Off the Wild Coast of Brittany

by Juliet Blackwell

  Natalie opened the lid to show him what they had found.

  “Costumes?” Jean-Luc said when he saw the contents. “What an odd thing to find. I was hoping for a treasure.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Natalie said.

  “Any idea what they were used for?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Natalie, though judging by the amount of dust on the crate, it had been there for a long time. Might it have been hidden during the war and later forgotten? There had to be a reason it was in that wall. Or maybe she’d read The Diary of Anne Frank too many times. As a girl, she had seen parallels between Frank’s life of constant hiding and fear, and her own.

  “Do you think the items in the crate could have belonged to someone who was deported by the Nazis?” suggested Alex.

  “According to what I read at the museum the other day,” said Jean-Luc, “there weren’t any Jews on the Île de Feme at the time of occupation.”

  “That’s what Christine said, too,” said Natalie. “But the Nazis went after a lot of people, not just the Jewish community.”

  “One of those women had pretty big feet,” said Jean-Luc. “This pair of boots is enormous.”

  “Her dress was large as well,” said Alex.

  “Healthy lifestyle, maybe, what with all those vitamins in the seaweed,” said Natalie as she perused the cookbook. There were numerous notes and arrows, names and dates and even weather reports, all written in an old-fashioned French script. It was going to take a while to decipher it all.

  “Now, these are some nice linens,” said Jean-Luc, holding up several pieces. “I can imagine the women of the family sitting around the fire, embroidering them.”

  “They look a bit stained,” said Alex, noting a number of rusty-looking spots. “That’s a shame.”

  “Those can often be removed with a proper washing. Old linens were meant to be handed down,” said Jean-Luc. “They’re quite durable. I would be happy to help launder them.”

  Natalie looked up from the book. “You’re volunteering to do our laundry now?”

  He shrugged. “My grandmother left drawers full of similar linens to my mother. I remember helping her launder them while she told me stories of growing up in France after the war. These linens will last many generations, unless . . . What do they call it? C’est la pourriture sèche. Is it . . . dry-rotted?”

  “Fabrics get dry rot?” asked Alex. “Like wood?”

  “I don’t know if it is the same process, but yes. Once the rot sets in, there is no saving it.”

  “How can you tell if there’s dry rot in cloth?”

  “You take it by both sides and pull hard, like this.” He demonstrated. The towel seemed sturdy enough. “If it is rotted, dust will fly and a strong person could pull it apart. This looks good.”

  Her eyes tired from the strain of trying to read the old, faded ink by the flickering firelight, Natalie decided to take the cookbook to her room to read when the storm passed and the electricity came back on. She removed the photograph of the uniformed soldiers and costumed women to add it to the big leather album in the parlor.

  “Check out what else I found in that cookbook,” said Natalie.

  Alex and Jean-Luc stood on either side of her, studying the strange photograph.

  “That looks like it was taken in the Abri du Marin, doesn’t it?” said Jean-Luc.

  “That’s the building where the museum is now?” asked Alex.

  He nodded. “I spent a lot of time at the museum my first day on the island. I just love local museums, don’t you?”

  Natalie had gone to the museum a few times when she first arrived on the island, to learn more about its people and culture. But it had been a while, and she had spent most of her time there learning about the island’s ancient way of life, the women gathering goémon, and the traditions of lifesaving and salvaging shipwrecks.

  “When do you think this was taken?” Alex asked.

  “Those soldiers are wearing German uniforms from the Second World War,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Was there a cabaret at the Abri during the war?” Natalie asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Jean-Luc. “But I recognize the ceiling beams. You see how they are shaped like this? Also, look at the shape of the windows. You know the island better than I do, of course, but I cannot think of another building that has those windows.”

  “Huh. I think you’re right. Before the Abri du Marin became a museum, it was the sailor’s hall. Would they have entertained people there?”

  “Not normally, I wouldn’t think so,” said Jean-Luc. “From the research I’ve done on the Second World War and the island, people were pretty old-fashioned, the women very modest. That was brought up during the inquests.”

  “What inquests?” asked Alex.

  “After the war there were investigations into those who collaborated with the enemy, with some women accused of collaboration horizontale—sleeping with the Germans,” said Jean-Luc. “In Paris it was common for women to be marched through the streets with their hair shavened as a sign of shame.”

  “Shaved or shaven,” murmured Alex. “Not shavened.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” said Jean-Luc.

  “But that seems incredibly unfair,” said Natalie. “I imagine the women were simply trying to survive or were coerced in some way.”

  Jean-Luc nodded. “I agree. I don’t believe wartime is known for being fair.”

  “And you’re saying they had inquests about the women here, on the Île de Feme?” asked Natalie.

  He nodded. “But nothing was ever proven.”

  “Maybe that’s why the islanders are so reticent to talk about it,” Natalie said to herself as much as to them.

  She looked up as the storm rattled the shutters and the wind whistled.

  “Well,” said Natalie, slipping the photograph into the back of the album, “now that we’ve discovered a treasure and a mystery, what do you say we get to work on these walls? I’ve written about enough for the day.”

  “You’ll join us?” Alex asked. “It’s bound to be very exciting: We’re going to repair plaster with mesh and mud.”

  “Mud?”

  “Very goopy plaster.”

  “Ah. Well, lead on, boss. Let’s work for a bit, and then I’ll rustle up something for dinner.”

  “‘Rassel up’?” repeated Jean-Luc. “I do not know this word.”

  Alex patted him on the shoulder. “Like cowboys stealing cattle, my friend.”

  “Ki-yi-yippety,” Jean-Luc said with a grin. “I heard that in a movie once.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Violette

  I was sitting on my favorite rocks, weary from the morning spent gathering goémon, staring down into the pools of water and up at the lighthouse, alone with my thoughts, when I spotted Rainer approaching. He was negotiating the rocky shore carefully and favoring his bad knee.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Rainer said. “Am I interrupting your solitude?”

  I shook my head. “It’s your island now, after all.”

  “We both know that’s not true.” He took a seat on a rock not far from me. “And never fear. We Germans will be leaving, eventually. Whether it will be soon enough to please you, I can’t say.”

  A moment passed. I enjoyed the sensation of the fresh ocean breeze and the gentle October sunshine on my face. But there was a definite chill in the air, making me wonder what to expect in the coming winter. It almost never snows on the Île de Feme, but the violent winter storms and perpetual dampness could be bone-chilling and seem never-ending. Without fresh produce from our gardens, or enough fuel to burn in our hearths . . . it was hard to imagine how we would survive.

  “L’air, la mer, la terre,” I said. “That’s what the islanders say, that we have it all here: air, ocean, land.”

  �
��And you don’t agree?”

  “I love the beauty of the island,” I said.

  “But your heart is unreasonable.”

  I smiled. “I suppose so. Sometimes . . . sometimes I feel like I was born with a hollow place inside, and a wind blows through it, just as surely as the wind blows off the ocean. It is as though I can hear my own heart whistling, a hollow place where something is missing.”

  I stopped, suddenly feeling silly. “I am being foolish.”

  “Not at all,” Rainer said. “I have felt something similar, all of my life.”

  I studied his face for a moment, to make sure he wasn’t mocking me. “What do you do about it?”

  “One endures the best one can,” he said with a shrug. “I look at the lighthouse and wonder, did God make the lighthouse or create the storms?”

  “My mamm-gozh used to say that the storms are here to remind us to seek out a lighthouse. She said you couldn’t even see the beacon of light until it was dark, and then you couldn’t help but see it.”

  “She sounds like a very wise woman.”

  “She was. I miss her.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Just before Germany invaded Poland. I think . . . she couldn’t bear another war. She lost a son in the last one. She predicted her death, knew it was coming.”

  “How so?”

  “She used to bury things, little charms. Then one day she found them dug up—I’m sure it must have been the island dogs, but she insisted the spells had been broken. That it was an omen.”

  “Perhaps it was.”

  “You believe in such things?”

  Rainer gave a low chuckle. “I like to think I’m like my father, openminded.”

  “My father isn’t,” I said. “Still, I would have gone to fight with him and my brother, if I could have.”

  “I believe it,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Have you had any news?”

  “As you know, we haven’t had letters from our Anglais for quite some time. It is a terrible thing, not to know. It makes us suffer even more than we already do.”

  We sat for a while in silence. It was strange, being with Rainer. Despite his enemy uniform, despite the fact that I was a married woman, it felt comfortable being with him, as easy as sitting with my brother—easier, actually. It occurred to me that it might not do for anyone to see us together like this, alone, far from the village. But the islanders rarely came out this way unless they were going to the lighthouse or to collect goémon. Henri Thomas wasn’t a gossip, and we women had gathered the goémon this morning.

  “My father passed away several years ago,” said Rainer. “I suppose it was just as well. He would have hated what the new regime has done to our country. He was very modern in his perspective, very tolerant.”

  “Like you?”

  He nodded. “Like me.”

  “You mentioned he ran a cabaret. That must have been a fascinating way to grow up. You probably met many interesting creative people. I envy you that.”

  Rainer glanced around, as though to be sure no one was spying on us. “The Nazis shut down the cabaret. Said it was immoral.”

  “Why?”

  “They have strict ideas about what is ‘appropriate.’”

  “I only know what little I can glean from occasional newspapers, or gossip,” I ventured. “But your leader, Hitler, and his party . . . they seem rather harsh.”

  He let out a humorless chuckle. “Yes, one could say that.”

  “And is your mother alive? She must miss you terribly.”

  He hesitated. “She is still alive.”

  “Are you . . .” I trailed off, searching for words. “Are you two close?”

  “Not particularly, no,” he said. “She and I, we’re very different people. She never cared for the cabaret, or the artistic life. She has become a devoted follower of Hitler and his ideals.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I am regular army. We are not all members of the Nazi party.”

  “But I’ve seen you salute, Heil Hitler.”

  “I want to survive, madame. Surely you can understand that.”

  “That is something every islander understands,” I said.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” Rainer asked.

  I hesitated, unsure what he might ask, but nodded.

  “Why don’t you wear the jibilinnen and the robe noire, like the others?”

  I relaxed. “I have always seen myself as a part of the island, but also partly not. I want to go other places, see things other than what is here.”

  “You want to be part of the modern world?”

  “Yes. Or, at least, I used to want that,” I said, pushing the hair out of my eyes. I tied my hair back with a ribbon while working, but the ocean breeze always undid my best efforts. “Lately the modern world has lost much of its appeal.”

  “I’ve seen these rings,” Rainer said, touching the ring on my left hand. “So unusual.”

  “It’s called a claddagh. It’s a traditional Celtic design.”

  “Is it true that they aren’t always wedding rings? That the way you wear them matters?”

  I nodded, switching the ring to my right hand to demonstrate. “The point of the heart facing out, like this, on the right hand, means one is open to relationships. Turned around so the tip of the heart points to the hand means one’s heart is taken. On the left hand, the point up means that the wearer is engaged, and down, like this, that she’s married.”

  “You say ‘she’—don’t men wear them as well?”

  I shook my head. “Our men don’t wear rings, only the women. It’s a Celtic tradition, and we’re one of the Celtic worlds.”

  “Interesting,” he said, his eyes lingering on me.

  I felt the need to say something in response to the strange sense of closeness I believed we were both experiencing.

  “Rainer, I appreciate your friendship, but . . . I have to make it very clear to you that I am a married woman, and even if I weren’t—”

  He threw back his head and let out a loud bark of laughter. “Madame, you have nothing to fear from me in that regard. I promise you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, I found a spot of blood on my underdrawers.

  Competing emotions surged through me. This baby was hope; this baby was acceptance. It offered joy to so many, and I had been moved to tears when I felt it move within me. But this child also tied me forever to the island, to Marc, and to a way of life I wasn’t sure I wanted.

  But it also connected me to Salvator.

  I didn’t want to worry my mother, so I went to see my sister, Rachelle, who lived with her in-laws on rue du Gueveur. Rachelle was my senior by eight years, had three children, had lost one baby in infancy, and now was pregnant with her fourth. She was still bitter about her husband going to England with the rest of the island men; she thought he should have stayed to take care of their growing family.

  Rachelle was a lot like our mother in her approach to life, though she looked more like our mamm-gozh, small and dark haired. I was the opposite, taking after my mother in looks—I was slim but sturdy, with honey-colored hair and brown eyes. But I was so much more like my grandmother in personality. Now, more than ever, I understood why Mamm-gozh had buried things, hoping to work her magic. I only wished I had paid more attention to her spells and incantations when she was alive, had learned from her the workings of the moon: how it calls the ocean, and bends its arc to come closer to the sea.

  “It’s usually not a worry,” Rachelle said as she served me chamomile tea with a dollop of precious honey. “I had a little bleeding last time, when I was expecting Agnès.”

  I started crying, appalled at my inability to control my own emotions.

  “The crying’s normal, too,” s
he said with a sigh. “But then, I’m no expert. Now that Mamm-gozh is gone, there is only one person on the island who might know for sure.”

  “But . . . Madame Thérèse charges dearly for her services.”

  Rachelle pressed her lips together in annoyance, handed me several coins she had squirreled away, and wished me luck.

  Madame Thérèse was the village “cunning woman,” the closest thing we had to a doctor. She was ancient. She knew things. I remembered when I was a little girl and announced that my mamm-gozh was the smartest woman on all of the island. Mamm-gozh smiled and said, “No, ma petite fille. Madame Thérèse is a louzaourian, a healer. She is the wisest of us all.”

  When I was nine years old I became very ill and my grandmother brought me to Madame Thérèse. She fed me a wretched-tasting tonic, easing it along with a spoonful of honey. I cried when my grandmother left me there in her cottage, but Madame Thérèse tended to me for nearly a week as I tossed and turned and sweated through sheet after sheet. When the fever broke and I started feeling better, I learned that Madame Thérèse dealt in the twenty-six sacred herbs, though she wouldn’t tell anyone what they were. I knew some of them because they grew on the island: vervain, eyebright, yarrow, tansy, chamomile, dandelion, mint. Others were mushrooms of various kinds, and there were also ugly, twisted, dried things kept in jars on her shelves, or hanging in drying bundles from her rafters.

  “The herbs correspond to points on the body,” Madame Thérèse explained in response to my curiosity. “Vervain is the head, Saint-John’s-wort is the blood, mugwort at the waist, and so on.”

  I was fascinated by the herbs, even the smelliest ones, and would have willingly become her apprentice had my mother not come to take me home.

  Much later I learned that my parents had been furious with Mamm-gozh for taking me to Madame Thérèse, and that they had to pay her fee to get me back, as though I were a hostage.