by Kate Mosse
‘I didn’t realise the Germans were active in this part of France,’ I said, as much to myself as to Fabrissa, trying to push away the unhappy memories. I knew the roll-call of battles - Loos, Arras, Boar’s Head Hill, Passchendaele - each as notorious for the huge loss of life as for any supposed military success. But I couldn’t recall any significant engagement below the Loire Valley.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I was young, but already I knew that the war was not about faith, but rather territory and wealth and greed and power.’
‘Yes,’ I said, thinking of George’s contempt for the politicians who sent good men to die.
The light was thickening, giving shape back to the world. I glanced at Fabrissa and saw how very pale her skin was, its patina almost blue in the dawn.
‘Then, one day, it happened. The soldiers came for us.’
Exodus
My heart hit my boots.
‘Look here, there’s no need to . . . if it’s too much.’
How I wanted to save her from the pain of remembering. How I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her everything was all right. But of course, it wasn’t. How could it be?
Fabrissa gave a tiny shake of her head, but did not falter. And I understood that, having started, she needed to see things through.
‘It was December,’ she continued. ‘A bright day, very cold, with a glancing white sun and blue skies. In the afternoon, the light lingered for just a little longer than usual on the mountains, golden light draped like a skein of silk across the snowed peaks of the Sabarthès, of the Roc de Sédour. Everywhere painted in gold and white. And although it went against what we believed, I remember thinking how hard it was not to believe that God’s hand had created such a day.’
I looked at her then, touched by so simple a statement of faith. Already, the joy of that memory had gone. Her expression was serious once more.
‘When night fell, everyone went to the Ostal for the fête.’
‘The fête de Saint-Etienne?’
She nodded. ‘There was a rumour that soldiers had been seen in Tarascon, but we assumed it was too distant to concern us. We suspected, too, that our enemies had lists of names, knowledge of possessions and old allegiances that they could only have been given by those who lived, hidden, amongst us.’
‘Those who were not forced to wear the yellow cross?’
‘It was not as simple as that,’ she said, then paused. ‘What we did not know, as we gathered for the feast, was that a troop of soldiers was already making its way up the valley. The rumours, this time, were true.
‘My parents, my brother and I had spent the best part of the previous two days with my mother’s family in Junac, on the other side of the valley. Our return journey had taken longer than expected, and the cold had taken its toll on my brother.’
‘You have a brother?’ I said under my breath, knowing, even as I said it, that it was idiotic for me to take pleasure in this similarity between us. ‘An elder brother?’
‘He was three years younger,’ she said quietly.
‘Was?’
She shook her head. I was furious with myself for having jumped in. Had I not yet learnt that Fabrissa would tell the story in her own way and in her own time?
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted.’
‘As we drew close to home, a boy came running out of the woods. He was in a state of shock, swallowing his words and talking too fast for us to hear what he was saying. My father managed to calm him and, with great patience, coax out of the terrified child that . . .’
She broke off, her eyes wide.
‘That what?’
‘That there had been massacres. That villages lower down the mountain had been put to the torch. Of old men, women, cut down where they stood. Children, too. Of the fields running with blood.’
I turned cold. ‘Good God.’
‘We had no way of knowing if the reports were true, of course,’ she continued. ‘There had been many false alarms in the previous weeks. We could not be certain.’
I fished out another cigarette from my case and lit it.
‘What did you do?’
‘My brother’s health was poor, so my father decided to take him and my mother home. He told me to go on ahead and that he would join me at the Ostal as soon as he could. Before we parted company, he made me promise to say nothing about the boy. True or false, his testimony would spread panic and alarm. Far better to wait until he could confer with the others and, together, decide what action to take.
‘When I arrived at the Ostal, everyone was in good spirits. The whole village had come together to celebrate. My heart wept at the knowledge that in a matter of hours, this way of life might be lost.’
‘That must have been very difficult.’
‘So I sat, knowing what I knew and yet having to conceal it. And all the time, I was watching the door, waiting for my father. When he did come, he was immediately cloistered with Guillaume Marty, Sénher Bernard, Sénher Authier and the others.’ Fabrissa hesitated. ‘Later, I learned my father had questioned the boy further and satisfied himself that he was telling the truth without embellishment. He instructed my mother to pack what belongings we could carry between us and sent the boy round to rouse those who were at home, rather than in the Ostal. There were not many. Old Na Sanchez, who was bedridden, and Monsieur Galy.’
‘Galy?’
‘I knew none of this at the time, of course. I still prayed it might be a false alarm. My first indication it was not was the sound of horses’ hooves and bridles outside, then two soldiers strode into the hall and the uproar started.’
I turned cold.
‘The fighting escalated quickly. The soldiers were easily driven back and the doors barricaded shut. The spies in our midst had come armed, ready to support the attackers. But they, too, were swiftly overpowered.
‘The very presence of the soldiers was proof that the main battalion was on its way. The tactic of sending scouts ahead was commonplace. Usually, the arrests were quick and undertaken without bloodshed. But this time, things were different. The horrifying reports of the massacres in the valley suggested as much. My father and the others knew we had to flee the village before the main force arrived.
‘Not everyone was prepared to go. Raymond and Blanche Maury said they were too old to be driven again from their homes and that they would rather die in their beds. But mostly people did as they were instructed and left the Ostal, by means of the underground tunnel. The bons homes, Guillaume Marty and Michel Authier, elected to stand firm and try to hold the soldiers off.’
My head was spinning with so much information. So much confusing, baffling detail.
‘My mother had worked quickly. She and my brother, together with all those who had decided to leave, had packed what little they could carry - a loaf of bread, some beans, wine, blankets - and were waiting at the exit to the tunnel.
‘The journey was hard for my brother. He was a sickly child, with little strength to see him through the long winters. I could see in his face how much pain he was suffering, although he never complained. ’ She stopped again. ‘He never complained, not once.’
‘What was his name?’ I asked gently.
‘Jean. His name was Jean.’
For a moment, we were silent, the threads of history flapping around us like ribbons in the wind.
‘Where did you go? Was anywhere safe?’
‘There are caves within these mountains, hidden from view.’ She pointed across the valley, over the sleeping roofs of the village, to the woods through which I had made my approach into Nulle.
‘The tiniest openings in the rock face lead to tunnels, ancient hiding places, a labyrinthine sequence of passageways and caverns.’
Thinking of the road signs I had seen yesterday for the caves of Niaux and Lombrives, I looked back in the direction we had descended, trying to work out how they had crossed from this side of the village to the other without being seen by the soldiers.
&
nbsp; ‘And these caves were substantial enough to accommodate all of you?’
‘There are whole cities underground, magnificent, soaring caverns.’ Again, the same half-smile.
‘Astonishing.’
‘Yes. We travelled as far as we could by cart, until the ground became too steep. We unharnessed our mule, trusting she would find her way back home. Others did the same. We hoped, too, that the tracks left by the hooves of the animals and the wheels of the trap would serve as a false trail for the soldiers hunting us.
‘We doubled back around the village, through the woods to the east, avoiding the open ground. Then we began the steep ascent up to the caves.’
‘I still don’t see how so many of you managed to evade the soldiers.’
‘We knew the terrain, they did not, and we were lucky. That night there was no moon. Besides, the main contingent was further away than we had feared.’ She paused. ‘We covered the ground slowly, keeping always in the shadows and the protection of the trees. We carried no torches. No one spoke.
‘There are two paths up through the forests on the far side of the village. One is very sheer, overhung by box and silver birch trees. The other path is longer, but it is less steep and also wide enough for two people to walk side by side.’
‘I came that way, down from the road, through the woods towards Nulle from the east.’
‘It was still night when we reached the halfway point where the two paths converge. My brother was struggling to carry on. He said nothing, but it was clear that he could not go much further. So rather than continue with the others, my father decided we should rest for a while then try to catch them up at first light. He had a memory of a harder but more direct path up to the caves that he had stumbled upon when he was a boy and not visited since. If his recollection was correct, he said, a sharp incline led to a plateau that should bring us out close to where the others were heading.
‘We took leave of our friends, wishing them well and hoping to see them the following morning. We burrowed into the undergrowth and huddled together for warmth, wrapping ourselves in the blankets to wait out the night.
‘Jean was quiet, though I could tell from the gulp and plash of the breath in his chest that he was weeping. I gave him wine and coaxed him to eat a little bread. I dared not sing to him to help him sleep, but I stroked his hair and held him tight, trying to keep his thin, shivering body warm. Little by little, his breathing became steadier and, at last, he slept. As did I.’
At the Break of Day
‘I was woken by my father shaking me. It was a grey dawn. We could hear the soldiers shouting to one another down below, their coarse words carried on the thin morning air to where we lay hiding. They must have known we could not have gone far. We knew none of those who had stayed behind would betray our whereabouts, though I feared for their safety.’
‘Were they . . . ?’ I left the question hanging.
‘We did not see them again,’ she said simply.
There was no need to say more.
‘Jean was weaker. The night air and the horror of the situation had further reduced his strength. My father carried him on his back, my mother and I following behind. At first, we doubled back down the steeper of the two paths, looking for the hidden way my father remembered. There was an atmosphere of neglect, of stillness. And always shouting from down below, the soldiers shouting.
‘We had not gone far before we came upon a break in the undergrowth. My father pulled back the twisted and overgrown branches of laurel to reveal ancient roots.’
Fabrissa smiled at the recollection.
‘In truth it looked like a flight of steps fashioned from wood, and I said so. Jean was amused at this, so from then on, I concentrated my efforts on keeping him entertained. Distracting him.’
Her face grew serious again.
‘But he was coughing almost all the time now. More than once, my father had to gently lower him from his back, and we would wait while Jean struggled to catch his breath.
‘At last, we reached a plateau, not much more than a ledge on the mountainside. I could see my father’s relief that his memory had not been at fault. Up above I saw a cleft in the rock, in the shape of a half-moon, concealed beneath an overhanging escarpment. From below the plateau, the mouth of the cave was not visible at all. A short tunnel led to a wider space, which connected in turn with a network of caverns deep inside the mountain.
‘Then we heard voices, and soon were reunited with our neighbours.’
A sigh escaped from between my lips.
‘Each family occupied a small area within which they made their camp. To start with the atmosphere was hopeful. The children played, delighted with the subterranean world, and women helped my mother to nurse Jean. At first, his health improved, and every day he became a little stronger.’
I frowned. ‘Every day? How long were you in the caves, then?’
‘A long time.’
‘Weeks?’ I said, appalled at the thought.
‘More.’ She paused. ‘Because it was winter, we had assumed the soldiers would give up and leave us alone until the spring. That was what had happened in the past. And, at the beginning, it seemed to be their intention. They did go, but in the end they always came back. They always came back. It was a game of cat and mouse.’
Fabrissa turned her eyes on me, then back to the wooded horizon. ‘We were the last, you see. Our village was one of the few remaining strongholds. They could not let us be. So we waited and we waited. The heavy snows came and we thought they would leave then. But they did not. They occupied the village. Our village.
‘The weeks passed. Our spirits began to dwindle. Men left the caves at night to fetch food and more provisions - a little oil for the lamps, candles, kindling to make fires - but it was never enough. Everyone was hungry and cold.’
She hesitated and I, for the first time since she had begun her story, could not stop myself reaching out for her. I tried to take her hands in mine, but her fingers were so cold I could not seem to catch hold of her.
‘Jean suffered very badly. The chill and damp got into his bones, his chest. At night, he could not sleep. He coughed continuously, clawing for breath, choking. He needed fresh air and sunlight, the very things we could not give him. Each day, I watched him grow weaker and knew there was nothing I could do. When he died, he was only fourteen years old.’
My heart contracted in pity. That Fabrissa also had lost a beloved brother, but in circumstances so much worse than mine, was more than I could bear. Although my ignorance of the precise circumstances of George’s passing had haunted me for years, I’d not had to watch him die. But Fabrissa had been there with Jean. She had seen him slipping from her, unable to do anything to save him. How could anyone live with such memories?
‘I’m so very sorry,’ I said quietly.
The sun had risen, cold and white in the sky. The black trees and the night-time silhouette of the mountains had transformed into the greens and greys of the new day. I could see snow on the peak of the Roc de Sédour in the distance.
I gathered her to me. This time I held her tight, though she felt insubstantial in my arms, like mist.
‘We could not bury him,’ she whispered. ‘The ground outside was too hard and the floor of the caves was rock. So he was laid with the others who had died: widow Azéma, the Bulot children. Later, many more.’
I caught my breath. For so long, my nights had been haunted by images of George dying in the mud and the blood and the barbed wire, dying with the stench of the charnel house in his nostrils, his men blasted to pieces by mines, by bullets, choked by gas. But to think of Fabrissa trapped in such a place, her beloved Jean dead beside her, this was horror of another dimension.
‘It was perhaps a week after he had died, about the time of the Espéraza winter fair, when we saw tendrils of smoke rising up above the tree-line. And we knew, then, that the village was burning. Angry they still had not captured us, even though they knew we were somewhere close by,
they put everything to the torch. The church, the Ostal, our homes. Everything was destroyed.’
‘Fabrissa . . .’
There was nothing more I could say.
‘Later, when the thaw began and we had begun to think ourselves forgotten, we became careless. Two men were seen coming back into the caves by night. The soldiers followed and placed a sentinel. Then they found one of the entrances and it was only a matter of time before they found the others.’ She paused. ‘We heard them, piling up the stones, hammering as they braced the rubble with timbers. The light became more shallow, then darkness overcame us. What was a refuge became a tomb. Every opening was blocked. We could not get out.’
I felt Fabrissa slide from my arms. I was suddenly dizzy. The nausea I’d managed to keep at bay overwhelmed me.
‘No one came back,’ she said. ‘Not one.’
I feared I was going to pass out. My palms were clammy and my chest tight. I leaned forward, head down, my arms resting on my legs.
‘Freddie?’ said Fabrissa. I heard the concern in her voice and loved her for it.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Freddie,’ she whispered, ‘do not be afraid.’
‘Afraid? I’m not af—’
I jerked my head up, setting colours dancing before my eyes. Heard her lullaby voice saying my name. And this time, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it had been Fabrissa’s voice I had heard through the storm. ‘But how?’ I murmured. ‘How?’
I glanced at her in mute confusion, seeing my own anguish reflected in her face. I was so tired now. I had worn myself out by talking and I realised I was deathly cold.
