and kept a lookout from the lighthouse, but otherwise their duties were few. If some were secretly relieved to be far from the fighting, others soon grew bored and restless.
The officer I knew only as Hans, the one who had struck Noëlle, worried me. He made no secret of his disdain for island life and for all who dwelled here, and appeared to be perpetually angry. I tried to give him a wide berth, which wasn’t always possible since we resided under the same roof. I could feel his pale gaze on me as I served the officers dinner at our long table, and always waited until he had left the house before cleaning his room and changing his sheets.
One day, when I was returning from the bakery with a rare and precious baguette, I saw him stop my belle-mère, my mother-in-law, and another older woman, Madame Omérin. I ducked back into the passageway so he wouldn’t notice me, and watched.
“Ihre Papiere, bitte,” Hans demanded in German, though he knew enough French to get by.
Had he not been so threatening, I would have rolled my eyes. The elderly women were doing nothing more sinister than carrying their empty baskets to the store, having heard a rumor that a shipment of lard had come in to La Melisse.
With shaking hands, the women produced their cartes d’identité, which included their fingerprints, date and place of birth, and profession: femme de foyer, or housewife.
Hans made a show of carefully inspecting the documents, then ran his cold eyes over their robes noires and jibilinnen.
“Why must you island women insist on wearing black?” he demanded, now in French. “It is . . . trübselig. How do you say that in French? Depressing.”
“Nous portons le deuil de la France,” responded Madame Omérin with defiance. “We are wearing mourning clothes for our France.”
Hans stared at them for a long moment before handing them their documents and allowing them to pass.
“Sie sehen aus wie Hexen,” he said in a low, menacing voice.
* * *
• • •
What does ‘hexen’ mean?” I asked Rainer that evening when we passed in the downstairs hall.
He frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard your friend Hans say it today.”
“I wouldn’t call him my friend,” said Rainer in a low voice.
“He used the term about the jibilinnen, I think.”
“The men don’t understand why the women on the island wear all black.”
“Oh. What does ‘hexen’ mean, then?”
“It means ‘witches.’”
“He thinks we’re witches?”
“It was an insult, nothing more. I apologize on his behalf.”
“That isn’t necessary,” I said, wondering what the Gallizenae would make of these German invaders. “Some of us really are witches. But I suppose he’ll never know for sure which of us is a witch. Perhaps he’ll be more careful.”
“Was he inappropriate? Should I speak to him?”
I shook my head, not wanting to make trouble.
“You can come to me, madame, if anything happens.”
I met his eyes. They were a deep azure, nothing like the pale gray of his countryman, Hans, or the clear blue of my husband, Marc. Rainer’s eyes spoke of the morning sea and the night sky, of poetry and music, and his gaze made me feel welcome, as though I had come home after a long journey. It was a strange sensation, and I would admit this to no one, but had Rainer not been my sworn enemy, I felt sure we would have been friends.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“I was about to light the fire. There’s a chill in the air tonight.”
We had long since run out of firewood and coal, which had to be brought in by boat from the mainland and was no longer a priority. So now we burned dried kelp for warmth. It took a huge amount to warm our stone walls, and the leaves tended to smoke more than flame. Still, it was better than nothing.
“I miss wood fires,” said Rainer, wincing as he crouched down before the hearth. He rubbed his knee for a moment before filling the fireplace with a tightly wound, dried circle of goémon and touching a match to one leaf. “Have you read the works of Thomas Bailey Aldrich? He wrote: ‘Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of applewood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and bluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring.’”
I said nothing, unsure how to respond.
“I suppose it sounds better in the original English,” he said.
“How did you learn to speak English?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say I speak it, exactly.”
“But you read their poets?”
“I’ll read anything I can get my hands on. Aldrich also wrote one of my favorite phrases: ‘What is lovely never dies, but passes into other loveliness, stardust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air.’”
“You sing and play the piano, read poetry, and make fires from kelp. Is there anything you cannot do, monsieur?”
“I can’t make you happy, apparently.”
“That’s not true: You could make me very happy simply by leaving the island—and taking your friends with you.”
“I told you, they are my countrymen, not my friends.”
“Is the distinction supposed to matter to me?”
He stood, wiping his hands, and walked slowly toward me, his limp more pronounced. “I know this situation is difficult, madame. I know your father and brother are in England. I know you don’t want these strangers in your house. But believe me when I say I regret the situation as well. I love your country; France is part of my own family history. I never wanted to come here as a detested invader. I am . . . It probably sounds ridiculous to say, but in many ways I am as put-upon by this war as you are. The average soldier does not profit from war, whether on the winning or losing side; it is the politicians and businessmen who benefit.”
Once again, I didn’t know how to respond.
“I’m doing the best I can, madame,” Rainer said quietly.
It embarrassed me to feel tears sting the backs of my eyes. “I’m sorry. I believe you. I am just so tired, and hungry. Also . . . I am expecting a child.”
His eyes lit up, as though I had told him he was the father.
“But, Violette! This is a blessing, no? Congratulations! That is the very best of news.”
The next morning when I emerged from my bedroom, there was a sack of flour on the kitchen counter, along with a jar of honey and—wonder of wonders—a small round of butter.
“We haven’t had butter since this war began,” my mother said as we stood side by side in the kitchen, our mouths watering as we stared at the beautiful yellow disk. “What is this for?”
“The baby,” I said, with quiet certainty.
It was astonishing, given the circumstances of war and invasion. But Rainer was unlike any man I had ever known. This German had become a friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alex
Alex was relieved to find that the basement and crawl spaces were a little dirty but appeared watertight and, amazingly, most of the plumbing in the walls had been updated. That meant it would be easy enough to tie toilets, showers, and sinks into the existing stub-outs in the secon
d-floor bathrooms. Of course, that meant someone would have to order new fixtures and, she supposed, have them shipped out to the island. Could those be ordered online?
Alex shone her flashlight into the holes in the walls and found some sections of old knob-and-tube wiring that should be stripped and updated. She also noted that most rooms had only a single electrical outlet. Maybe the building guidelines in France were different, but back home the code required at least one receptacle every six feet.
Unfortunately, electricity was the one area of home repair in which Alex was clueless. When they were kids, The Commander had rigged power for the cabin from solar panels and a small wind turbine, but he had routed the current through a confusing and unsafe tangle of wires. Over the years they had all been shocked by ungrounded outlets and fixtures, especially when storms blew through and charged the wires and metal surfaces with invisible energy that reached out, like the tentacles of an electrified octopus, making them wary of innocent-looking objects.
Alex inspected the building methodically, floor by floor. The third floor, which she was sharing with Jean-Luc, needed only a few ceiling lights and a paint job. The broad-plank wood floors would be fine after a good scrubbing, and a well-placed throw rug or two would make things cozier.
Alex paused at the doorway to the attic stairs and studied the stout wooden door Nat and the scumbag had taken off its hinges. The antique hardware throughout the house had been crafted with pride, and even the hinges on the attic door were beautiful. The lockset and knobs were aged brass, and the plates featured decorative scrollwork. It would be a shame to replace it.
Maybe one of the old keys she had found under the front step would fit this lock. If so, she could simply rehang the door and cross that off her to-do list. She made a mental note to check.
A dim, narrow staircase led up into one big room under the eaves. Alex kept her flashlight in hand as she flicked the switch, and light from a bare bulb flooded the space.
Off the Wild Coast of Brittany Page 17
