A Soldier's Tale

by M. K. Joseph

  Well, there she was by the window when a bell rang somewhere outside, distant, three times, ting ting ting. And again, ting ting ting. And the same a third time. She crossed herself quickly and looked down, like drawn into herself. I don’t think she realized I was turned and watching her, and she started when I says to her, What d’you do that for? I says.

  It is the ‘Angelus’, she says. I am saying my ‘Hail Marys’.

  You mean to say that you still pray, I says, after what you done, and with them waiting for you out there?

  I didn’t mean it to sound like taking the piss out of her, but that’s the way it came out. She took it calmly.

  All the more reason, she says. I have not stopped to be a Catholic.

  I was brought up to be a Primitive Methodist, I says. My granny brought me up in it, and she was a God-fearing old lady. I still think about it, and I know my Bible.

  All this time an idea was growing in my mind, though there was nothing I could do about it till later on.

  So then she began to get me some dinner. It was tinned Russian salad and bullybeef again, and if you’d given it to any army cook he’d have chucked it all into a dixie and made a nice brown stew out of it. But she served it up cold, with a bit of lettuce from the garden and a hard-boiled egg and a knob of cheese, and it tasted good. We’d got talking about what it was like in our childhoods, and I explained to her about my gran and grandad and our life in Dorset, because I wanted her to know how the countryside was familiar to me.

  I remember my grandmother, she says, she was always in black, a widow, very severe. She was an old peasant-woman always, she was born here in this cottage. Even though she married well, she was always a peasant in the heart.

  But the old lady was kind to her, and every Thursday afternoon when they had a half-holiday from school the old lady would take her out to the cinema, which they both enjoyed very much. Such films they saw. There was Emil Jannings as the emperor Nero, and when the army mutinied and all the chariots were driving on Rome to rescue the Christians from the lions, the audience drummed their feet on the floor and shouted, Plus vite, plus vite, faster, faster. He was in Faust too. And then there was a love-story, very sad. The lovers were parted, and she was dying, and he was dying too, shot by a sniper in the Indo-China war. And as they died one face faded into the other and back again, their identity in death at last.

  Afterwards they had tea in the pâtisserie in the Rue de l’Horloge, where there was this big old clock with its gold lettering. They had just two cakes each, every week different, for the pâtissier designed all kinds of little cakes shaped like cups of coffee with whipped cream, or small baskets full of potatoes, or hams, or mice, or hats, all made of sugar and paste of almonds. But she was a greedy little girl, and sometimes she ate Grandmother’s cakes also. They had good times, the old lady and the child, all by themselves. Perhaps she was afraid of her daughter-in-law, Belle’s mother, who considered herself rather superior. With her granddaughter she could be a girl again, enjoying movies and cakes like a child.

  She told me about these things and it was quite interesting and it seemed to make her happier. She was even smiling a bit, and those brown eyes of hers were very bright. We ate our lunch at the kitchen table with a blue-and-white-checked cloth to match her dress, all very proper. Afterwards we drank some more of that bad watery ersatz coffee and had a smoke.

  While I was finishing my fag, she went over to the sink to put the dishes in.

  O la, she says, the drain is blocked again. Everything in France is like that, nothing works any more.

  Leave it to me, I says. Got any tools, bits of wire and such?

  She showed me a cupboard where there was some old rusty tools and bits of wire and stuff. I went outside and saw where the pipe ran out into an open drain, and I could see that it was blocked up with old grease and all it needed was a good clean. I soon fixed it, and while I was about it I thought I might as well fix one of the window-shutters where the hinge just needed a new pin. I couldn’t help thinking how funny it was to be doing things like that, just as if I was at home and meaning things to go on year after year the way they do, when perhaps neither of us would be there by Monday evening.

  The weather was still dull, and as I finished the shutter the rain began to come down, not hard but steady, so that it brought out all the smells of the garden. I took my time finishing, so when I went inside I was wet enough. She came up to me and touched my hair and my shirt.

  You are wet, she says, take off your shirt, I will dry it.

  So I gave her my shirt and undervest and she made me sit down on a stool while she got a towel and began to dry my hair and shoulders. I could feel her close against me and those beautiful charlies of hers against my shoulder-blades. I could see that she was fancying me and I was pretty well fancying her, you can imagine.

  (Saul was smiling, embarrassed, as he said this, and his fingers slid gently down his arms, feeling the flat hard muscles, gently remembering what her fingers had done.)

  You like me? she says.

  I stood up and put my arms around her.

  It’s still daylight, I says.

  She laughs and says, That is a strange thing to say, and she was standing real close. The stool fell over with a crash, so we left it.

  Then, would you Adam-and-Eve it, there’s a knock on the door, small and polite.

  Merde alors, she says, and pulls back from me.

  Don’t worry, I says, it’s only old Charlie.

  She looked put out at this and I suppose well she might, the way we was going. But I thought to myself, It’s all right girl, it’ll keep till later. And honest, I’m not comfortable about it in broad daylight, if you get my meaning.

  Then there’s another polite little knock at the door.

  All right, Charlie, I hollers, though I laid my short knife and the sten handy just in case it wasn’t him after all or perhaps he wasn’t alone.

  But when I unlocked and opened the door there he was, like a good little bloke, standing on the step in his tin hat, with his groundsheet over his shoulders and the rain running off him a fair old treat.

  Hullo, Corp, he says, is it all right to come in? ’Cause I was standing there just in my trousers still.

  Hullo, Charlie boy, I says, you could of picked a better time, but never mind, come in and have some of this bad coffee.

  Thanks all the same, Corp, he says, but I’d sooner have a cuppa tea, if you don’t mind.

  So I made him a cup of the powdered tea out of the emergency pack, and while he drank it he gave me the odd bits of news, especially how there was a strong rumour that we’d be moving up again on Monday. One of the runners had heard it from the cooks at Div. HQ, and you know how cooks are pretty good at these things, they need to know about moves because of supplies.

  (As he told me this, Corporal Scourby nodded his head towards the group of cooks in the corner of the barn, in the shifting half-lights, and the biggest of them, frowning over his cards, the big fat domineering corporal cook with his broad jowly face and his hoarse voice in almost continuous monologue, a double for Long John Silver.)

  And speaking of cooks, Charlie brought out his small pack with a few more tins and a chocolate ration, and some rum. There was a rum ration to be issued that evening on account of the rain setting in, and the good little man had been to see Sergeant Grice and begged for a sort of advance on it, nigh on half a bottle. I let him have a good drop in his tea, and he was proper grateful.

  Now all this time Belle had been banging about in the bedroom very cross, but pretending to rearrange things, as a woman will. What with that and the news about the move, I thought this might be a good time to try out my little idea.

  So I says, Charlie, I says, would you mind staying on here a while and minding the shop? And as he looks a bit nervous at the bedroom door I says, I want to take her ladyship there for a bit of a walk, over the other way, it might do her some good.

  All right, Corp, he says, don’t you
worry about me. You’ll have no trouble with them Frenchies, ’cause I said ‘hullo’ to them as I come over the hill, and I gave them a tin of bully and some extra chocolate I had.

  Bless your kind little heart, I says, you’ll get your reward in heaven.

  It’s all right, Corp, he says.

  Then I hollers through the door, Belle, I says, better put a coat on and bring an umbrella if you got one, ’cause we’re going for a walk.

  There’s some more of the banging, then a stop, as if she’s waiting for me to answer something she’s said. So I rapped on the door pretty sharp, and I says, That’s enough o’ that. Now are you coming, or do I have to fetch you?

  Pretty soon she comes out with a dark coat on and a scarf tied over her red hair. She says hullo to old Charlie, but she’ll hardly bring herself to look at him. I’d got my greatcoat and beret on, and my sten over my shoulder. I took her by the arm and steered her out on to the path. There was a sprinkle of rain. She put up a big old peasant woman’s umbrella, enough to shelter the both of us.

  It wasn’t till we were walking down the road that she says, Well, where are you taking me?

  You’ll see, I says, I’ve got an idea that might do you a bit of good.

  (Now as I’m writing this, I’m suddenly aware of them, and I can see them trudging down the road in the summer rain. The road is sunken between overgrown banks and the tall hedges of the bocage country, and overhung by trees. The road has been pounded by heavy army traffic into dust which has powdered and whitened the banks and hedges, but is now being washed back by the rain. And the raindrops, which began by stamping tiny saucers into the beige dust, have now run together to form a crust which will later turn to deep mud. As they walk they look down at their feet, which are breaking the soft crust and depositing streaks of tan mud on his boots, her shoes.

  I can see them very clearly, walking down the road like some Saturday afternoon couple, out for a stroll but sullen, having quarrelled. His hand is on her arm, not lightly. A streak of red hair has worked loose and is plastered across her forehead. Her brown eyes are blind with anger and fear. She doesn’t understand this man who seems to want her quite crudely, yet can also turn away in apparent indifference. She fears the hooded violence in him, yet it excites her. What she fears much more is the others, the prowling American and perhaps more like him, and the implacable maquisards waiting to punish her as soon as she can no longer keep a protector. Whichever way she looks, it is a bitter world.

  He is thinking of her with concern, as a poor trapped thing that should be either despatched or released. Now that a Monday move is almost certain, he no longer feels that he can abandon her. A word, an idea has come into his mind. Sanctuary.)

  He said it to her, Sanctuary, that’s what we’re after.

  The abbey had a double iron gate set in an arch in a long whitewashed wall.

  Not here, she said, trying to pull her arm away from his firm grip.

  We’ll see, he answered, and gave an impatient tug at the long iron bell-rod. A bell clanked surprisingly near, a single ugly note, and a small bent man in a worn black soutane came out of the porter’s office.

  You speak English, parlay onglay? asked Saul.

  The old man shook his head.

  Tell him we want to see the gaffer, said Saul, you know, the boss, the chief.

  Écoutez, she said, ce monsieur est un officier anglais. It veut parler au père supérieur. Conduiseznous, s’il vous plaît.

  The old man nodded, mumbling. He opened the gate with a big old key and led the way across the courtyard in which the cobblestones were polished by rain.

  You are a fool to bring me here, she said. They will know who I am, what I did. There is danger here, just like outside.

  You don’t have to worry about danger while you’re with me, he said. And I thought these monasteries were supposed to be sort of holy places? You don’t seem to think much of your Church.

  Looking round at her, he saw that her face had that pinched look again.

  It has been a terrible war, she said. There are no sanctuaries left.

  The old man hurried on before them with his scuttling walk, across the cobbled yard, along an open corridor and into a wide inner courtyard. The buildings had severe white walls and steep-pitched slate roofs, the white walls darkened with rain and the slates gleaming with a leaden sheen. There was a chapel with an ornate scrolled front, and another building that might have been a hall of some kind. But the old man turned aside into a short colonnade, and led them into a room that opened off it.

  It seemed to be a visitor’s parlour, and little used of late. The old man whispered and muttered to himself as he clattered open the window-shutters and scuttled off, leaving the door open. The room was musty, damp and cold. Belle shivered. There were three high-backed chairs covered in faded tapestry; they sat on two of them. A nondescript book bound in black leather lay on a small table. Over an empty fireplace hung a huge old blackened picture of some female saint with dishevelled hair and gleaming eyes fixed ecstatically heavenward.

  You see, she said. It is cold, dead. No one should come here.

  Perhaps I was wrong, he said guardedly as he looked round the bare seedy room with contempt. I thought it was a chance we might take. I don’t know much about your Church really. It’s like seeking refuge in the house of Rimmon.

  She looked at him angrily, not understanding.

  There was a sound of firm sharp steps outside. Instead of the priest-figure that Saul expected a French officer stood for a moment in the doorway silhouetted against the pale daylight, and then entered the room. Surprised, Saul rose to his feet and snapped him up a smart salute, which the officer returned with courtesy. He was dressed in olive-drab uniform and cylindrical blue kepi, a shortish bulky figure. He removed his kepi and sat casually in the third chair, turning towards the light as he did so, and they could see that he was perhaps in his middle forties, with thick short greying hair and a pale square lined face.

  Madame, he said, nodding towards Belle. Monsieur le Caporal. Can I ’elp you?

  He spoke correct English, like the maquisard school master, but with a heavier accent, as if out of practice.

  Excuse me, said Saul, Sir, we was expecting the father superior.

  He glanced at Belle to see if he’d got it right, but she shook her head.

  I am the father superior ’ere, said the officer, glancing down at his uniform. Since the liberation (he gave it the French pronunciation) I am recalled to the flags.

  You’ll be a chaplain, I expect, Sir?

  The officer smiled and Saul could see how tired his face was.

  In my country, unlike yours, priests are not exempt from the conscription. I am a captain of artillery. It is more fitting.

  Like I seem to remember, Sir, said Saul, that in olden times your bishops fought like knights but carried maces, because that way they didn’t have to shed blood.

  As for that, Sir, I believe that we may smite the unrighteous. But for a priest it seems strange. Christ wasn’t a fighting man.

  But ’e was a friend of soldiers, the centurion ’e loved for ’is faith and discipline. And saints ’ave been soldiers.

  Joan of Arc, said Belle unexpectedly.

  Exactly. You are from Rouen, Madame?

  He looked across at her sharply.

  Yes, she answered in a low voice. When I was a child they took me to see that prison where they kept her before she was taken and burnt. Soldiers did that to her.

  The way I heard it, said Saul, it was some of your bishops.

  Collaborators, said the priest sharply. Like as today.

  The woman flushed.

  Collaborators, she said, it is easy to say, father. Les collabos, ça se dit si facilement, si on ne connaît pas les necessités, les terreurs.

  Mais nous sommes tous dans cette galère, ma pauvre fille, said the priest, and turned politely to Saul. There ’as been great—pression?

  He turned back to Belle, seeking a word.<
br />
  Pressure, she said.

  —pressure, he went on. Imagine, mon caporal, five years, men ’ad fear for the families, the friends. God forgive weakness. One must live. But it is another thing for some ones who—betray.

  He hesitated, glancing around the bleak room and the grey light that leaked in through the window, the defiant ugliness of austerity. Then he raised his tired hooded eyes to her almost shyly, ashamed of what he must say to her.

  I know, madame, he said, your name, your family. I know why the strike group is ’ere to seek you.

  Look, Sir, said Saul, she’s been too friendly with the Germans, she’s not denying that. I expect she’s not the only one. But those men out there, they’re going to kill her. If she’s really done something wrong, then put her in gaol, let her be tried.

  Who do you think are running the gaols? said Belle bitterly.

  Saul went on looking at the priest, trying to reach the compassion that he sensed in him.

  What about forgiveness? he asked, nodding towards the dark painting on the wall, the penitent with her lustrous weeping eyes raised to heaven in repentance and joy. What about the woman taken in adultery? And casting the first stone? Sir, he added as an afterthought.

  He had spoken quickly, and the priest hesitated, only half understanding.

  Belle translated in a low voice:…la femme adultère…sans péché…jette la pierre le premier.

  The priest sighed.

  If alone it might be so simple, he said. I know who you are, why you are ’ere. The Réseau Alésia.

  Belle caught her breath.

  There was a cell of the Résistance in Rouen. You betrayed it to your lover in the SS—

  Father, please, I swear—

  We think we know almost what was said, and when. I am résistant myself. We ’ave the reports. And more. He leaned forward in his uncomfortable chair, hands clasped together, staring at the floor.

  One of the dead was from the village, he said. They were strange people, the Boches, very methodic. They sent back the body for the burial. In a sealed coffin, naturally, a coffin of lead, and one of wood. Forbidden for to open.