The Beekeeper's Promise

by Fiona Valpy

  Another thought occurred to Eliane, which made her shiver with dread: perhaps Francine and the others had been caught and had given Lisette’s name to the Gestapo. Francine certainly wouldn’t have betrayed them, but what about Daniel? If he’d thought it might save his wife and their unborn child, surely he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet. What if they’d been tortured . . . ?

  It was unbearable. And yet, they had to bear it.

  The hands on the kitchen clock crept round with an agonising slowness that made Eliane want to wrench it off the wall. All she could do was what Lisette would have wanted – to look after Gustave, Yves and Blanche, supporting them as best she could and staying strong. That thought, and a sudden vision of her mother’s face – calm, kind, smiling – made Eliane gather herself. They had to keep going, for Lisette’s sake, and in the fervent hope that she would come back to them soon.

  They kept Lisette at the Gestapo headquarters in Castillon for three long nights and three long days. And then the miracle the family had been praying for happened.

  Eliane was up at the château on the afternoon of the third day since Lisette had been taken. She’d left Blanche in Gustave’s care, in the hope it would be a good distraction for him to have to look after the little girl instead of sitting at the table with his head in his hands, helpless and despairing.

  Madame Boin had taken one look at Eliane’s strained expression and pale cheeks and had insisted she could manage in the kitchen on her own, sending the girl outside into the fresh air.

  Away from the oppressive, anguish-filled atmosphere of the mill – even if only for an hour or two – Eliane willed herself to concentrate on her work. As she picked up her hoe she took a crumb of comfort from the bees, who were carrying on about their business as usual.

  Being in the garden grounded her, and she felt she could breathe just a little more easily as she focused on her tasks, weeding and watering, tending her lovingly planted herbs. The scents of thyme, rosemary and mint reminded her of Lisette’s healing concoctions. And then, all at once, she knew that her mother would come back to them. She could feel it in her bones and in the blood that coursed through her veins. It was more than hope: it was complete certainty.

  She was dead-heading the roses that clung to the wall by the garden gate when she looked up, startled, at the sound of a vehicle. Her hands began to tremble as she caught sight of a grey uniform. Oberleutnant Farber leaned out from the driver’s seat and beckoned to her, urgently.

  Tightly gripping the pair of clippers she held, Eliane walked towards him. The jeep’s engine was still running.

  ‘Come with me, mademoiselle. Don’t be afraid. Your mother has been released. She’s in Coulliac. I’m going to get her.’

  Eliane hesitated, then raised her eyes to meet his. She had seldom looked at him directly – or at any of the soldiers – but now she saw, beyond the sombre uniform, that his face was open and honest-looking and that his eyes, which were almost as blue as Jacques Lemaître’s, held a look of gentle compassion. Her hands were still shaking, but she set down the clippers and got into the passenger seat. She was acutely aware that this was the vehicle that had carried Lisette away three days earlier and, for a moment, a chill of fear seized her. Could she trust his words, or was she, too, being arrested? But that expression she’d glimpsed in his face was so honest and so utterly human that, instinctively, she knew she did trust him.

  Lisette was sitting on the wall beside the fountain in the middle of the square. How she’d got there from Castillon no one knew. She had simply appeared, limping into the place, not looking to her left or her right as she made her way towards the water that splashed in the stone bassin surrounding the fountain. The women queuing outside the bakery to collect the meagre rations of bread for their families watched her cautiously, casting sidelong glances towards her. Stéphanie, carrying an empty shopping bag, whispered to her neighbour.

  Lisette’s hair had come loose from its usual neat plait and her clothing was dishevelled. Despite there being no obvious outward signs of physical injury, everything about Lisette seemed to have been broken. She scooped up a little water in her hands and used it to wash her face.

  Then one of the women left her place in the line and went to her. She sat beside Lisette and offered her a frayed handkerchief, before taking her hands and whispering words of comfort and encouragement.

  When the jeep pulled into the square, the woman sitting beside Lisette hastily got to her feet. Seeing Eliane, she looked relieved. ‘See, Lisette,’ she urged. ‘Your daughter has come to get you.’

  But Lisette just sat, looking blankly at the water that sparkled where the sunlight played with the drops cascading from the fountain.

  Eliane gathered her into her arms. ‘Maman,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here. Come back to us. They took you away. But you can come back to us now.’

  Slowly, Lisette’s eyes focused on Eliane and she raised her hand, tracing her daughter’s cheek with her fingers. She still didn’t speak, but she nodded, barely perceptibly, and let Eliane help her to hobble to the jeep. They sat, side by side, in the back. Eliane wrapped an arm tightly around her mother, as if that might make the strength and life flow back into her, but Lisette gasped and flinched in pain so Eliane quickly loosened her grip.

  Oberleutnant Farber, who had remained in the driver’s seat, put the car in gear and drove them out of the square towards home. As they passed the queue outside the baker’s shop, Stéphanie turned to watch them go. ‘Special treatment for some,’ she remarked, loudly enough for everyone to hear. Most of the women standing in the line ignored her, but one or two pursed their lips in disapproval and nodded.

  When the oberleutnant dropped them back at the mill, Gustave came to the door at the sound of the jeep’s engine. Tenderly, gently, he took Lisette into his enveloping embrace and held her for a long time, standing beside the barbed wire that clad the riverbank. Eliane took Blanche inside and began heating water, which she carried to the bathroom for her mother.

  Only when she had washed and changed into the clean clothes that Eliane had put out for her did Lisette begin to return to them in spirit. She held Blanche on her knee; and Gustave kissed her wet hair, then gently began to comb out the tangles in its smooth lengths. Blanche cupped her maman’s face in her little hands and planted a kiss on her cheek. As Lisette hugged the little girl, and as the love of her family began to permeate to her core, the light started to return to her eyes and the colour to her face.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Gustave asked her later that evening, once Blanche was in bed and Yves had gone out to shut up the mill for the night. Eliane froze in the middle of clearing the table of the supper that her mother had hardly touched.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Lisette began to weep, quiet tears of despair. Then she spoke, her voice low, the words fracturing here and there. ‘They were beating a boy in the room next door. I heard his screams. I kept thinking, That could be Yves. I kept wanting the noise to stop. But then when it did stop, the silence was even more awful.’

  The tears rolled down Eliane’s face as she watched her mother, not wanting to move in case Lisette stopped talking again.

  ‘And you?’ Gustave whispered. ‘What did they do to you?’

  She shook her head and then looked round at him, her expression determinedly defiant. ‘They did nothing to me, Gustave. Because I didn’t let them. Whatever they did, it couldn’t touch me. You see, I decided that I wasn’t there, in that grey-walled room. I was back here, at the moulin, with you.’

  Gustave wept then, too, and she held him and rocked him, hushing him as she would do a baby.

  When there were no more tears left to cry, Lisette smiled at them both. ‘But, you know what? They got away. Francine, Amélie and Daniel. The others, too. It was obvious from what the Gestapo were asking me. And, in the end, they had to accept my story. After all, the truck was searched both going and coming back across the bridge and it was empty. Eventually, they sen
t the police to speak to Madame Desclins. She verified that I’d been to visit her on Sunday night and showed them the medicaments I’d left for her. They had to let me go.’

  Yves came back in from shutting down the mill for the night and she turned to him, her eyes suddenly as bright as they’d ever been, the woman they so adored restored to them again. ‘They got away, Yves! They all got away.’

  Abi: 2017

  Dissociation, I think they call it, when you go somewhere else in your mind so that you can bear the unbearable. That’s what Lisette managed to do during those three days and nights of untold horror when she was being questioned by the Gestapo. Sara told me that Lisette had been able to remove herself from what was being done to her, to imagine that she was somewhere else, to transport herself away from the grey-walled room and back to the love of the moulin. Now that’s strength. ‘Resilience’ is another word the therapists often use. ‘You need to build up your resilience,’ they say. Easier for some than for others, I guess. But I think Lisette is a good example of what it means.

  I used to do the same sometimes, going out of my body. In bed, with Zac, at first his love-making was a heady mix of tenderness and passion. But then it turned into something else; something angry and loveless and oppressive. That’s when my mind would leave my body and I would imagine myself somewhere else – anywhere but there, with him.

  I could sense his need to dominate, to possess, to control; he would give affection and then withdraw it, until I became confused and frightened. I grew unrelentingly watchful, unable to relax for a second, waiting for the next outburst, or cutting remark, or a glance in my direction that made me freeze, knowing that whatever I said or did next would be a trigger for his anger.

  Once I had started the Open University degree course, I didn’t feel quite so trapped in the apartment. I had other places to go – even if they were still mainly only in my head. I was doing a degree in English Language and Literature, so although I ventured out of the apartment less and less often, ordering my books and studying online, writers like Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and George Eliot helped me escape into other worlds. I got good marks for my essays, too, and, little by little, I started to believe that I might be able to get a good degree at the end of it.

  There were tutorials to attend every now and then, and I could have opted for doing them online, but I saw them as opportunities to escape for the odd evening and told Zac that they were compulsory. Another lie. Another tiny act of defiance. By that time, stepping out of the apartment on my own felt like a terrifying ordeal, but I knew I had to make an effort. Afterwards, though, when the others in my tutorial group, who seemed a friendly lot, suggested going for a coffee, I would make my excuses and hurry home. I knew Zac would be watching the clock and checking my whereabouts on his phone. Any unaccounted-for lateness would mean trouble.

  Nonetheless, I’d managed to cut through one or two of the silken threads that bound me to him. And I felt that little flicker of Self inside me rekindle, like a tiny, warm flame.

  Eliane: 1942

  Waking early the following Saturday, Eliane stacked her jars of honey into baskets ready for Gustave and Yves to load into the truck and drive to the market. Running the stall wasn’t at all the same without Francine, but she knew she had to carry on distributing the honey supplies as fairly as possible. Rationing was hitting them all harder than ever.

  In Coulliac, the river and surrounding woodland offered useful sources of additional fish and game with which to supplement the meagre allocation they spent so many hours queuing for at the butcher’s shop and the bakery. And most people in the local community had at least a patch of garden where they grew what fresh produce they could. But Eliane knew things were harder for those living in the larger towns. Even in Coulliac, strict demands were placed on everyone by their German occupiers: one-third of all produce still had to be delivered to the depot; hoarding was an offence warranting arrest; and, just the other day, a notice had gone up outside the mairie declaring that anyone found secretly raising a pig would face a prison sentence and confiscation of the animal.

  So the pigsty at the mill stood empty now. However, hidden in the tunnel behind the door, which was still concealed by the empty trough and a casually stacked pile of corrugated-iron sheets, the Martins had a couple of dried hams swathed in muslin, and a stack of pâtés, rillettes and grattons preserved in glass jars. They eked these out, eating them only sparingly, and occasionally Lisette would share them with her undernourished expectant mothers.

  On one of Eliane’s dawn walks to gather the wild mushrooms that poked their heads through the leaf mould carpeting the woodland floor, she had come across a makeshift enclosure, sheltered by branches, where a pair of plump black pigs snuffled and muttered contentedly to themselves as they foraged for acorns. She’d smiled and then carefully covered her tracks. Someone would be having roast pork for Christmas that year.

  As she helped Gustave and Yves load the baskets of honey into the truck, Eliane was startled to see a group of German soldiers appear among the trees on the far bank of the river. She had to peer over the tangle of barbed wire to make out what they were doing.

  One of the men waved at her, cheerfully, perhaps recognising the mädchen who worked at the château by the scarlet scarf she wore knotted peasant-style to keep her pretty dark-blonde hair out of her eyes. Then they took off their jackets and set to work with axes and two-man saws.

  Eliane gasped. ‘What are they doing, Papa?’

  ‘They’ve been ordered to cut down the trees over there. They’re still suspicious that people may be crossing somehow, even with all their damnable wire messing up my river. Jacques told me they’re clearing the far bank and mounting regular patrols there now.’

  She wondered how Jacques knew such things, but understood it was better not to ask.

  She picked up one of the jars of acacia honey that she’d filled so carefully. It was as pale and clear as champagne. Across the river, a tree fell with a crash and a flurry of leaves, which were torn from its branches like confetti. Setting the jar back in the basket, she sighed. There’d be no more acacia flowers there now. But the bees would manage to find other sources of nectar among the wildflowers and the apple blossom: even they would have to make ends meet, just like the rest of the community.

  Business was slow in the market that day. Few people were able to afford a luxury such as honey, even though there was scarcely any sugar either these days. Many of the stallholders had given up coming to the market now as they had no produce to spare, with so much of it having to be handed over at the depot and rationing so tight. It was all most people could do to feed themselves and their families. One or two tables had neat pyramids of root artichokes, potatoes, courgettes and summer turnips, but they seemed colourless and unappetising compared with how things used to be. Besides, everyone was sick of eating the same things day in, day out.

  There were still some surreptitious exchanges: a few people who visited Eliane’s stall and hung back until there was no one else waiting to be served, then sidled up to tuck a few eggs or a couple of rabbit skins beneath the gingham stall cover in return for a small jar of honey. More often, people handed over a few coins to buy one of the larger jars of beeswax; polishing the furniture had fallen far down most people’s list of priorities now, but lamp oil was also scarce and the wax was useful for making candles to use during the increasingly frequent power cuts.

  Two boys, who looked about ten and twelve years old respectively, appeared at the side of the stall. The clothes they wore, which were far too small for them, were patched and darned and the skin was stretched tight over the bones of their thin wrists, which protruded several centimetres beyond the frayed ends of their sleeves. The elder one removed a damp, newspaper-wrapped offering from inside his jacket. ‘Would you give us a jar of honey in exchange for these fine perch?’ he asked. He unwrapped the parcel to display two small fish that, she knew, would be full of bones.

  ‘We caught
them this morning,’ added the younger boy. ‘We managed to keep it a secret. It’s Maman’s birthday. We want to give her a present.’

  With a smile, Eliane gave them one of the precious jars and then wrapped up the fish again. ‘Take these back to your maman as well. They will be a treat for her birthday lunch. And wish her many happy returns from me.’

  ‘Thank you, Honey Lady.’ The brothers grinned. The elder one stashed the parcel back under his jacket and they ran for home, the younger boy carrying the jar of honey carefully before him, as if it were a casket of jewels.

  Once the last few jars were gone, Eliane began to pack up, tucking the marché amical articles into her basket and covering them with the neatly folded gingham cloth.

  ‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Martin.’ Oberleutnant Farber’s voice startled her, but she quickly composed herself.

  ‘Good morning, monsieur.’

  ‘Alas, I see I am too late to buy a jar of your delicious honey today.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. And there’s no jam that I can offer you either, now that there isn’t enough sugar to make it. But, you know, there’s no need for you to buy honey from me here. I am obliged to provide it for you and your colleagues every morning for breakfast at Château Bellevue.’

  ‘Even so, I like to support local commerce,’ he replied. There was a pause. ‘How is your mother?’ he asked, politely.

  ‘She is better, thank you. Well enough to go back to work now.’

  ‘That’s good.’ And then, without changing his expression, he said, ‘You must miss your friend very much. The one who used to help you run this stall.’

  His tone was mild, but when she glanced up at him he was watching her intently.

  She nodded briskly. ‘Indeed I do. It’s twice the work without her. And so, if you’ll excuse me, monsieur, I must be getting on.’