The gendarme said nothing; he simply stared down at his lists and his rubber stamps. The air was thick with malice.
“In particular, I am aware of your heroism, Soldat Maillard,” Pradelle said with the flicker of a condescending smile.
He looked Albert up and down scornfully, taking his time, then focused on his face. Albert felt as though the ground were slipping away beneath him, as though he were standing on quicksand, and it was his panic that made him react.
“That’s the, uh . . . the thing about war,” he stammered.
All around them there was a deafening silence. Pradelle tilted his head over this notion.
“Every . . . every man reveals his true nature,” Albert managed to complete his sentence.
A half smile played on Pradelle’s thin lips which, most of the time, were merely a horizontal line that twitched like an automaton. Albert realized why he felt uneasy: Capitaine Pradelle did not blink, ever; this was what gave him that corrosive stare. Animals like that have no tears, he thought, then swallowed hard and looked away.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I kill him, run him through with a bayonet. Sometimes we’re both there, you and me, and we give him what for, I can tell you. But sometimes I find myself in front of the court-martial and then the firing squad, and I know I should refuse the blindfold, that I should be brave, I suppose. But I don’t, I take the blindfold, because there is only one man on the firing squad and it’s him, and he smiles smugly as he aims his rifle . . . Even when I’m awake, I dream of killing him. But mostly when I hear that bastard’s name, I think about you, my friend. I know I shouldn’t say these things . . .
The gendarme clears his throat.
“Right, well . . . If you’re prepared to vouch for him, capitaine . . .”
The clamor of voices starts up again, soft at first, but growing louder.
When Albert finally looks up again, Pradelle has disappeared, and the gendarme is once again hunched over his lists.
Since morning, everyone has been yelling and screaming. The Demobilization Center has been a bedlam of shouts and angry roars. Then, as the day waned, this great dying organism seemed overcome by despair. The counters closed, the officers went to eat while tired noncoms, slumped on sacks, blew on their coffee out of habit though it was barely lukewarm. The desks were cleared away. Until tomorrow.
The trains that had not come would not arrive now.
Nothing more would happen today.
Maybe tomorrow.
But actually, that’s all we’ve been doing since the end of the war: waiting. Being here is a bit like being in the trenches. There is an enemy we cannot see, but one that weighs on us. We’re dependent on that. They’re much the same, the enemy, the war, the bureaucracy, the army, they’re all things that no one understands and no one can stop.
Soon, it was dark. Those who had already eaten sat daydreaming and digesting, sparked up cigarettes. Exhausted from a day spent struggling like the very devil for precious little, they felt patient, magnanimous; now that everything was calm, they shared the blankets, gave away bread when there was some left over. They took off their shoes, and though it may have been the light, their faces seemed more drawn. Everyone had aged. The weariness, the interminable bureaucratic process, it seemed as though they would never be done with this war. Some started up a card game, wagering boots two sizes too small that they had been unable to exchange; they laughed, told jokes. They were heavyhearted.
. . . this is how war ends, my poor Eugène, with an oversized dormitory full of worn-out men the army can’t even fucking manage to send home. No one to talk to you or even shake your hand. The newspapers promised us triumphal arches; instead we’re crowded into barns open to the four winds. The “sincere thanks of a grateful France” (I read that in Le Matin, word for word, I swear) has turned into endless wrangling: they try to bilk us out of fifty-two francs of our savings; they begrudge us the clothes, the soup, the coffee. They treat us like thieves.
“Back where I’m from, when we get home,” one man said, relighting his cigarette, “there’ll be one hell of a party . . .”
No one said anything. Everyone was uncertain.
“Where you from?”
“Saint-Viguier-de-Soulage.”
“Oh . . .”
No one had ever heard of the place, but it had a nice ring to it.
I’ll leave it at that for today. I’m thinking of you, my dear comrade, and I can’t wait to see you, it’s the first thing I plan to do when I get back to Paris—after I go to see my Cécile, obviously, I’m sure you understand. Take care of yourself and write if you can, if not I’m happy with the drawings—you know I’ve kept them all? Who knows, when you’re a great artist, I mean a famous artist, maybe they’ll make me rich.
A hearty handshake from your friend,
Albert
After a long night spent in resignation, morning came, and everyone stretched. Day had hardly broken and already the noncoms were hammering away, nailing up new placards. Everyone rushed to see. Trains were confirmed for Friday, two days from now. Two trains for Paris. Men scanned the lists for their own names and those of their comrades. Albert bided his time as soldiers elbowed him in his ribs, trod on his feet. Eventually he pushed through the crowd and ran a finger down the first list, then the second, shuffled sideways, third list, and finally, there he was, Albert Maillard, that’s me, night train.
Friday, departing 2200 hours.
Given the time it would take to have his transportation papers stamped and get to the station with the others, he would have to leave at least an hour before. He thought about writing to Cécile but quickly changed his mind. There was no point. There were already too many false reports.
Like many soldiers, he felt a surge of relief. Even if the information was later contradicted, even if turned out to be wrong, it felt good.
Albert left his belongings with a Parisian who was sitting writing a letter so he could go out and make the most of a sunny spell. The rains had stopped during the night, and the men wondered whether maybe the weather was taking a turn for the better; they scanned the clouds and everyone offered a forecast. And that morning, though they still had more than enough to worry about, every man was conscious of how good it was to be alive. Along the barriers erected to mark the boundaries of the camp, dozens of soldiers were already standing around, as they did every morning, chewing the fat with the villagers who came to see what was going on, with the kids who wanted to touch a real rifle, with strangers who showed up God knows how from God knows where. With people. It felt strange, standing around like that chatting over the barricades with real people. Albert still had a little tobacco, something he was never parted from. Fortunately, since a lot of the men were exhausted, lying around on their greatcoats, trying to summon the energy to get up, it was easier to get a hot drink now than later in the day. He wandered over to the barriers and stood, smoking a cigarette and sipping his coffee. Above him, white clouds scudded across the sky. He walked as far as the entrance to the camp, chatted a bit with the men here and there. But he steered clear of the bulletin boards, determined to wait calmly until his name was called, he was tired of rushing around, they would have to send him home eventually. In her last letter, Cécile had enclosed a telephone number where he could leave a message when he knew the day he would be arriving. Ever since she had sent it, he has been itching to call the number, to talk to Cécile, tell her how much he longed to be home, to be with her at last, to tell her so many other things, but the number was just a means of getting a message to her, the telephone belonged to Monsieur Mauléon, who owned the ironmongers on the corner of the rue des Amandiers. Besides, first he would have to find a telephone in order to make the call, and he would be better off going home first.
There was a good crowd at the barriers. Albert allowed himself a second cigarette and strolled around. There were people from the nearby town gossiping with the soldiers. They had long faces. Women searching desperately for their son, their husband, holdin
g out photographs; they might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack. The fathers, when they came, hung back. It was always the wives who did the hard work, asked the questions, persevered in their silent struggle, getting up every morning with a small sliver of hope still to be used up. The men had long since stopped hoping. The soldiers were evasive, they nodded vaguely, all the photographs looked the same.
Albert felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and instantly he felt his gorge rise, his heart begin to hammer.
“Ah, Soldat Maillard, I’ve been looking for you!”
Pradelle grasped his arm and forced him to walk.
“Follow me!”
Albert was no longer under the command of Pradelle, but such was his air of authority, he trotted after him clutching his bag.
They walked along the barriers.
The young woman was shorter than they were. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, perhaps, Albert thought, not particularly pretty, but she had a certain charm. Actually, it was difficult to tell. Her coat looked like ermine; Albert could not be sure. Cécile had once shown him a coat just like it in the window of some high-priced shop, and he had felt miserable that he could not go in and buy her one. The young woman was wearing a matching muff and a cloche hat with a wide brim. The sort of woman with the means to dress simply without looking poor. She had an open face, a network of fine wrinkles at the corners of her large dark eyes, long lashes, and a small mouth. Not pretty, no, but well presented. And besides it was immediately clear that she was a strong-minded woman.
She was upset. In her gloved hands she held a piece of paper that she unfolded and held out to Albert.
To hide his nervousness, he took the page and pretended to read, though there was no need: he already knew what it was. A form letter. His eye caught the words “died for his country.” “CAUSE: injuries received on the field of battle. . . .” “Interred nearby.”
“Mademoiselle was asking about one of your comrades who was killed in action,” the capitaine said coldly.
The young woman handed him a second piece of paper. He almost dropped it but caught himself in time. She let out a little “oh!”
It was his own handwriting.
Madame, Monsieur,
My name is Albert Maillard, a friend of your son Édouard, and it is my sad duty to inform you that he died . . .
He handed the letters back, and the woman held out a soft, cold hand.
“My name is Madeleine Péricourt. I am Édouard’s sister . . .”
Albert nodded. She looked a lot like Édouard. Something about the eyes. Neither of them knew what to say next.
“I’m so sorry,” Albert said.
“Mademoiselle came to see me at the suggestion of Général Morieux,” Pradelle explained and turned to her. “He is a great friend of your father’s, I believe?”
Madeleine acknowledged this with a curt nod, not taking her eyes off Albert, whose stomach lurched when he heard the général’s name; in a wave of panic he wondered how this would end and instinctively clenched his buttocks and tried to control his bladder. Pradelle, Morieux. The trap was about to snap shut.
“In fact, Mlle Péricourt would like to visit her brother’s grave. But she doesn’t know where he is buried . . .”
Capitaine d’Aulnay-Pradelle laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of Soldat Maillard, forcing him to turn and look at him. It looked like a friendly gesture, Madeleine probably thought he was terribly compassionate, this bastard who was staring at Albert with a smile as muted as it was menacing. Mentally, Albert made the connection between the names Morieux and Péricourt and the phrase “a friend of your father.” It was obvious that the capitaine was reinforcing his contacts and it was therefore in his best interests to please this woman rather than to tell her the truth he was all too aware of. He had caught Albert in his lie about Édouard Péricourt’s death, and from his manner, it was clear that he intended to exploit the situation for as long as it was to his advantage.
Mlle Péricourt had eyes only for Albert; she gazed at him in wild hope, knitting her brow as though urging him to say something. He shook his head wordlessly.
“Is it far from here?” she asked.
A pretty voice. And when Albert did not reply, Pradelle said patiently:
“The lady asked whether it’s far from here, the cemetery where you buried her brother Édouard.”
Madeleine gave the officer a questioning glance. Is he a simpleton, this soldier? Does he understand what we are saying? She crumpled the letter in her hand. Her eyes darted from Albert to the capitaine and back again.
“Quite far . . . ,” Albert said.
Madeleine looked relieved. “Quite far” clearly meant not too far. It also meant: I remember where he is buried. She took a deep breath. Someone knew. He could tell it had taken great effort on her part to get this far. She did not allow herself to smile—obviously, it would not have been appropriate—but she was calm.
“Could you tell me how to get there?”
“The thing is . . . ,” Albert said quickly, “It wouldn’t be easy to find . . . It’s out in the countryside, there are very few landmarks . . .”
“Maybe you could take us there then?”
“Now?” Albert said anxiously, “It’s just that . . .”
“Oh, no, not right now . . .”
Madeleine Péricourt’s response had been too quick, and she regretted it immediately. She looked to Capitaine Pradelle for support.
And at this point, a curious thing happened: suddenly everyone knew what this was really about.
One ill-judged word now, and it was all over. And that cast a very different light on everything.
Pradelle, inevitably, was quickest off the mark.
“The thing is, Mlle Péricourt would like to take some time to reflect by her brother’s graveside . . .”
He stressed every syllable as though each contained some independent meaning.
To reflect. Well, well. And why not now?
Why wait?
Because what she wanted to do would take time, and most of all it required discretion.
For months now, families had been asking for the return of the remains of soldiers buried at the front. Give us back our children. But there was nothing to be done. There were too many of them. The north of France was dotted with makeshift, hastily dug graves because the dead could not wait; nor would the rats. As soon as armistice was declared, the families began to clamor, but the government stubbornly refused to concede. Thinking about it, Albert could see it was logical. If the government authorized private exhumations, within a few days hundreds of thousands of families armed with shovels and spades would have dug up half the country—imagine the chaos—to say nothing of transporting thousands of rotting corpses, shipping coffins through railways stations, loading them onto trains that, at the moment, ran barely once a week between Paris and Orléans—it was impossible. And so, from the beginning, the answer had been no. But it was a difficult decision for the families to accept. The war was over; they did not understand, they persevered. For its part, the government could scarcely manage to demobilize the soldiers who had survived. It could not begin to consider organizing the exhumation and transportation of two hundred, three hundred, perhaps even four hundred thousand bodies, no one knew exactly. For the families, it posed a dilemma.
There were those who sought refuge in their grief—relatives who had crossed the country to stand by graves in godforsaken cemeteries and who found they could not bring themselves to leave.
But other families remained stubbornly determined; they refused to be swindled by a government of incompetents. They took a different approach. Édouard’s family was one such. Mme Péricourt had not come to reflect at her brother’s graveside.
She had come to fetch him.
She had come to dig him up, to take him home.
Albert had heard stories. There was a whole traffic in such things, people who specialized. All one needed was a truck, a shovel, a pick, and a strong st
omach. You found the grave, went there at night, worked fast.
“So, when might it be possible for Mademoiselle Péricourt to go and reflect by her brother’s grave, Soldat Maillard?” Capitaine Pradelle said.
“Tomorrow, if you like,” Albert said in a toneless voice.
“Tomorrow would be perfect,” the young woman said, “I have a car. How long do you think it will take to get there?”
“Difficult to say. An hour, maybe two . . . Maybe longer . . . ,” Albert said. “What time would suit you?”
Madeleine hesitated. And since neither Albert nor the capitaine reacted, she said her piece.
“I could come and pick you up at 6:00 p.m. What do you think?”
What did he think?
“You want to visit the grave at night?”
The words had slipped out. He had not been able to stop himself. It was cowardly.
Seeing Madeleine lower her eyes, he regretted it. Not that she was embarrassed by his question, no, she was calculating. She was young, but she had her feet firmly planted on the ground. And, since she was rich—that much was obvious from the ermine, the little cloche hat, the perfect teeth—she was soberly considering the situation and wondering how much she should offer for the soldier’s help.
Albert felt sick to his stomach that anyone might think he would accept money for such a thing . . . Before she could open her mouth, he said:
“All right. Tomorrow.”
He turned and made his way back to the camp.
9
And honestly, I’m sorry to bring this up again . . . But I need you to be absolutely sure. Sometimes we make decisions in the heat of the moment, out of anger, or disappointment, or grief, sometimes our emotions get the better of us, you know what I’m saying. I’m not even sure how we might do it now, but I know we could find a way . . . What we have done can probably be undone. I’m not trying to influence your decision, I am just asking that you think about your parents. I feel sure that if they saw you as you are now, they would love you as much as ever, if not more. Your father, I’m sure, must be a brave and a loving man, imagine the joy he would feel if he knew you were alive. I’m not trying to sway you. Whatever you decide is what we will do, I simply think that these are decisions not to be taken lightly. You sent me a sketch of your sister Madeleine, she is a lovely young woman, think what pain she must have felt when she heard that you were dead and what a miracle it would be for her now . . .
The Great Swindle Page 10
