Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  I kept peering through the window at the villagers down on the square. They were still glancing sideways at each other and gathering in twos and threes, gazing suspiciously at passersby and falling silent when someone else approached. Mothers kept their children by their sides.

  On the third day, I ducked out for a few minutes and retrieved Martin’s message in Au Cochon Tué. One last time, he’d said. It wasn’t reasonable, or sensible, to let him tug at my fragile emotions again, but I was curious to know what he had for me.

  ‘The Germans are still conducting house-to-house searches,’ Dr. Laforge said, when he returned in the evening. ‘And they’ve put a message up on the door of the Town Hall, asking anyone with knowledge of the attack to volunteer information. Naturally they’re offering a handsome reward.’

  ‘But nobody besides us, and my mother, knows.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way,’ he said.

  ***

  On the evening of June 6th, I tuned into the BBC on Dr. Laforge’s radio. When I heard the broadcast, I sprang from my chair and leapt about like an excited child.

  ‘The Allies have landed! The invasion has begun!’

  Dr. Laforge hurried across to the wireless set.

  ‘They said the Americans, Brits, Canadians and Free French airborne troops landed shortly after midnight,’ I said. ‘Then Allied infantry and armoured divisions on the coast, at six-thirty this morning. They’ve flung the German armies from the Normandy shore!’

  ‘So this is really it,’ Dr. Laforge said with a wide smile. ‘The beginning of our long-awaited liberation.’

  ‘Oh yes it must be. Though it still sounds too good; too much of a fairy tale to hope Papa, my sister and my friends will all be home soon.’

  Neighbours, who’d already heard it from other neighbours, began shouting the news to each other and soon la place de l’Eglise filled with people kissing each other, wiping away tears of joy and sighing with relief. And when Dr. Laforge and I went outside and joined them, nobody looked at me sideways, or with the least suspicion.

  People brought out bottles of homemade alcohol and we raised our glasses and toasted France, and filled ourselves with fresh courage and strength. The Germans were nowhere in sight, no doubt sulking up at L’Auberge, scoffing the requisitioned wine of Lucie-sur-Vionne. Besides, what could they do? They couldn’t prove what it was we were celebrating.

  And throughout the following day, the radio seemed to tremble with the thunder of national anthems: La Marseillaise, The Star-spangled Banner, and God Save the King.

  So happy celebrating the Allied invasion, and convinced the war was finally over, nobody seemed to give another thought to any retribution the Germans might take for the grenade explosion of Ecole de Filles Jeanne d’Arc.

  46

  Thursday June 8, 1944.

  0900 hours.

  ‘I’m off into the city for the day,’ Dr. Laforge said, as we drank our breakfast coffee. ‘Pack your bag, Céleste. It’s been almost a week since the explosion and there’s been no reprisal. I think we’re safe. Nobody has connected the attack to you either, so I’ll take you back to Lyon this evening, or tomorrow morning if I stay overnight with Jacqueline.’

  ‘No more rash, unthinking acts,’ I said. ‘Promise.’

  ‘Besides, keeping you busy in the city might take your mind off what those two did to you,’ he said chewing his hunk of bread and jam. ‘Instead of sitting here brooding about it. The Allies have landed, and there’s still so much to do to stop the German troops travelling north. You might want to go over to Julien and say goodbye to your mother; let her know you’ll be in Lyon for some time.’

  ‘Yes, all right, I’ll go this afternoon.’ Of course I didn’t say I would meet Martin Diehl one final time before continuing along through the woods to Julien-sur-Vionne.

  Once the doctor left, I cleared the breakfast things, tidied and cleaned the flat and packed my few clothes into the bag my mother had given Dr. Laforge the day she left for Julien.

  1145 hours.

  Perhaps it was the heavenly weather that made me think everything was going to be better, as I crossed la place de l’Eglise –– bold gestures of clouds streaking a sky so blue it seemed to bow down to the horizon and caress the earth. The soft breeze curled the wisteria that flounced across the vestiges of Lucie’s stone vingtain like a pretty dress, sweeping its bracing perfume over the square.

  I waved a greeting to Mr Thimmonier, his gnarly hands planted on aproned hips. I greeted Madame Abraham-Lemoulin in her antiques shop with a cheery, ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘Salut, Céleste,’ Evelyne Perrault called, from the terrace of Au Cochon Tué, and I raised my arm in a wave.

  From the church steps Père Emmanuel gave me a smile, one side of his face dappled light and dark with the shade of the lime tree leaves.

  ‘The Allies are really here this time,’ Yvon Monbeau was saying to his customers, as I joined the bakery queue for the much sought-after bread. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘We can have faith in the British,’ his wife, Ginette, said, and I saw her eyes shine with the longing to see her prisoner-of-war sons again soon.

  ‘Humph,’ André Copeau’s grandfather said. ‘Remember what those cursed English did to our Jeanne d’Arc?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Yvon said with a smirk. ‘If the Brits hadn’t burned Jeanne d’Arc, she would be able to save France today, no doubt!’

  ‘It does seem too good to be true though,’ Simon Laforge’s wife said. ‘We’ve waited so long for them.’

  ‘Well Hitler did make a big mistake,’ said Robert Perrault senior, ‘invading Russia, opening a war on two fronts. He only got to be a great man because his enemies were small, but those enemies are no longer small. The man is doomed, Britain’s victory certain. And my three grandsons –– and your two boys,’ he said, waving an arm at the baker, ‘can be free again!’

  The baguette stowed in my shopping basket, I strode back towards Saint Antoine’s to collect my bicycle, which had been sitting there for almost a week, since that fateful day.

  A flurry of small boys dashed around the fountain, shrieking as they flicked water at each other.

  ‘Shouldn’t you all be at school?’ I said.

  ‘We’re home for lunch,’ one of them said, droplets of water dripping from his cheeky face.

  Miette’s two sisters walked with their mother across the square towards me.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you still in Lucie, Céleste,’ Madame Dubois said.

  ‘I’m going back to Lyon this evening, or tomorrow.’

  ‘Papa says we’re going to win the war after all,’ Séverine said.

  I smiled at her. ‘Yes, I know. Isn’t that good news?’

  I nodded at Gaspard Bénédict’s mother as she scurried home with her perpetually distressed air. None of the villagers had spoken a word to her since Gaspard was found to be a traitor. I felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. After all, it wasn’t her fault her son had decided to play that dangerous game.

  1200 hours.

  The bell of Saint Antoine’s chimed, the sun radiating the heat of a midsummer’s day as I cycled down the lane to Uncle Claude’s farm.

  Blue jays and red cardinals darted between the shadowy pear trees and cherry blossoms swayed like snowball puffs. The breeze tugged at the blossoms, as if trying to tear them from their branches, but they held fast, their stems bending with the same trembling kind of grace as a dancer.

  I knocked and opened the farmhouse door to the usual smell of curing hay and burning leaves coming from Uncle Claude’s pipe. Justin and Gervais, Paulette and Anne-Sophie were eating lunch and greeted me with greasy grins.

  ‘Dr. Laforge had another message from Patrick and Olivier,’ I said, joining them at the table. ‘They’re alive and well.’

  The twins clapped their hands together.

  ‘When’s Olivier coming back?’ Justin said.

  ‘Very soon, I hope,’ I said.

 
‘We’ll show him we can climb the oak tree higher than him now, eh Justin?’ Gervais said with a toothy smirk. ‘Even better than you, Céleste.’

  ‘Our meal is far from extravagant,’ Uncle Claude said, waving an arm over the mish-mash of watery vegetables. ‘But please, join us.’

  ‘I have to leave soon. I’m going back to Lyon this evening, or tomorrow,’ I told him, only too aware how little food Claude had for himself and his four growing children. ‘I’ll eat with you next time.’

  ‘Oh yes, please do,’ Anne-Sophie said. ‘And come back soon.’

  ‘Keep safe, Céleste,’ Uncle Claude said, as he closed the door behind me and I cycled back down the lane.

  1220 hours.

  I only got as far as the end of the dirt track when I heard the first rumble of engines. I was surprised because vehicles –– especially those half-track truck kinds –– were unusual. Two of them passed along the road, the soldiers eyeing me with bored, uninterested gazes.

  The noon sun caught the glint of the insignia on their uniforms –– the Wolfsangel of Das Reich’s SS.

  Even as I caught sight of that menacing symbol, I felt more curious than worried, and continued cycling behind them, keeping my distance.

  The half-track vehicles reached the end of the village and the soldiers got down. Several orders were barked in German and the soldiers marched off in different directions, scanning the vicinity as if they were searching for someone.

  I felt the first smatterings of unease. Was it me they’d come for? My first instinct was to run and hide somewhere until they left. I decided to head back to Dr. Laforge’s flat, lock myself inside and not answer the door.

  1240 hours.

  The half-tracks had parked on la place de l’Eglise, the troops scattering in all directions with their unmistakeable walk that no Frenchman could produce –– the hammering of boots and the clattering of rifles; a walk that belonged to an arrogant conqueror, trampling across the land of a defeated enemy.

  There was not the slightest animosity from the SS, but still I was anxious to reach the doctor’s flat, and hurried across the square.

  People had started leaving their lunch tables, and standing at their windows and open doors.

  ‘Who are they?’ Evelyne asked her husband, from the bar terrace.

  ‘SS,’ Robert said, a hand on his wife’s arm.

  ‘Why aren’t they wearing black then?’ his wife said. ‘Are you certain it’s the SS?’

  ‘Certain, my dear,’ Robert said. ‘They wear khaki camouflage too. Now come on inside.’

  ‘No reason to be alarmed,’ one of the troops said, ‘it’s a simple identity check. Please come out of your homes and workplaces and assemble on the square.’

  Several people came from their houses, dabbing napkins to their lips, mothers holding small children by the hand. I had the key ready to open Dr. Laforge’s door when one of the soldiers looked directly at me.

  ‘You too, mam’zelle,’ he said. ‘Assemble with the others.’

  1250 hours.

  The sun was burning, the heat oppressive. Although they seemed to be hurrying people up, as if eager to get things over and done with, the troops remained calm, ordering every last person onto the square, reassuring us it was a simple identity check.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, the numbers swelled to quite a crowd. In their haste, people had come out as they were, mothers wearing aprons and carrying babies, not bothering to get the pram out. I recognised all of them, huddled in the sparse shade of the lime trees as the bells of Saint Antoine chimed one o’clock.

  1305 hours.

  By then, families from outlying farms had joined the human column moving towards the square. I saw Uncle Claude, holding the hands of Anne-Sophie and Paulette, Justin and Gervais following, jostling and teasing each other.

  The Germans assured us again it was only an identity check. But was it only my identity they wanted to check?

  I caught Père Emmanuel’s eye, giving him a nervous glance. He gave me a thin smile.

  ‘Look, Maman,’ Séverine said, pointing to her arm. ‘A ladybird.’ She started prodding at the little insect, which lifted its delicate, transparent wings.

  ‘Don’t you kill it,’ Amandine said, wagging a finger at her sister in perfect imitation of their mother. ‘It’s bad luck to kill one of God’s creatures.’

  Séverine blew on the ladybird, which must have felt like it was on a lifeboat caught in a storm, and flew off.

  The blooming lilacs had attracted an army of honeybees that dived into the flowers, their bodies trembling as they drank. They zoomed around us, and the children shrieked and flapped their arms.

  More half-tracks arrived on the square, letting off people I recognised from nearby hamlets. Once the trucks had unloaded they left, only to return shortly after with new passengers, who looked bewildered to see such a crowd.

  1330 hours

  The sight of all those familiar faces made me feel a little better. The SS would never go to all the trouble of assembling the entire village and surrounding areas if it was only me they’d come for.

  Calm and confident, the soldiers positioned themselves around the perimeter of the square, the red flag with its black swastika flapping above them. Even as they levelled their machine guns at us, nobody seemed truly concerned. After the Allied landing, their caution wasn’t the least bit shocking.

  In a quiet corner of the square, a stray cat was crouched in the shade of an awning, carrying a bird in its mouth. It dropped its prey onto the cobblestones, plunging its claws into the tender flesh.

  The heat was overwhelming, the shade sparse. Conversation became strained. Babies started wailing, and children whined for drinks.

  ‘I want to finish my lunch, Papa,’ Anne-Sophie said with a scowl.

  ‘Baby, baby. Little baby wants to finish her lunch,’ her brothers needled, dancing about and jabbing fingers at their sister.

  ‘As soon as they’ve finished checking our papers,’ Uncle Claude said, his face tightening in a frown, ‘we’ll go home and finish lunch.’

  ‘I’ve got cakes in my oven,’ Yvon Monbeau said to one of the soldiers. ‘I need to take them out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get back in time for them,’ the soldier said with a smirk. But the baker flung his hands up and sighed.

  I too was hungry and thirsty, and started to get impatient. Besides, if this went on much longer, it would be too late to get to Julien to see my mother, and I’d miss Martin.

  1340 hours.

  Some of the soldiers began separating us: men and boys on one side, women and girls on the other. Uncle Claude took his sons by the hand as a soldier pushed Paulette and Anne-Sophie in the direction of the women.

  ‘Papa, Papa!’ the little girls cried.

  ‘I’ll take care of them,’ I called to Claude, taking the girls’ hands.

  Olivier’s uncle dashed me a fearful look as the soldier hustled me off to line up against the church wall with the other women and children.

  ‘Where are you taking my husband?’ Ginette Monbeau said.

  ‘What are you doing with them?’ Simon Laforge’s wife said, holding the hands of her two youngest children.

  The SS, chatting and laughing amongst themselves, offered no replies.

  1350 hours.

  A clipped order was barked in German and the soldiers divided the village men into groups and began marching them down the westbound street, away from the church.

  ‘I want my papa,’ Séverine cried, clutching my hand tighter.

  Several babies were wailing, and young children complained loudly.

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Pee-pee, Maman. I need to do pee-pee.’

  I detected the first signs of panic in the women’s voices as they tried to calm their children.

  ‘Silence!’ an officer snapped. ‘No more talking.’

  The minutes ticked by. I felt my rising fear, as cloying as the hot summer air that thickened ov
er the square. The children kept crying, their mothers placating them with hushed words.

  47

  1405 hours.

  ‘All into the church!’ an officer snapped, and the troops began herding the women and children up the steps of Saint Antoine’s. We all fell quiet, and my heartbeat quickened as I held the hands of Anne-Sophie and Paulette and trudged into the house of God. Mothers carried their babies and small children, neighbours and friends helping when there were too many to carry. I felt not a breath of air.

  I’d always loved the inside of Saint Antoine’s — the rainbow of colours that danced on the walls in the sun, the smell of the candles and the cool, flagstone floor. I was in awe of the painted statues standing in each corner, with their golden shining curves. But all I felt now was a creeping fear.

  As the Germans continued herding us into the church, I glanced up at my favourite painting –– the long-bearded man in brown robes holding a stick with a bell on the end, a pig sitting at his feet — and said a silent prayer; a few desperate words from a non-believer to a monk who had driven out a demon.

  Though I’d never listened to much of Père Emmanuel’s Mass, I did find the church instilled a kind of peace inside me and I tried to focus on that, to relieve my ever-growing apprehension.

  Crammed inside the church, we bunched together –– a huddled, expectant knot of women and children.

  ‘What are they going to do with us?’ whispered Miette’s mother, standing beside me with Amandine and Séverine. ‘Whatever is this about?’

  I shrugged, trying to mask my unease. ‘Identity check, so they said.’

  ‘When are they going to check our identities then?’ Evelyne Perrault said.

  ‘My husband’s cakes will truly be cinders by now,’ Ginette Monbeau said.

  ‘And what about my post-office,’ Denise said. ‘It can’t run on its own.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Denise,’ I snapped. ‘There’s nobody at the post-office. Can’t you see the entire village is here?’