War Girls

by Adele Geras

  My whole body is shaking. If only Pascal were here. Or Father, God help me. He’d never, ever give up the farm.

  ‘Please, Uncle Gustav. There’s got to be something we can do. I’ll do anything, anything at all.’

  ‘Well.’ He scratches his ear. ‘There is one possibility …’

  We talk late into the evening. Uncle Gustav tells us about the War and how the soldiers near the Front are always hungry because there’s not enough food to go around. He says prices have gone sky high in Étaples since the British army built their camp just over the railway track, and General Foch set up his headquarters in the nearby town of Frévent.

  ‘If we leave right away, ma petite, we’ll be there in time for the Christmas goose fairs. You’ll be able to ask whatever you like for those fat, juicy birds of yours.’

  I toss and turn all night, Uncle Gustav’s words churning in my head. Where will I get the best price? Étaples or Frévent? Will I really be able to clear Father’s debts? Is Mother well enough for me to leave her on her own?

  It feels as if I’ve only just shut my eyes when, at dawn, she knocks on my door and comes in with a pair of Pascal’s trousers, a shirt, a jacket and his stout walking boots.

  ‘It’s safer to travel as a boy,’ she explains with a smile.

  I dress in my brother’s clothes. The material feels rough between my thighs, but it’s thrilling to strut about without skirts dragging at my legs. Mother brushes my hair, then carefully tucks it under one of Pascal’s hats. We go to her room so I can look in her mirror. I gasp when I see myself. It could be my brother staring back.

  ‘Wear this too, my angel.’ She takes off her silver cross and hangs it around my neck. ‘And promise me, if you meet a ghost at a crossroads, you won’t talk to it.’

  Solemnly, I promise.

  Downstairs, Uncle Gustav claps me on the shoulder. ‘My word, Angélique! Don’t you make a fine fellow? Have you made up your mind yet? Are we selling those birds to the British army at Étaples or the French soldiers in Frévent?’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me where to go, Uncle Gustav?’

  ‘It’s not my farm, ma petite. It’s up to you and your mother to decide.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, my angel. Your father always made these decisions.’

  I take a moment before I speak. I feel very grown up but also small somehow. It’s as if I’m on the edge of something great and once I’ve spoken there’ll be no turning back.

  I look about the kitchen one last time, at the objects I’ve known all my life and the chair where Pascal always sat. He’d want me to sell his geese to the French army, I’m sure of that. Then, all of a sudden, it occurs to me that General Foch might know where Pascal is.

  Smiling at a secret hope, I turn around and say, ‘Uncle Gustav! You and I are going to Frévent.’

  We step out into a clear blue morning. Blackbirds sing. Icy puddles crunch underfoot. The geese pop up their heads in surprise when I open the gate to the lane.

  My pockets are bulging with bread and cheese, and grain for the geese. I scatter a handful on the ground to tempt them to follow me.

  A female ventures out first, stretching her neck and calling to the others. They waddle after her, talking softly back.

  At the top of the lane I turn and wave. Mother is already a small figure in the distance.

  Slowly, we climb past the fields and into the woods, me at the front, Uncle Gustav herding the stragglers from behind.

  At midmorning we stop to rest. The geese graze and preen. There is a stream, and Napoleon goes in for a swim.

  We continue on our journey.

  At midday the sky clouds over. After lunch, Napoleon refuses to budge and we have to take a stick to him. His heavy body drags in the mud.

  By mid-afternoon a clinging mist is closing in. We trudge through the murk, searching for the fork that will take us to the barn where we plan to spend the night.

  ‘Are you sure we haven’t passed it, ma petite?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Uncle Gustav.’

  A yellow pinprick of light punctures the gloom. We approach it cautiously and find an old woman bent over an open fire, roasting a rabbit on a spit. Her cart is parked on a narrow crossing track, and her scabby horse is tethered to a hawthorn tree.

  ‘Good evening, madame,’ says Uncle Gustav.

  The woman does not look up.

  ‘A dirty night,’ he adds.

  Still she tends the charred remains of her rabbit.

  ‘We’re going to the railway station at Monville,’ I say. ‘Are we on the right road, do you know?’

  Uncle Gustav sucks his teeth and the old woman looks up sharply. I step back, afraid.

  She doesn’t have eyes. Just empty, withered sockets.

  ‘Tell your fortune, my angel?’ Her voice is thin and wheezy.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ I demand.

  ‘It’s written in the stars.’

  Rolling his eyes, Uncle Gustav pulls me away. ‘Good night, madame, and bon appétit.’

  Night falls. The fog lifts. We’re on an open heath which I don’t recognise, but soon there is moonlight enough to know for certain we’re lost.

  ‘Look,’ says Uncle Gustav, pointing to a windmill, high on a ridge. ‘That’ll have to do for tonight.’

  The breeze picks up as we cross the heath, weaving between tussocks and mires. As we draw near, I hear the windmill’s sail-arms creak and the door banging on its hinges.

  The geese refuse to go in.

  ‘They’ll be fine outside, ma petite.’

  We climb a rickety ladder and make mattresses out of old, floury sacks. The place stinks of rats. I lie in the freezing dark, listening for their claws, afraid they’ll eat my face in the night and I’ll be too numb with cold to notice.

  In the early hours I wake to find Uncle Gustav gone. I hurry down the ladder. Outside the silence is profound. The wind has died and frost shrouds the ground. Above me, the ice-ringed moon peers down like an eye.

  ‘Careful you don’t catch your death, ma petite.’

  Startled, I jump as Uncle Gustav emerges from the shadow of the mill. I run into his arms. Beyond him, the geese stand staring at the sky, a forest of necks and gaping beaks. Following their gaze, I see skeins of flying birds, wave upon wave of them, like endless flights of arrows.

  ‘What are they?’ I ask.

  ‘Wild geese from the north.’

  ‘What are they doing this far south?’

  ‘There must be a cold winter coming.’

  He holds me close as we watch them. I’ve never seen such a sight. Our geese grow restless. They call and flap. Napoleon spreads his wings as wide as he can reach. My heart bleeds for him. I wish he could take off – just once – and wheel free in the glittering heavens. But he’s too big for that; his feet can’t ever leave the ground.

  As if he knows it, he lets out a mournful cry. The other geese join in and from far away I hear an eerie whistle. The wild geese are calling back.

  Then one phalanx breaks off and circles the moon. They fly low towards us. More birds break ranks, then more and more, until an almighty host swirls about us, their dark bodies seething across the heath. Our geese vanish as if beneath a sea.

  Amazed, I ask, ‘Have they come to take our geese away?’

  Uncle Gustav laughs. ‘No, ma petite. They’re only visiting.’

  He’s right. The wild geese are gone by dawn. In the grey light, the land looks empty without them. Our geese feed and preen as if nothing has happened. I watch them for a while, glad they can’t understand where I’m taking them – and that they won’t be coming back.

  Not that all the wild geese have come safely through the night. As we retrace our steps back to the road, we find dozens of bodies lying among the tussocks or floating in the mires. I stop and admire their sculpted black feathers.

  ‘Don’t touch them, ma petite. We don’t know what they died from.’

  ‘Isn�
�t it just the cold, Uncle Gustav?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t expect to see so many of them dead. These birds are used to the cold.’

  I nod but say nothing more.

  At the road we turn north, guided by the low winter sun. The geese walk more slowly today. It takes us hours to herd them off the heath and into familiar valleys again.

  As soon as I know the way, we chivvy them along, past fields and farms. Another hill. Another valley. We rest them as briefly as we can.

  Just after three I spy the rooftops of Monville, faint like sketches in the mist. We stop by the roadside one final time. The geese paddle in ditches, then ruffle their feathers and settle, all the while holding their secret conversations.

  There are other people on the road, driving sheep or herding ducks. One girl about my age is grazing two cows on the verge. Two! I feel a stab of jealousy.

  Then, in the distance, I hear an unfamiliar hammering sound. Everyone turns to look, and although we can’t see anything, the noise grows steadily louder. Uncle Gustav climbs on a wall. Then he mutters, ‘Damn it.’

  ‘What is it, Uncle Gustav?’

  ‘It looks like an army truck to me.’

  No! It can’t be. Not again. A knot tightens in my stomach. ‘Are you sure?’

  But by now even I can tell it’s the noise of a motor vehicle.

  The lane empties. I see the girl drag her cows behind a hedge and a man stuff two chickens under his coat. But our geese are scattered; there’s no time to hide them.

  ‘Quick! Angélique! Over here!’

  Uncle Gustav pulls me behind a tree and we squat together in the damp grass. I shut my eyes and pray. Please, God, let them pass us by.

  The hammering is inside my head now and I fancy I smell engine oil. I try my hardest to stay hidden, but in the end I can’t help it. I steal a peek up the road.

  A sludge-green lorry with a flapping canvas top is coming towards us, pitching and wallowing like a runaway cart. Two men sit in the open cab: a driver with a thick moustache and a passenger in a braided cap. An officer, I guess. They both stare straight ahead until …

  I dip my head, desperately hoping they didn’t catch my eye. I pray they’re going too fast to stop. Or that their brakes are rotten and they’ll crash into the ditch. But God isn’t listening. With a squeal of tyres, they skid to a halt. There’s no one in the road except them and us.

  Uncle Gustav stands up, legs apart, hands on hips. Napoleon flaps and hisses. The driver and the officer climb out.

  ‘Monsieur,’ says the officer.

  ‘Monsieur,’ says Uncle Gustav.

  Neither man touches his cap.

  ‘Hmm,’ says the officer, turning to me. ‘Off to market, are you, lad?’

  Heart thumping, I stare at my feet.

  ‘Speak when you’re spoken to,’ orders the driver. ‘And afterwards you and me will have a little chat about what a strapping young chap like yourself is doing shirking his patriotic duty.’

  Uncle Gustav bristles. ‘That is my niece you’re talking to.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the officer, smiling. ‘So you’re helping your uncle take his geese to market, are you, mademoiselle?’

  ‘No,’ I say as stoutly as I can. ‘The geese don’t belong to him.’

  ‘So mademoiselle can speak.’

  ‘Yes I can! And I’ve a right to be heard!’

  ‘Hush, ma petite. The gentleman was only teasing.’

  Teasing? Teasing! When I’m being forced to sell Pascal’s geese? I’ll give him teasing! I stand up straight, square my shoulders and look him in the eye.

  ‘These geese belong to my brother, monsieur, who’s a soldier just like you. So don’t think you can take them – because you can’t. I won’t let you. Me! Angélique Lacroix. These geese are going to General Foch himself. And yes, I’m selling them, not giving them away, because I need the money to save my brother’s farm. That is my duty, monsieur, and I’ll not let anyone stand in my way!’

  The officer’s eyes are out on stalks. His jaw is hanging open. Have I gone too far? Will he hit me like Father would? Will he lash me till I bleed? My heart races and my cheeks burn until … He throws back his head and laughs.

  ‘Well said, mademoiselle!’

  With a flourish, he pulls a notebook out of his pocket and writes something down. Then he tears off the piece of paper and hands it to Uncle Gustav.

  ‘Monsieur.’ The officer bows. ‘Mademoiselle.’

  He tips his cap to me, turns on his heels and jumps into the cab. The driver hurries after him and they’re gone, disappearing in a farting cloud of fug.

  Speechless, I look at Uncle Gustav. He’s staring at the piece of paper, his mouth moving slowly.

  ‘What does it say?’ I ask him.

  He sits down heavily.

  There are tears in his eyes. He rakes his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Uncle Gustav! What does it say?’

  I snatch the paper from him. It’s covered in fancy scrolls and headed with ornate printed words: ‘Liberty. Equality. Fraternity.’

  ‘But this is terrible,’ I cry. ‘It’s an official requisition form!’

  ‘Read what he wrote, ma petite.’

  Slowly I spell out the letters. It’s difficult because the writing is large and flowery, but in the end I work out what it says.

  Gaping, I read it again:

  By Order of the Government of France, the Geese in Possession of Mademoiselle A. Lacroix Are In Transit to His Excellency General Ferdinand Foch. Priority Passage Requested.

  Uncle Gustav starts to laugh. So do I. He leaps up and punches the air. I dance a jig in the middle of the road. He grabs my hands and we’re twirling, twirling, and Napoleon is honking and the world is such a wonderful place to be.

  ‘They can’t stop us now, Uncle Gustav! No one can stop us now!’

  We march into Monville in triumph. Street lamps shine. Shop windows sparkle. We ignore the dingy back streets and swing along a wide boulevard.

  At the railway station, there’s a glorious kerfuffle. We wave our official paper. The station master waves his arms. There’s no time to waste because the train to Paris is already approaching the platform. A black smoking monster of a train. The screech of its wheels is deafening.

  The geese panic. It’s all I can do to stop them from plunging onto the tracks. I run after them, followed by Uncle Gustav, the station master, a handful of passengers, the guard from the train. We rush along the platform, grabbing the geese, and carry them, squawking, into a cattle truck.

  The guard slams the door behind us, and Uncle Gustav and I burst out laughing again. Exhausted and in pitch darkness, we’re on the next stage of our journey.

  I’ve never been so cold in my life, not even last night in the windmill. As we hurtle along, blades of ice slice through the wooden slats. I can’t escape them no matter where I sit.

  And the noise! The horrible clanking clatter that batters my ears all night long. Heaven knows how Uncle Gustav sleeps through it.

  Now and then I hear the train whistle and we slow to a halt. The guard calls out the name of a town, but it’s never, ever Paris.

  At last dirty ribbons of daylight fall across the floor and I touch Uncle Gustav on the shoulder. He opens his eyes and smiles up at me.

  ‘Did you get some rest, ma petite? We must be nearly there.’

  But the day crawls slowly past. We idle in stations, seemingly for no reason, and stop in lonely sidings, waiting for other trains to overtake. The afternoon is fading before I see tall buildings through the slats. Warehouses. Chimneys. The Eiffel Tower!

  ‘Uncle Gustav,’ I shout. ‘We’re here!’

  ‘So we are, ma petite.’

  For a few minutes more the train clunks on. Then, with a wheeze, we stop.

  Uncle Gustav slides open the door. We’re in a smoke-filled cathedral of iron. The air reeks of soot and there’s a distant roar like the wind in trees. I jump down opposite a sign saying Gare d’Orléans. T
he platform seems longer than the lane to our farm.

  We coax the geese off the train, then lure them along the platform with a scattering of grain. At the gate to the concourse they stop, huddling together, hissing and waggling their heads like the picture of the Gorgon I once saw in a book.

  And who can blame them? There are hundreds of people out there – men, women, children, porters and beggars – all bustling about.

  ‘Here, ma petite. This might help.’

  Uncle Gustav gives me a piece of string. I tie it round the neck of a young female and gently pull her forward. The rest of the flock stays close with Uncle Gustav shooing them from behind.

  The streets outside are just as busy. All of Paris seems in a rush. I see gas lamps. A bridge. Chestnut stalls. Milliners’ shops. The smell of fresh bread makes my mouth water.

  At the Place de la République, Uncle Gustav buys us baked potatoes, hot off a brazier. I cup mine in my hands to thaw out my fingers, and watch the geese splash happily in a fountain. Their antics draw a crowd: soldiers in uniform and ladies in feathered hats. A group of small boys starts to laugh.

  At first I laugh with them, but then I see what they’re up to. A little goose is stuck in the fountain. She’s flapping and frightened but the boys won’t let her out.

  Angry, I chase them away and lift the poor bird onto the pavement. She’s too tired to walk so I tuck her under my jacket as we set off again.

  The Gare du Nord is a sombre place, full of men in different coloured uniforms. Some have different coloured skins.

  ‘Where do they all come from?’ I whisper to Uncle Gustav.

  ‘The four corners of the earth, ma petite.’

  He disappears into the ticket office and I wait with the geese under the station clock.

  Train after train disgorges its cargo of men. Officers step out of carriages, while the ordinary soldiers jump down from trucks. Do any of them know Pascal, I wonder. Could one of them be him? I pass the time by studying their faces.

  The clock is striking ten p.m. when Uncle Gustav returns, walking behind a stout railway official in gold-rimmed spectacles. The official counts the geese twice, then writes ‘twenty-seven’ in his big red ledger and snaps it shut.

  ‘There!’ He thrusts our piece of paper into Uncle Gustav’s hand. ‘Now be off with you. I have paying passengers to attend to.’