by Fiona Valpy
‘Where is Monsieur le Comte?’ Madame Boin grumbled. ‘His supper is going to be completely spoiled.’
Eliane, washing pots and pans at the sink, looked out of the window and across the courtyard. It was a beautiful June evening and the swallows swooped and soared around the stone cross above the chapel, slicing effortlessly through the stillness of the summer air. ‘He must still be at his devotions, I think. He’s later than usual.’
As she watched, the count emerged from the chapel, fumbling with the keys as he hastily locked the door behind him. He hobbled across the courtyard almost at a run, moving faster than she’d ever seen him move before. Quickly, she dried her hands on her apron as she went to meet him.
As he crossed the threshold, his eyes blazed with something even greater than hope: it was the light of triumph that she saw there.
‘Eliane! Madame Boin! It’s happened. The day has arrived. The Allies have landed on the beaches of Normandy! I’ve just heard General de Gaulle broadcasting from London. He’s issued a call to us all: “The duty of the sons of France is to fight with all the means at their disposal.” Will you walk for me, Eliane? One last dance to tell our brothers in the hills that the hour has come to rise up and take back our country?’
Hurriedly, she pulled the silk scarf from the pocket of her apron. ‘Of course, monsieur.’ Her fingers shook as she knotted it behind her head at the nape of her neck. ‘What would you like me to do?’
To her surprise, he stepped towards her and gently pulled the scarf from her hair, pressing it into her hand. Then he hugged her tightly for a second before stepping back and saying ‘Walk back and forth along the outside of the far wall, as you did once before. Only this time, Eliane, hold that silk square high, so that everyone can see it and know that France’s hour has come.’
Madame Boin tutted and shook her head. ‘Just make sure that none of our “guests” see you, my girl . . .’
Monsieur le Comte turned and hugged her too, a gesture so astounding that she was instantly silenced.
‘Don’t worry, Madame Boin, they will be far too concerned with their own orders to worry about what a handful of helpless civilians are up to.’ As if in confirmation, they heard the pounding of heavy boots running down the château’s main staircase and the sounds of harshly barked commands. ‘Come, Eliane.’ He smiled. ‘It’s time to dance.’
‘But, monsieur, your supper . . .’ Madame Boin protested, trying to regain her composure.
‘I’ll have it later. Now I must get back to the chapel. As soon as our friends in the Maquis see Eliane’s signal, they’ll get on to the radio so that I can tell them the news.’
He hurried back outside, his cane tapping briskly across the dusty yard.
She felt more exposed than ever as she paced along the narrow pathway outside the garden wall. Hesitantly at first, she held the frayed square of red silk in the air. She jumped with fright as a squadron of swifts swooped past her, their wings slicing the air before soaring off across the steep rock face that fell away to the valley below. But she regained her poise, and the surge of adrenalin through her veins made her feel braver, and she held the scarf high and waved it as she walked. Back and forth she went, sending out the message of hope, at last, to the maquisards watching from the hills, scarcely caring, now, whether the Milice or the Gestapo saw her as well.
But then, hearing a flurry of activity from the far side of the walled garden – the crunch of boots running across the courtyard, shouts, the slamming of truck doors – she instinctively shrank back against the wall. Shortly, the evening air began to hum with the throb of engines as the tanks parked in the field below the château started up. She began to walk again, feeling a little safer in the knowledge that what the count had said seemed to be true – if the soldiers were so busy preparing to dash north to try to repel the invasion in Normandy, perhaps they wouldn’t have time to take any notice of the kitchen maid out on an evening walk.
But just then, as the sound of the tanks’ engines grew to a throbbing crescendo, a series of shots rang out suddenly from the direction of the courtyard. The crack of rifle fire was followed by a rattling burst from a machine gun, which made her heart pound in her ears even more loudly than the noise of the revving tanks.
She looked around, frantically. What should she do? Keep walking until the count appeared and told her that she could stop, or go and see what had happened?
She forced herself to keep walking: Three more times along the length of the wall, she told herself, and then I’ll go and find Monsieur le Comte and ask him if I should continue . . . Surely they’ll have seen me by now.
Her heart leaped with relief when she turned back for the final time, as a figure appeared around the corner at the far end of the wall. She stopped short, though, when she realised it wasn’t the Comte de Bellevue coming to release her from her duty but Oberleutnant Farber.
She thrust the silk scarf into her pocket, hoping he would think she had simply stepped out for a breath of air, her excuses at the ready.
But he didn’t ask for any explanation. He sprinted towards her, heedless of the narrowness of the path and the steepness of the ground that fell away sharply just beyond it.
Fear gripped her belly and she froze, waiting for him to draw his pistol and fire. She knew that, even if she tried to turn and run, she would still be an easy target, trapped as she was between the garden wall on one side and the steep drop on the other.
He was calling to her as he approached, although she couldn’t make out what he was saying above the roar of the tanks. He reached her, panting, and seized her arm. ‘Quick, mademoiselle, there is no time to lose. The soldiers are leaving, but they are destroying everything as they go. You and Madame Boin must hide yourselves. I won’t be able to protect you.’
‘I heard shooting,’ she said. ‘From the courtyard.’
‘There’s no time to explain,’ he insisted. ‘You must come now and hide with Madame Boin.’
‘And Monsieur le Comte, too. We must get him.’
A look of anguish distorted the officer’s face into a mask of anger and grief, and he shook his head, pulling her along the path towards the kitchen.
‘Eliane, it’s too late. They found him. Those shots – they came from the chapel.’
Eliane gasped, shock stopping her in her tracks. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘We must go to him!’
‘Eliane,’ he repeated, although his voice was gentler this time. ‘It’s too late.’ He pulled at her arms again, his grip tightening. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now. The count would want you to save yourself.’
Numbly, she allowed him to lead her to the kitchen, staying as close to the shelter of the garden walls as they could. The courtyard was a scene of utter chaos. Behind the frantically manoeuvring vehicles and the running soldiers, some of the château’s windows had been broken. The formal beds of clipped box that flanked the front door had been flattened. She craned her neck to try to see the chapel and caught a glimpse of the heavy door wrenched off its hinges, leaning at a drunken angle. Beyond it, two black-uniformed soldiers emerged from the gloom of the chapel’s interior, carrying what looked like bits of equipment and a tangled roll of wire, which they flung into the back of a jeep before driving off at high speed.
She longed, desperately, to run across the open expanse of the yard to find out what had happened to Monsieur le Comte, but Oberleutnant Farber pushed her ahead of him into the kitchen. Madame Boin stood with her back to the cellar door, her biggest carving knife in her hand. Her distraught expression turned to one of relief when she saw Eliane. ‘Oh, thank God they didn’t get you.’
‘Hide yourselves, quickly,’ Oberleutnant Farber ordered, pointing to the cellar door. With panicked speed, Madame Boin managed to descend the steep steps. Eliane hesitated for a moment. She reached out her hand to Oberleutnant Farber and grasped his. Her warm, grey-eyed gaze met his for a second and she said, ‘Thank you, monsieur.’
He smiled at her and nodd
ed. ‘Bolt the door and stay down there. Don’t come out until morning. It’ll be safe then. We’ll all be gone.’
She held his gaze for another moment and it felt as if the noise and confusion outside faded away as they stood there, two human beings, understanding one another in the midst of all that inhumanity.
‘Adieu, Oberleutnant Farber.’
‘Adieu, Eliane.’
She shut the door behind her and pushed the heavy iron bolts at the top and bottom into place, before following Madame Boin into the cellar. The cook had found the end of a candle and lit it, casting a flickering, feeble light onto the curved stone walls.
‘We can escape!’ Eliane said, leading the way to the barrels resting on their sides in the corner. ‘Down the tunnel to the mill. Then we can raise the alert and come back to find Monsieur le Comte.’
Madame Boin shrank back against the rough wall, looking unusually vulnerable and frightened. ‘I can’t make it, Eliane. Even if I managed to climb down into the cavern, I’d get stuck in the tunnel. You go, if you must, but I’ll have to stay here.’
Eliane realised Madame Boin was right. There were parts of the tunnel, especially towards the steep, lower end, that she and Jack had scarcely been able to squeeze through.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’m not going to leave you.’ She knew, too, that getting her father involved would only put his life at risk as well. ‘We’ll do as the Oberleutnant Farber said, and wait here until morning.’
Madame Boin nodded, slumping to the floor with tears rolling down her ruddy cheeks in the candlelight. ‘Do you think they’ve killed him?’ she asked.
Eliane didn’t need to ask to whom she was referring. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied slowly. ‘But they found the wireless set. And he must have been using it when they did.’
The two women wept together then, tears of despair and helplessness, tears of frustration and anger, releasing the pent-up emotions of the past four years at last as they huddled on the flagstones of the cellar.
The stub of candle guttered and then flickered out and they were left in darkness.
It was impossible to sleep. There was silence from above them, but Eliane couldn’t be sure whether or not the soldiers had departed. The solid rock above and beneath them shut out all sounds from the outside world. They sat side by side in the blackness, glad to have the reassurance of each other’s presence as the hours passed.
They had lost track of time. ‘Is it morning yet, do you think?’ Madame Boin whispered, trying pointlessly to squint at the face of her wristwatch, which was unreadable in the pitch-darkness.
‘No, I don’t think so. Probably around midnight. We should wait a bit longer.’
‘Sssh! What’s that?’
They both tensed at the faint sound of footsteps crossing the kitchen floor above them. Someone tried the cellar door, the latch clicking as it rose and then fell back into place. There was a tapping on the door then and a voice called out ‘Eliane? Are you down there?’
‘Yves!’ she exclaimed, and scrambled up the steps to unbolt the door. She fell into her brother’s arms and sobbed on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Yves, have they gone? The soldiers? Monsieur le Comte . . .’ But she couldn’t get the words out coherently.
He pulled her to one side and called over his shoulder, ‘She’s here, Papa. Madame Boin, too. They’re alright. Come and give me a hand.’
Gustave hurried in from outside and took Eliane into his strong embrace while Yves reached down to help Madame Boin up the stairs. She collapsed into a chair, fanning herself with one meaty hand as she tried to get her breath back.
In the open doorway, Eliane could see the pinpricks of stars in the night sky far above them, but a strange orange light illuminated the yard, throwing flickering shadows across the dust. She moved towards it, but Gustave held out a hand to stop her, grabbing her by the arm.
‘Wait, Eliane! Before you go out there, there’s something I have to tell you . . .’
She turned to look at him, taking in the pained expression on his face in the sickly light. ‘What is it, Papa?’
‘We found Monsieur le Comte in the chapel,’ he said, slowly shaking his head.
‘They killed him.’ Eliane said what she had already known to be true.
Gustave nodded, miserably. ‘He’s lying beside the altar. His body must have been there for some hours.’
‘He was using the radio to spread the news. I saw them take it away.’
The ominous orange light flickered and danced, and then she sniffed the air. There was an acrid smell of smoke, but it was underlain by something else. It reminded her of something . . . Something sweet . . . Caramel, or the pralines that Lisette used to make at Christmastime.
And then she realised what was burning and she wrenched herself free of her father’s grasp and ran towards the walled garden.
A sheet of flames leaped and crackled, illuminating the potager beds and the branches of the pear tree in the corner, sending showers of sparks like shooting stars into the night sky.
Desperately, she tried to douse the flames with a half-filled watering can, but the fire had already gained a stranglehold on the hives.
‘Non! Non! Non!’ she screamed, beating at the burning wood, first with her apron and then with her bare hands. The blazing wax burned her skin and the boiling honey seared itself on to her flesh, as sparks from the burning carcasses of the hives flew around her, threatening to draw her into the murderous dance of the flames as well.
And then her father caught up with her and wrapped his sinewy arms about her, pulling her away to safety.
He held her tight as she stood and watched, sobbing helplessly, as her beehives collapsed into a heap of burning embers and the acrid scent of burned honey filled their lungs. ‘But why?’ she whispered. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘To starve us further,’ her father replied grimly. ‘Or to punish you, perhaps, as they couldn’t find you in person. Or maybe it was just one last act of senseless destruction before they left. Is there any point looking for reasons in this war?’
He held her up, supporting her as she seemed about to collapse. ‘Stand tall, Eliane,’ he said. His voice wavered, but then he said more firmly, ‘Don’t let them destroy you, too. Promise yourself. We will survive this. We won’t let them beat us. Courage, ma fille, courage.’
Madame Boin and Eliane did their best to tidy the château, which had been left in a sorry state by the departing soldiers. They swept up broken glass, scrubbed graffiti off the walls in the salon and tidied away stray belongings and items of uniform that had been left behind in the rush to leave. ‘What shall we do with this?’ Eliane asked, holding up a black serge jacket belonging to one of the soldiers of the Panzer regiment. Its silver insignia glinted dully in the light that streamed in through a broken bedroom window, which Gustave was measuring in order to board it up.
Madame Boin snorted. ‘Burning would be too good for it.’
Gustave glanced over his shoulder at the garment. ‘Best put everything in the attic, just in case they come back looking for it. Make a pile of things on the landing and I’ll get the ladder and put them up in the roof for you.’
Cleaning the chapel had been the most harrowing of their tasks. Gustave and Yves had carried the count’s body back to the château to be prepared for his funeral. While Madame Boin washed him and dressed him in a once-fine suit of clothes, Eliane had scrubbed the stone flags beside the altar. It took several buckets of water and a whole bar of the soft, ineffectual soap – which was all they had to clean with these days – to wash the blood from the floor. She’d done her best, but a dark stain remained where Monsieur le Comte’s lifeblood had drained from his wounds, seeping into the stones of the chapel as he’d manned his wireless set for the last time; as he’d urged his countrymen to rise up and join the fight to rid France of its enemy.
And yet, it felt strange having the German soldiers gone, so suddenly and so completely. The first thing the mayor had done,
once the guards left Coulliac, was to announce that Monsieur le Comte’s body would lie in state for two days so that everyone who wanted to could come and pay their respects. The people who filed past the plain pine coffin were threadbare and shabby, bony wrists protruding from frayed cuffs as each in turn removed a shapeless cap or worn beret, but they held their heads high, each person waiting their turn with a quiet dignity, ready now to take back responsibility for their patrimoine, for which the count had made the ultimate sacrifice. At long last, the French tricolour flew from the flagpole in front of the mairie again.
A news blackout had been declared, but rumours of the upsurge in Resistance activity circulated on every street corner, in the cafés and the queues outside the shops; telephone lines had been sabotaged, and railway lines and bridges destroyed so that the progress of the Germans in their headlong dash northwards was frustrated at every possible turn. Madame Fournier had heard from the mayor’s secretary, who seemed to know about such things via who-knew-what secret and tortuous route, that the Panzer divisions from Montauban to the south were moving slowly up the road towards Limoges but had been repeatedly delayed by disruptive action and even fighting in the streets of some of the towns along the way. Eliane wondered where Mathieu was and what he was doing in the midst of this chaos and confusion. Surely he wasn’t working against la Résistance, still trying to protect the railways? Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, Eliane sent up a silent prayer that he and his family were safe: the route the southern-based Panzer divisions were taking must run very close to Tulle, she supposed.
