by Fiona Valpy
The following Saturday morning, when Eliane came down early to gather together what she’d need for the market stall in the new venue of Coulliac, her father was already at work in the barn. She heard him whistling, and the sound of a saw and then a hammer. The noises stopped at the sound of her footsteps approaching the door, which was slightly ajar.
‘What are you making, Papa?’
Gustave relaxed when he saw it was only Eliane, and he grinned. ‘I’m making a sign, ma fille. Inspired by the efficiency of the new administration, I’ve realised that, for the safety of the general public, we have been remiss in not warning people about the dangerous weir and strong currents in the river here. It would be a terrible thing if someone were to lose their life trying to cross it.’
Eliane laughed. ‘Surely this is one of your jokes?’
His expression was grave, suddenly. ‘Non, ma fille, this is absolutely serious. It’s only a matter of time before the Boches realise that they haven’t quite managed to seal off every crossing point to the unoccupied zone. So I’m going to camouflage what we have here, just in case it should ever be needed.’
‘But, Papa, if the Germans come to check, all they need do is walk on to the weir and they’ll find how easy it is to cross.’
Gustave smiled again. ‘You’ve never seen the river when all the sluice gates are closed, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘You always leave one set open – either to bypass the mill wheel or to make it turn.’
‘That’s right, and that maintains the balance of the flow. But if I close both sets of gates, all the water coming down the river has to flow over the weir itself. It’s quite something to behold: the water level rises and the weir becomes a torrent. Anyone trying to cross then would be swept away in an instant.’
Eliane nodded slowly, considering her father’s plan.
‘I know it may seem a bit crazy, what I’m doing . . .’ Gustave picked up the sign he’d been making. ‘But maybe crazy times like these call for crazy plans like this. I have to try, at least. The Germans will probably seal off the whole riverbank in any case, but if we can make it look as if this small section is so hazardous that it needs no defending then it might just be of use to someone, sometime.’ He picked up a sledgehammer, a sharpened wooden stake and the sign, which read: ‘Warning! Hazardous Weir. Danger of Death!’
‘Want to come and hold this for me while I set it up? And then I’ll give you a lift to the market.’
Eliane smiled at her father. ‘Since it is our duty for the greater protection of the public at large? But of course, Papa!’
By the time Eliane arrived with her basketful of jars of honey and beeswax, Francine had already set up a trestle table in the square, as far as possible from the swastika flying outside the mairie. She had covered it with a brightly checked cloth and was setting out pyramids of jam jars and conserves. A few other stallholders were setting up shop, but this makeshift market in Coulliac was a far cry from the hustle and plenty of the one in Sainte-Foy.
A German soldier wandered around the square, a rifle slung casually over one shoulder, and came to inspect each of the stalls. When he reached the girls’ table, he paused.
‘What is that?’ He pointed at the jar Francine was holding. She froze. Then, dropping her eyes, replied, ‘Reine Claude preserve, m’sieur. It’s made from a type of green plum.’
‘It’s good to eat with bread?’ The soldier’s French accent was hard-edged.
Francine nodded. Her hand shook as she passed the jam to him for closer inspection.
‘How much?’ He balanced his rifle against the table as he fished in his pocket for some coins. ‘Thank you, miss. Good day.’
Eliane continued to set out her own produce, but said softly, ‘Are you alright, Francine?’
‘Sorry, it’s stupid of me to be so nervous. But it doesn’t feel good, living like this. Soldiers and guns should have no place in day-to-day life. What is happening to us?’
Eliane sighed. ‘War is happening to us. And I’m very much afraid this is just the beginning.’ She, too, felt tense and off balance. She wanted to tell Francine not to worry, that she had nothing to fear, that everything would be alright. But she found that she couldn’t give her friend that reassurance because Eliane, too, could sense the threat that hung over Francine’s head as clearly as she felt the glare of the sun beginning to beat down on them from above. ‘Come on, here come our first customers. Give me a hand with this umbrella,’ she said briskly, giving Francine a quick hug. ‘Otherwise the beeswax is going to melt.’
The customer, who was making her way purposefully across the square towards the girls’ stall, was the mayor’s secretary.
‘Good morning, Eliane. Francine.’ She’d worked in the mairie for as long as the girls could remember and knew everyone in the commune by name. ‘I need some more of your beeswax, please, and a jar of confiture aux myrtilles also.’ She counted the exact money on to the table and as she did so she smiled at Eliane. ‘How is the baby today?’
‘Blanche is fine, thank you.’
‘And your sister?’
‘She’s much better now. Her feet are mending well.’ This was true, although Eliane knew Mireille’s mental scars would take far longer to heal.
‘I’m pleased to hear that. Give my best wishes to your parents.’ As if as an inconsequential afterthought, she added, ‘Oh, and you might like to mention to them that the moulin has been scheduled for a visit on Monday. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to prepare for visitors in advance.’
Then, with a businesslike nod, she scooped her purchases into a string bag and continued on her way.
That Monday, the sound of the jeep pulling up in front of the barn was drowned out by the noise of the river flowing over the weir in full spate. Gustave and Yves were heaving sacks of flour into the back of the truck. An officer and official translator, both in uniform, got out and stood for a moment, assessing the scene before them. Gustave’s sign looked as if it had been in place for years, thanks to a light going-over with a sheet of sandpaper and the application of a couple of smudges of river mud. The officer picked up a stone and threw it towards the crest of the weir. The water snatched it greedily and swallowed it into the depths. He raised his eyebrows and instructed the translator to make a note on the clipboard he was carrying.
Only then did the officer turn to acknowledge the presence of Yves and Gustave.
‘Good morning. I’m looking for Herr Martin, the owner of the water mill.’ He had to shout to be heard above the roar of the river.
‘You’ve found him,’ replied Gustave, heaving the final sack on to the truck and then dusting the flour off his hands before pulling the tarpaulin cover into place.
‘Perhaps we could go inside, where it’s a little quieter?’ the translator said with careful courtesy, his manner a little less abrupt than that of the officer. ‘We are sorry to disturb you at your work, monsieur, but there are a few things that we need to sort out with you.’
Gustave led the way and showed them into the kitchen, where the Germans pulled out chairs and seated themselves at the table, gesturing to Gustave to do likewise. Yves, who had followed them inside, remained standing, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded.
Consulting his clipboard, the translator said, ‘Just a few questions, if we may, Monsieur Martin? You live here with your family: your wife, two daughters and one son.’ Here he glanced up at Yves. ‘And a baby who is the daughter of your deceased cousin?’
‘That is correct,’ Gustave replied.
‘Her parents were killed when you dropped your bombs on them,’ Yves chipped in, but was silenced by a glance from his father.
Ignoring Yves’ remark, the soldier continued, ‘And you have how many vehicles?’
‘Just my truck, which you saw outside.’
‘Bicycles?’
‘One, which we all share. My wife is the local midwife so sometimes she needs transport to get to her patients at short noti
ce.’
The man nodded, translated this for the officer and made a note on the papers in front of him.
‘You use your truck for delivering flour to the bakeries in the area?’
‘Yes. And I need to be able to cross the bridges at Coulliac and Sainte-Foy to be able to continue my deliveries over there.’
The officer shook his head categorically and spoke in rapid-fire German.
‘This is no longer permitted under the new administration,’ the translator said. ‘The unoccupied zone will have to sustain itself as far as foodstuffs are concerned. From now on, you will deliver one-third of your flour to a depot that we are setting up on the edge of town. It is needed for workers in Germany. The remainder you can deliver to your clients on this side of the river, as normal.’
‘And my wife?’ asked Gustave, calmly. ‘What is she supposed to do when there is a baby to be delivered on the other side? Do those women, in the unoccupied zone, have to fend for themselves?’
Again, there was some discussion to and fro between the two soldiers.
‘It may be possible to allow her to have a permit to travel into the unoccupied zone for cases of medical necessity. There is a seven-kilometre area on the other side that will be closely patrolled, and anyone found there without the correct papers will be handed back to the authorities here and dealt with accordingly. Your wife will need to present herself at the mairie so that we can organise a permit for her. And we will also issue you with a permit to drive your truck to make your deliveries, since you are contributing to the war effort now. The vehicle will be officially designated for public service. Each week you will be allocated vouchers for enough petrol to carry out these necessary duties.’
The German officer spoke again – a harsh tirade of words that were unintelligible to Gustave, who nevertheless clearly understood their implicit threat. The soldier translated in a milder tone: ‘You will please remember, Monsieur Martin, that you and your wife are in a position of some privilege with these extra allowances. You would be well-advised not to abuse them. Please remember that acts of hoarding or sabotage are punishable offences. With advantages such as you have been given comes responsibility. We will be observing the two of you closely, to ensure you both comply with these responsibilities.’
‘Vous comprenez? ’ The officer spat the two words of French at Gustave, loading them with menace.
Gustave met the officer’s glaring eyes with equanimity, his own expression calmly bland. ‘I understand very well indeed, m’sieur.’
The translator made a few more notes on his clipboard. ‘You and your wife should present yourselves at the mairie at your earliest convenience. The administration will be expecting you.’
They stood, and Yves stepped aside to let them leave. Father and son watched as the soldiers drove off up the track, the tyres of their jeep throwing up a scattering of stones and a cloud of dust.
Following the progress of that dust cloud, they saw it rise anew as the jeep turned off the road and continued to climb the hill behind the mill.
‘They’re going to the château next,’ said Yves.
‘Looks that way.’ Gustave nodded. Then he turned towards the truck. ‘Come on, let’s get this delivery done as best we can.’ He loosened the tarpaulin and began unloading some of the sacks.
‘But what are you doing, Papa?’ Yves asked.
‘If we have to give the Germans one-third of our production, we’d better make sure that our “production” is reduced accordingly,’ Gustave grunted. ‘Here, help me stash these in the tunnel behind the pigsty.’
Eliane was checking her beehives when she heard the sound of the jeep pulling up in front of the château and then the double clunk of the car doors being slammed shut. The sight of the military vehicle and the soldiers seemed particularly grotesque in that peaceful setting, against the timelessly elegant stonework of the buildings.
Monsieur le Comte, who must have seen them approaching from the library windows, stood on the top step, scarcely leaning on his stick at all as he drew himself up to stand tall. The soldiers saluted him, clicking their heels together in that abrupt way of theirs. After a few peremptory words, they followed him back inside and disappeared.
Eliane hastily set in place the frames she’d been adding to one of the hives – a newly established swarm that she’d collected from the branches of the pear tree earlier in the summer – and hurried back to the kitchen, removing her gloves and broad-brimmed, veiled hat as she went.
‘They’re here! Did you see them?’ she asked Madame Boin, breathlessly.
The cook nodded, pressing her lips together disapprovingly as she continued to chop an onion with a good deal more force than was strictly necessary. ‘I did.’
‘What are we going to do?’
Madame Boin turned to face Eliane. ‘We are going to do absolutely nothing, my girl. Get this straight: the best way to get through whatever lies ahead is to carry on as normal. I intend to ignore our new so-called rulers and get on with things just as we have always done. I take my orders from Monsieur le Comte and no one else. He’s been my boss for twenty-seven years now, and it will take more than the German army for me to abandon him. Here . . .’ She handed Eliane the knife she’d been wielding. ‘You finish chopping these vegetables. I need to get my bread in the oven or it’ll be over-proved.’
Just then, the count appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah, Madame Boin, please would you be so good as to prepare a pot of coffee for our visitors? And a lemon-balm tisane for me? We are in the library.’
Eliane carried the tray through because, despite her categorical assertion that she was absolutely fine, Madame Boin’s hands shook so hard with scarcely contained rage as she set the kettle on the range that the water slopped everywhere, sending boiling droplets skidding across the top of the stove and creating a spitting, hissing cloud of steam.
The men fell silent as Eliane entered, waiting for her to finish pouring the coffee and leave before resuming their conversation.
It was more than an hour later before the soldiers could be heard leaving, the doors of the jeep banging again and another cloud of dust left hanging in the air in their wake.
The count came into the kitchen, awkwardly balancing the tray in one hand. ‘Thank you, Madame Boin, Eliane. That calming tisane was much appreciated. We have some adjustments to make around here. Those visitors are about to become longer-term guests at Château Bellevue. They are going to billet themselves and, no doubt, a few more of their colleagues, in our rooms.’
Madame Boin gasped and sank into the nearest chair, fanning herself with the dishcloth she’d been holding.
Eliane plucked up the courage to ask, ‘But what about you, monsieur?’
‘They said I could stay in my own room. But I think it would be a good deal more relaxing to be independent of them. With your assistance, I hope, I shall move into the cottage. That will be the best solution to this unwelcome situation, I believe.’
‘And us?’ Madame Boin fanned herself even more vigorously. ‘Where are we supposed to go? And who’s going to look after you, monsieur?’
He sat down at the table opposite her, and gestured to Eliane to pull up a chair as well.
‘Ladies,’ he began and then cleared his throat. ‘I don’t have to tell you that these are extraordinary times in which we find ourselves. I’m not going to ask either of you to do anything that you feel uncomfortable with. If you wish to leave Château Bellevue while it is occupied by our enemies, then I will quite understand. And at the end of this war, if we are all still standing, your jobs will be waiting for you here should you wish to return.’
A tear ran down Eliane’s cheek and she wiped it away, silently. Madame Boin looked aghast.
The count cleared his throat again. ‘However, I am also going to offer you an alternative. You may wish to take some time to consider it carefully. Again, I want to emphasise that I don’t expect you to do anything you feel unhappy about. But we have an opportunity up here
at the château. A unique opportunity. These Germans have told me that they intend to set up a wireless station here. Our hilltop location makes it ideal for sending and receiving messages. We can monitor their movements and perhaps even their communications. And that just might enable us to help our countrymen fight back against these invaders. There is a French general in London who has been broadcasting over the past few weeks. His name is De Gaulle. I first heard him just before the armistice was signed and he sent a message of hope to all of us here, in the midst of our despair. It was reprinted in the newspaper and I carry it with me as a reminder.’ He fished a folded piece of flimsy newsprint out of the breast pocket of his jacket and read from it: ‘“France has lost a battle! But France has not lost the war! I invite all Frenchmen, wherever they may be, to join me in action, in sacrifice and hope. Our fatherland is in danger of dying. Let us all fight to save it!”’
‘Did you really just drink coffee with those Germans with that piece of paper in your pocket?’ Madame Boin asked in disbelief.
‘Actually, I drank lemon-balm tea, as you will recall. But yes. So, if like me you decide to heed the call of General de Gaulle, then I’m asking you to consider staying at your posts here. I know it will involve some distasteful duties – not least, providing meals for the enemy soldiers under our roof. But it may also give us useful insights into their plans and activities; we may be in a position to help save our fatherland and free it from German oppression.’
Madame Boin looked from Eliane to the count and back again. Her laugh was unexpected and startled Eliane. ‘We make quite an unlikely secret force, the three of us! If you’ll pardon my saying so, m’sieur,’ she added hastily, remembering her manners.
The count smiled. ‘And that, my dear Madame Boin, is precisely why we just might be an effective one. Who is going to suspect the three of us up here at the château?’
