Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  ‘Bunch of bastards,’ Patrick said with a scowl.

  ‘You have to be fair though,’ Denise said. ‘This is war. And remember how worried we were when the Germans arrived? We imagined they’d set about attacking and raping us all, but instead they handed out sandwiches and fruit pies, and real cigarettes. Besides, they’re so tall … so blond and handsome compared with our drunken soldiers who just put down their weapons and surrendered.’

  ‘Surrendered?’ Ghislaine said. ‘Would you have preferred them to go on until every last one of them was slaughtered or taken prisoner? Is that what you wanted, Denise?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Denise said. ‘Anyway I’m not worried, Marshal Pétain is a good man. He’ll save France.’

  ‘You really believe all those deluded collabos?’ Patrick said. ‘Who go berserk and jump up in ovation at every word old man Pétain utters; that he’s some spiritual being with magical powers?’

  ‘He saved us once before,’ Denise said. ‘When he saw the Germans off at Verdun. He might be an old grandpa now but surely he can do it again. In any case, Monsieur-unpatriotic-Roussel, we have nowhere else to turn.’

  ‘You’re nothing but a Nazi lèche-cul,’ Patrick went on. ‘And like most Nazi arse-lickers you’ll realise the truth about Pétain and his government and this occupation soon enough. That’s if you’ve got any kind of brain at all.’

  Denise muttered something and skulked off towards the city boys.

  Yes, it seemed a nasty stink curled in the nostrils of most people these days –– besides ignorant ones like Denise Grosjean –– a contempt for our conquerors that had begun the day we heard General de Gaulle’s BBC broadcast: Whatever happens, the flame of French Resistance must not and shall not die.

  Increasing resistance activity had nurtured that scorn, which seemed to have risen to almost fever pitch since the Germans had chosen to occupy Lucie-sur-Vionne, while only patrolling neighbouring areas. “To keep an eye on our suspicious activities,” was the whisper that skirted the village. To the casual observer, Lucie-sur-Vionne might seem a sleepy hollow with its shops, gossiping housewives and bustling square, but it seemed the Germans had got word it was a place of secret meetings, of propaganda and smiling deceit.

  ‘Any more letters from your father?’ Miette said, as I shared out slices of my mother’s walnut cake, made from the flour and sugar she secreted beneath her herbal room floorboards.

  ‘Not a word since his first two letters. It’s very worrying.’

  Despite the hot breeze gusting down from the hills west of Lucie I shivered, recalling the day Papa announced he was volunteering for work in Germany. He’d told my mother they were promising to pay well, but Maman shook her head as if she didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Miette said, smoothing her skirt down over her bare knees. ‘Whatever do the Boche want with men like your father?’

  ‘They lost so many of their own in Russia,’ Olivier said, ‘they’re now taking foreigners for the Reich war effort.’

  ‘Didn’t your father go over on the Relève plan?’ Ghislaine said.

  ‘Yes, but the one prisoner the Germans release for every three skilled workers sent over, like my father,’ Patrick said, ‘is always old and incompetent, or sick. The Germans are only glad to be rid of such people. And on top of that, we haven’t seen a single franc of his wages.’

  ‘I just hope it’s not too awful in the camp,’ I said. ‘I can’t bear thinking of poor Papa breaking his back for the Boche. If only he’d write and let us know he’s all right.’

  ‘Maybe they stopped allowing workers to write home?’ Miette said.

  ‘Or there’s something wrong with the postal service,’ Ghislaine said, with a thorny glance at Denise.

  ‘What kind of people don’t let workers write home to their families?’ I said. ‘They even let dangerous prisoners send letters these days.’

  ‘My father would’ve been taken for Reich work too,’ Olivier said. ‘If my parents hadn’t fled across the Channel to Papa’s English family.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’ Miette said. ‘Surely they wanted you to?’

  Olivier shrugged. ‘Oh yes, my mother pleaded with me to leave, but I told her I had things to do here in Lucie. Besides,’ he said, with a wink at Uncle Claude. ‘I couldn’t leave this old man on his own with such a rowdy tribe of kids.’

  I gave Olivier a small smile of admiration, wishing I too could summon the strength to stand up against my own mother. Like the war that raged across Europe, I ached to flee the smaller-scale battle that had entangled my mother and me for as far back as I could remember.

  I grabbed the rake again, my yearning to fight with my brother and Olivier, to rid Lucie of our occupiers, mounting with each clump of grass I heaped into the cart.

  ***

  ‘We should hurry,’ I said, as Patrick and I scurried along the ridge, the Wolf family trailing behind us in a thin, straggly line. I kept glancing up at the red-wine sky, the air pressing like dough around me.

  ‘A decent storm might break this drought at least,’ Patrick shouted, over the angry wind that had burst from the hills.

  The cool gusts were indeed a welcome respite, I only hoped the wind wouldn’t mask a whistled warning from Olivier, our lookout posted on the fringe of woods behind L’Auberge.

  The wind funnelled along the valley, hurling itself at us in raw bursts, snapping my skirt against my calves. Leaves, torn from branches, littered the ground and the birds seemed frantic, wheeling low in the sky and plummeting into tiny pockets of stagnant air.

  Hard splotches of rain began to fall as we caught sight of Olivier, his thumb held high in the “all clear” sign.

  ‘Will we live at this farm all the time now, Papa?’ Talia said.

  ‘No, Talia …. just for a while.’

  ‘We’ll find fun things for you to do, Talia,’ I said. ‘You’ll see.’

  I was relieved there was no sign of Maman, as we passed by her kitchen garden; no snarling face at the window. She must be busy in her bedroom. I would tell her about the Wolfs later. Once we’d settled them into the attic she might be less likely to make a fuss.

  ‘I want to go home, Maman,’ Jacob said, his face crumpling. ‘I don’t want to play hide and seek in the woods anymore.’

  ‘Hush, everything will be all right,’ Sabine said, stroking her child’s dark curls from his forehead. ‘Maman’s here.’

  The rain began to fall like reams of silver paper, lightning tearing yellow streaks through the sky. The little boy screamed and buried his face in his mother’s neck.

  ‘Quickly. Inside, everybody.’ Patrick opened the ivy-wreathed gate and we hurried round to the courtyard. The pig gave a welcoming grunt and Gingembre neighed softly from her stable.

  Maman still did not appear as we made the Wolf family comfortable in the attic with towels, clean clothes, straw mattresses and blankets. I took up bread and cheese, and a pitcher of milk for the children. Patrick dragged out the box of toy soldiers Papa had carved for him when he was young.

  ‘These are for you, Jacob,’ he said, sliding the box in front of the boy.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll love playing with them,’ I said. ‘Like Patrick did when he was your age.’

  Jacob peered into the box and picked out a single soldier in a red coat. He barely glanced at the rest of the collection.

  ‘Can you get my father some paints, Céleste?’ Talia said. ‘And brushes and paper?’

  Her father’s brow creased. ‘Talia!’

  ‘Papa’s a great artist,’ the girl went on, ignoring her father. ‘He uses Gouache. Me too, I like to paint. And Maman’s a ballerina. She dances in stage-shows.’

  ‘Please excuse my daughter, Céleste,’ Max said. ‘She’s a little … over-eager. Really, we’re all so exhausted from the rough living, we’ll be happy just to drop straight to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll try my best to find you some art supplies, Talia,’ I said, wonderin
g wherever I could get such things. ‘Now remember, if you hear me cough twice, from the bottom of the attic ladder, just loosen the panel I showed you, and duck into the alcove.’

  ‘Might it come to that?’ Sabine said. ‘Surely we’re putting you and your family at great peril?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, with far more confidence than I felt. ‘Just a precaution. The police have no reason at all to come up to L’Auberge.’

  ***

  ‘Where did you two skive off to after the harvest?’ Maman said, as I slid the diced courgettes into boiling water. ‘And where is your brother? He knows the hen house needs fixing, or foxes will rip those poor beasts to shreds.’

  ‘Still out with Olivier,’ I said. ‘And we found a family hiding from the Gestapo in the woods,’ I went on, as if it was some routine task. ‘We brought them here, up to the attic.’

  She planted her hands on her aproned hips and glared at me. ‘You what? What people? Are you mad, girl? What if those Gestapo thugs come here? You know what happens to people who harbour those types. We’ll be lined up against a wall and shot. Shot! Do you understand? Or they’ll send us to a slave camp in some German wasteland. And you know nobody comes back from the camps.’

  Had she said that to spite me, as if she knew how much I dreamed of my father coming home? Like her barbed eyes could see right into my heart, and the hollow that deepened every day since the Germans had stolen my ally, my friend; the only one apart from Patrick who made life bearable with her.

  ‘How can you say that? He will come back.’ In that instant, as I grabbed the pot to strain the vegetables, I didn’t think it possible to feel more resentment than was wedged in my chest.

  In my agitated haste, water splashed and scalded my fingers. I shrieked and dropped the pot, which clattered into the stone sink. I rushed over to the pail of water and sank my hand into it.

  Maman didn’t ask to see the burnt fingers; she didn’t seem to care that I was in pain. She never uttered a word as I told her about the Wolfs’ escape and their hideout in the old witch’s hut. A fly buzzed around her head but she didn’t wave it away; she simply gaped at me with her hateful glare as if she could not believe, or grasp, what I was saying.

  ‘Get that family out of here,’ she said, finally swatting at the fly with her tea towel. ‘I won’t conceal strangers in this house.’

  ‘But they deserve to feel safe.’

  ‘Safe? You must be joking, Célestine. Don’t you think I know what goes on in the cellar?’ Another sharp flap of the tea towel. ‘What your brother, Olivier, and their communist friends get up to? Someone will find out soon enough about their … their activities, and tell the police. No, L’Auberge is not a safe place at all. Besides, why can’t your sister take this family?’

  ‘She might. I need to speak to Félicité first, but for now I want them to feel safe and welcome here. Besides, Patrick and his friends are not communists, and nobody will say anything. Most people in Lucie are proud of our resistors. They’ve had enough of Pétain and Vichy; enough of the Germans. Everyone wants to help get rid of our occupiers.’

  Maman shook her head. ‘How naïve you are. People –– yes even the friendly villagers –– are only interested in protecting themselves. Someone would inform the Germans of their … their resistance in a flash, if it suited them.’

  I leaned against the table, clamping my scalded fingers in my armpit.

  ‘So what are we supposed to do, Maman? Enemy troops have overtaken our country, and they’re not going away. Should we just keep our heads down and accept that we’re now powerless, humiliated citizens? Or do we react? Resist? Besides, I know you’d never turn in that family upstairs.’ I waved an arm in the direction of her bedroom. ‘Would you?’

  Maman’s eyes glittered the brilliant green of unripe grapes. ‘You’ve always been a stubborn little bitch, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘Right from the start.’

  She set her mouth in a crabby line as she banged cutlery and crockery onto the blue and white checked tablecloth.

  5

  The next time I saw the German was on a hot August afternoon. Patrick, Olivier and I had called in to my uncle’s clog shop on the village square of Julien-sur-Vionne to give Uncle Félix and Aunt Maude some comforting words about my prisoner-of-war cousins, Paul and Jules.

  Sprinkles of blond hair escaping his Wehrmacht cap, the German was lounging against the fountain wall with the same two soldiers who’d been with him that day at the market. As we walked from the shop, his strange, violet eyes met mine.

  ‘We meet again, mam’zelle.’ He bowed with a feline kind of grace and offered a pale hand. ‘Martin Diehl.’ He waved his other arm at the two soldiers. ‘Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer.’

  Karl Gottlob stood stiff and awkward, the cat-eyes as cold as ever. He said something in throaty German I didn’t understand.

  ‘Pon-jour, mam’zelle, m’sieurs,’ the chubby Fritz Frankenheimer said, and a fattened pig flashed through my mind.

  ‘Céleste Roussel,’ I said, shaking Martin Diehl’s hand. ‘And this is my brother Patrick and a friend, Olivier.’

  The boys too, shook hands with the three men. Despite their polite nods, I caught the vein ticking in my brother’s temple, and Olivier’s jittery foot-tapping. So practised they were at hiding their animosity, a bystander might’ve believed they were truly pleased to make the Germans’ acquaintance.

  ‘Come on, we’ll miss the movie.’ Patrick tugged at my arm, he and Olivier sandwiching me between them as we headed for the queue snaking from Le Renard Rouge cinema.

  ‘Why do you insist on speaking to Germans?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Like your mother says, don’t forget they are the enemy,’ Olivier said. ‘Besides, you know how careful we have to be.’

  ‘Of course I know not to say a word about anything … to anyone, Boche or not,’ I hissed, the heat burning my cheeks as I glimpsed the Germans in the line behind us.

  Lucie-sur-Vionne had no cinema, so we’d cycled into Julien-sur-Vionne that steamy afternoon –– a rare treat for which Uncle Claude was paying, in return for our harvesting help.

  Apart from Lucie’s train line, Julien was much the same as our village, with its bustling square, small businesses, closely-built houses and centuries-old church. Its roads wound through orchards, fields and woods and, as Lucie was named for the Roman soldier, Lucius, Julien was named after Julius Caesar because an elderly villager claimed he’d passed by that way.

  I sat between Patrick and Olivier in the dark, smoke-stained cinema, aching to look like the actresses in Hôtel du Nord: the blonde, sultry Annabelle or the dark, slim Arletty, with her thinly-arched eyebrows. I dreamed of being on the big screen, fans admiring me, and imagined I was in Hollywood, driving up Sunset Boulevard in a limousine, sipping champagne and wearing one of my dozens of elegant dresses.

  Between admiring the actresses, I caught Martin Diehl looking at me through the flickering dark. Seated with the group of Germans in one corner, the red glow of his cigarette illuminated his high cheekbones, and I slumped in my seat, hoping he’d not notice my dowdy dress, my bare lips and unpowdered face.

  ***

  The audience filed back onto the square, blinking into the sunlight falling thick and golden on the cobblestones.

  ‘We’ve got a meeting,’ Patrick said, as we retrieved our bicycles. ‘We should be back at L’Auberge in a few hours.’

  ‘I suppose I’m still not allowed to come?’

  ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘this is not women’s business.’

  ‘You’re so unfair! Let me tell you that men would never cope with the pain of childbirth that we endure, so the human race can continue. Women would make much tougher soldiers and resistors than all those big-mouthed, honoured war heroes. Besides, you know I’d never say anything to betray you.’

  ‘Not intentionally,’ Olivier said. ‘But someone might force it out of you … someone you least suspect.’

  Patrick and Olivier s
aid nothing more and I knew they wouldn’t budge, so I tossed my head, swung a leg over the saddle and pedalled away furiously. I trilled the bell at pedestrians who got in my way, not slowing for anyone as I hurtled across the square, down the main road and veered off onto the path through the woods.

  Sweat soon drenched my clothes and I flung the bike against a willow trunk and tramped down to the water’s edge. The Vionne blazed with a wealth of sun pennies and a butterfly, fluttering lazily from one rock to another, flitted off as I bent from the gravelly shore and gulped palmfuls of water.

  I looked around. Nobody in sight except a few bold birds braving the heat. I tore my dress and underwear off and slid, naked, into the river.

  I floated on my back, murmuring with the ecstasy of cool water against hot skin. The current tugged at me like a playful hand, slices of sun casting black shadows into the dark, furtive places on the riverbed.

  I flexed my feet, wriggled my toes, and studied my hand, yellowed in that strange underwater light. I laid a palm against my stomach, tracing small circles, and caught my breath as my nipples hardened with the coolness, my small breasts peeking from the surface like milky islands.

  When the water crimped my skin like a dried apple, I grabbed a clutch of dangling roots and hauled myself onto the bank.

  I brushed stray weeds off, dried myself with my dress, and slipped the damp garment over my head. I shook my hair out, gathered flat pebbles and started skimming them across the water. It was so quiet I could hear the flutter of feathers in nests, the sound of pecking on bark, the fidgeting of insects in the grass.

  A pebble skimmed over the water, but not one I’d thrown, and I stopped, my arm held aloft. Another stone flew past, bouncing three times across the water. I heard a rustling noise behind me, too loud for a bird, and spun around to the smiling face of Martin Diehl.

  I swallowed my gasp, horrified the German might’ve glimpsed me naked.