Fall of Poppies

by Heather Webb

  The planes looped around, though I knew we were all watching below. And suddenly, rippling through the men in the trenches, the men still on the battlefield, so loud we could hear it above the planes and the wind, a cheer went up below. And I knew what Hughely was talking about. Over. The war was over.

  I wasn’t going to be shot down over a field of poppies. I wasn’t going to die before those banns were called and before I could properly kiss Victoire. I wasn’t going to have to worry about the little one growing up in a country wrung with war. All I had to worry about was his skinned knees and heartaches.

  Years later, ­people would always ask, what were you doing the moment the war ended? Everyone had a story. Marching, recovering, pulling the pin from a grenade.

  Me? I was composing a letter to my wife in my mind. I was telling her, for the first time, “I love you.”

  To Danielle,

  who has always known when I need

  a handkerchief and when I need a laugh

  Hour of the Bells

  Heather Webb

  BEATRIX WHISKED AROUND the showroom, feather duster in hand. Not a speck of dirt could remain or Joseph would be disappointed. The hour struck noon. A chorus of clocks whirred, their birds popping out from hiding to announce midday. Maidens twirled in their frocks with braids down their backs, woodcutters clacked their axes against pine, and the odd sawmill wheel spun in tune to the melody of a nursery rhyme. Two dozen cuckoos warbled and dinged, each crafted with loving detail by the same pair of hands—­those with thick fingers and a steady grip.

  Beatrix paused in her cleaning. One clock chimed to its own rhythm, apart from the others.

  She could turn them off—­the tinkling melodies, the incessant clatter of pendulums, wheels, and cogs, with the levers located near the weights—­just as their creator had done before bed each evening, but she could not bring herself to do the same. To silence their music was to silence him, her husband, Joseph. The Great War had already done that—­ravaged his gentle nature, stolen his final breath, and silenced him forever.

  In a rush, Beatrix scurried from one clock to the next, assessing which needed oiling. With the final stroke of twelve, she found the offending clock. Its walnut face, less ornate than the others, had been her favorite, always. A winter scene displayed a cluster of snow-­topped evergreens; rabbits and fawns danced in the drifts when the music began, and a scarlet cardinal dipped its head and opened its beak to the beauty of the music. The animals’ simplicity appealed to her now more than ever. With care, she removed the weights and pendulum, and unscrewed the back of the clock. She was grateful she had watched her husband tend to them so often. She could still see Joseph, blue eyes peering over his spectacles, focused on a figurine as he painted detailing on the linden wood. His patient hands had caressed the figures lovingly, as he had caressed her.

  The memory of him sliced her open. She laid her head on the table as black pain stole over her body, pooling in every hidden pocket and filling her up until she could scarcely breathe.

  “Give it time,” her friend Adelaide had said, as she set a basket of jam and dried sausages on the table; treasures in these times of rations, yet meager condolence for what Beatrix had lost.

  “Time?” Beatrix had laughed, a hollow sound, and moved to the window overlooking the grassy patch of yard. The Vosges mountains rose in the distance, lording over the line between France and Germany along the battlefront. Time’s passage never escaped her—­not for a moment. The clocks made sure of it. There weren’t enough minutes, enough hours, to erase her loss.

  As quickly as the grief came, it fled. Though always powerful, its timing perplexed her. Pain stole through the night, or erupted at unlikely moments, until she feared its onslaught the way others feared death. Death felt easier, somehow.

  Beatrix raised her head and pushed herself up from the table to finish her task. Joseph would not want her to mourn, after two long years. He would want to see her strength, her resilience, especially for their son. She pretended Adrien was away at school, though he had enlisted, too. His enlistment had been her fault. A vision of her son cutting barbed wire, sleeping in trenches, and pointing a gun at another man reignited the pain and it began to pool again. She suppressed the horrid thoughts quickly, and locked them away in a corner of her mind.

  With a light touch she cleaned the clock’s bellows and dials, and anointed its oil bath with a few glistening drops. Once satisfied with her work, she hung the clock in its rightful place above the phonograph, where a disk waited patiently on the spool. She spun the disk once and watched the printed words on its center blur. Adrien had played “Quand Madelon” over and over, belting out the patriotic lyrics in time with the music. To him, it was a show of his support for his country. To Beatrix it had been a siren, a warning that her only son would soon join the fight. His father’s death was the final push he had needed. The lure of patrimoine, of country, throbbed inside him as it did in other men. They talked of war as women spoke of tea sets and linens, yearned for it as women yearned for children. Now the war had seduced her Adrien. She stopped the spinning disk and plucked it from its wheel, the urge to destroy it pulsing in her hands.

  She must try to be more optimistic. Surely God would not take all she had left.

  A knock echoed through the foyer.

  Beatrix’s pulse stuttered. She did not expect visitors. In wartime, unannounced guests meant one of two things—­soldiers at her door, or someone had died. Her hand flew to the pendant she wore at her throat, stamped with Adrien’s initials.

  Perhaps her son had written, she tried to convince herself.

  The pounding at the door persisted.

  Dread filled her limbs, leaden in its weight, and her legs refused to carry her to the door.

  “Madame Joubert!” The postman’s voice was muffled by the barrier of solid oak and the whipping of a brisk fall breeze. “Please, open the door. I know you’re home. I can see the lights in your window. It’s urgent.”

  Beatrix’s heart pounded an erratic beat. She grasped the edge of the sofa for support.

  “It’s posted from Jean Largot.” He paused. “Madame? I am going to leave it in your letter box.”

  A letter from Adrien’s closest friend and fellow soldier. Bea­trix clutched the duster in her hand, knuckles white. Inhaling, she reminded herself there was no need to be emotional. It would not help her now. She stalked to the spirit cabinet and poured herself a splash of the little remaining brandy. With two quick gulps the liquid disappeared. Whatever the letter contained, she would need courage to face it. She unlatched the front door and retrieved the dreaded missive. Once inside, she poured another brandy and sat on the sofa. She cradled the envelope in her lap, toying with its edges a long while.

  At last, Beatrix slit open the envelope and smoothed Jean’s letter. The page was slightly crinkled and the ink bled across the page from sweat—­or tears? She read the letter once, and again, and then a third time. Hand shaking, she finished her brandy. A battle had raged near the Selle River. Though the Allies had won, the Germans had made their mark. When the ambulances arrived to tend the wounded, Adrien, along with many others blown to bits, had not been among the survivors.

  An emotion swept over her, terrible in its force. In place of pain, hot venom surged through her, burning her core. In place of fear and aching, determination swirled, settled, and congealed, turning her heart to stone. They couldn’t take him. She shook her head, refusing to believe it—­refusing to believe her baby boy was gone. They had destroyed everything, the Germans. She glanced at the mirror on the wall opposite her. A roaring howled inside her, yet her features reflected no panic, no tears welled in her eyes. Only the clench of jaw indicated something was amiss.

  Somehow, she would make them pay.

  SOFT SPRING LIGHT flooded through the window of the salon. Beatrix removed a screaming teakettle from the burner and poure
d water over tea leaves. She glanced up at the sound of footsteps on the front path.

  Adrien slammed the door behind him in a huff. His tall frame was hunched, his hands balled into fists. “They hate me.”

  “No one hates you,” she said, stirring the brew in her cup. He could be so dramatic.

  “The kids at school called me a boche.” A tear slid down his cheek. Embarrassed, he wiped it away angrily. “The boches murdered Papa, and now they’re accusing me of being one?” He slammed his fist down on the countertop.

  She cringed at the anti-­German slur. She was born a German citizen in a small town in the Black Forest, a ­couple of hours’ travel from her current home in Belfort, France. She’d met Joseph during his apprenticeship as a clockmaker. He had won her over with quiet humor and romantic gestures, surprising her often with his unique brand of poetry. When he asked for her hand, she accepted his French heritage as her own. Now the Germans were her enemies. Her ­people had killed him, shattered her life, and destroyed the country she had grown to love.

  She would never forgive them.

  After a moment of tarrying over how to reply, she said, “Show them you are a worthy young man and they’ll leave you be.”

  “I’ll show them, all right. I’ll show all of you.” He glared at her with a ferocity she recognized in her own father, so many years ago. Adrien had inherited it, a fact she could never share, not now.

  Her son’s face rippled and faded as her eyes slowly opened.

  Beatrix jolted awake. She squinted and looked around, disoriented. Lace curtains floated over a window slicked with rain. The faint odor of vinegar tinged the air. Frowning, she turned and saw only the phonograph, its record motionless beneath the gleaming brass of the Morning Glory horn. The memory of Adrien, of his self-­hatred, his hatred of who she was, had come in a dream to punish her.

  Reality crushed her lungs and she couldn’t breathe. She had to get out, leave this house of memories—­at the very least until she knew her next move. She pushed up from the sofa and walked at a measured clip to her bedroom. With exquisite care she groomed herself. After sleeping so little last night, she’d slept most of the day away, yet purple circles had deepened beneath her eyes.

  “Everything must appear in order, even when it is not,” she could still hear her mother say, as she powdered her face. Now Beatrix did just as she had been taught.

  After slipping into a plain day dress, she creased the letter with careful, perfect folds. She walked through the doorway joining the house and the clock shop and placed the letter next to a stack of ledgers. She hesitated an instant, then flipped one open. Inside, she’d pressed two dried poppies; symbols of beauty and hope, Joseph had called them in one of his letters. She couldn’t bring herself to discard them. She closed the ledger with a snap. Her job had been to keep meticulous records of Joseph’s income and supplies, as well as the inheritance they had received when his parents had passed. Who would inherit her estate now? Despair bloomed inside her, coating her throat and tongue like oil. Get out! She had to get out.

  Beatrix rushed outdoors to face the November chill and blanket of melancholy sky. Today she was thankful for the cold. Let it freeze her face and limbs, numb her from head to toe. She didn’t want to feel. Yet hadn’t that always been her way? When Adrien skinned his knee or a classmate hurt his feelings, she had squeezed his hand and sent him on his way. To show too much emotion did not aid one in this life—­her German mother had taught her that long ago. Instinctively she rubbed the back of her hand where the lash of a leather belt once split her skin.

  What she would give to squeeze Adrien’s hand again, to hold him tightly.

  She pushed against the wind, down the solitary road to a block of stucco homes topped with too-­cheery orange roof tiles. After several minutes of brisk walking, she reached the centre ville. The space between buildings vanished. A long line of town homes and apartment buildings framed the city streets of Belfort, overlooking the open plaza. Self-­important French soldiers, guns strapped to their backs, stood at the mouth of each street. Belfort was the farthest point in the Alsace region before the German border. A medieval fort had been converted to the army’s stronghold and soldiers and military policemen were posted throughout town and along the river.

  Beatrix approached two soldiers laughing and jostling one another. They looked barely older than Adrien, who had entered the war at the tender age of eighteen. One of them punched the other in the shoulder and laughed. How could they find amusement at such a time? She looked down as she passed. Their leather boots were scarred and the heels uneven from months of patrolling, marching over uneven terrain, and over corpses.

  Slain like her family.

  The roaring began again, and a river of venom raced through her veins. She hated the Germans, and this infernal war. She picked up the pace, leaving the soldiers—­the reminder of her loss—­behind. On the opposite end of the square, the bakery was packed, as always. Customers spilled down the street in a line, waiting for their ration of the day’s bread. As she passed the shop, the scent of warm yeast billowed into the cold evening air. Not wanting to catch the eye of anyone she knew, she tilted her head to shield her face from view.

  Too late.

  “Beatrix?” A woman called from across the street. “C’est toi?”

  She looked up to see Geraldine Bernat bounding toward her, cloche hat snug over her auburn locks and baguette wedged under her arm. The woman never knew when to close her mouth. Worse, she had once sought Joseph’s affections before he had come to Furtwangen to learn clockmaking. The minute Beatrix’s path crossed his, it was as if no other had existed before them. Luckily, Geraldine hadn’t seemed to mind, her feelings were easily swayed, and she quickly took up with another eligible man.

  Beatrix didn’t bother with a greeting and instead forced a smooth expression and prepared to dash past the bakery. The woman was kind, but nosy.

  “Oh, darling, how are you?” Geraldine held her hat to her head to prevent it from blowing away. Her round cheeks were stained pink with cold.

  “Bonjour, Geraldine.” She avoided the question.

  Sympathy filled the woman’s eyes. “How are you holding up?” She adjusted the baguette that slipped from her grip. “What will you do with Joseph’s little shop?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Beatrix pressed her lips together to hold it all in—­the terrible things she envisioned, the knot of emotion throbbing inside her.

  Geraldine’s eyes lit up, as if she’d happened on a remembered gem of gossip. “Have you considered returning home? Your family would be a comfort to you, I’m sure. Though traveling to Germany at such a time must be difficult. Well, in fact, being German must be difficult.”

  Several heads whipped around at the mention of that most hated place—­the cause of their country’s destruction and their lives.

  “My home is here.” Beatrix glanced at the line of customers. They had forgotten their fresh loaves and the mouths they needed to feed. Did a traitor lurk in their midst?

  “A German?” a man asked, stepping from the line into the street.

  “Who?” Another friend joined him.

  Beatrix held her breath. To be counted among their enemies made her insides spoil like mold on bread. The same as Adrien had felt.

  She locked gazes with Geraldine. “Nothing to be alarmed about, gentlemen. We are just being women, gossiping.”

  Geraldine’s lips quivered as if holding back something she longed to say. It seemed to pain her to guard any secret.

  Beatrix clenched her teeth, waiting for the woman to spill her secret.

  “Madame?” The man read Geraldine’s hesitation all too well.

  With a wave of her hand, Geraldine dismissed him. “Just harmless gossip, as Madame Joubert said. Please, go about your business, gentlemen.” Her lips curved into a smile.

  Beatrix exh
aled. A close call—­entirely too close. It hadn’t occurred to her that being widowed exposed her, but of course it did. Should she draw attention to her nationality, she could be run out of town, or at the very least, shunned.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For keeping my business private.”

  “You are as much a citizen as I,” Geraldine said, patting her shoulder. “You’re well regarded in Belfort, so you have nothing to worry about. We will all stand behind you should there be any issue. Though, I imagine it must be difficult for you to not feel . . . estranged.”

  Geraldine fished for a nugget of information—­anything to share with the other ladies in their circle. Though Beatrix knew she was truly liked, war had a way of shifting one’s opinions. Her need to keep her emotion sealed away became greater than ever.

  “Thank you for your kind words, but I’m not feeling well,” Beatrix said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”

  She walked away quickly, past darkened shop windows, which peered at her with hollow eyes. Her own hollowness pulsed inside her, its edges turning sharp as knives to shred her insides. She fought to control the pain; its weight could drag her under if she let it. Breathless, she wound through several streets as fast as her feet could take her, desperate to outrun her agony, until the scent of the muddy Savoureuse River flooded her nostrils. Just one more turn and she would be there.

  The river sprang into view, tamed only by the stone walls that channeled its tumult through town. She headed for the center of the bridge as if it held the answer. There, she leaned against the railing and stared down at the water churning beneath her feet. Heavy rains had filled the basin, fuller than she had seen it in a while. One could slip over the edge of the bridge and catch a current downstream, be gone in an instant. A few hopeless souls had done just that—­ended it all—­these last years of wartime. Bea­trix closed her eyes, envisioning the rush of cold water under her skirts, swirling over her head and seeping into her lungs. She felt the burn of it, of bubbles escaping her lips and clambering to the surface while she sank into oblivion. How quiet and swift death would be—­unlike the deaths of her men. But that wasn’t just. She couldn’t slip away quietly.