by Cesca Major
‘Papa hates it when I eat in the street, but I’m starving,’ she explains, removing a latticed apple strudel entirely from the bag, tearing it in half and holding one out for me.
It is like no time has passed since we stopped our conversation under the awning on Armistice Day; no olive coat, and the tip of her nose a little redder, but otherwise she is unchanged.
‘I wouldn’t want to deprive you.’
‘I can always get another one. Go on, they’re delicious.’
I thank her, a huff of air as I breathe out. I stamp my feet but I haven’t felt cold since seeing her.
Isabelle settles into a steady pace beside me, although I have no idea where I am going and know I should return to the office.
‘How did the job hunt go?’ I venture, trying not to spit pastry her way.
Isabelle flaps a hand in front of her mouth, mid-mouthful.
‘Oh, dear, how unladylike!’ She swallows. ‘Well enough, thank you for remembering. I’ve been filing for a local solicitor these last few weeks, but I’m starting work as a teacher at the boys’ school in the village soon.’
We have reached the black iron gates of the park at the north end of town. As I follow Isabelle through them a woman nearby looks at me, a frown on her face. I try to place her: her crinkled brow, set curls, simple string of pearls. Isabelle is waiting for an answer to a question she must have asked as I turn to face her. I try to pick up the thread. ‘I’m sorry, I was somewhere else,’ I bluster.
‘Oh, don’t apologize. It was me being typically curious and rude. I was asking what was wrong with you, why you can’t, well …’A blush touches the edges of her cheeks, the colour instantly making her eyes seem even brighter, her teeth even whiter.
I know what she wants to ask and point to my leg. ‘I had polio as a child. It seems silly of course, but then the pain, and my knee joints … well they won’t …’
She touches my arm, cutting me off. ‘As I said, it was rude to ask.’
Our eyes meet. I shrug. ‘Understandable.’
We settle ourselves on a bench in a patch of green dotted with clumps of clover. I feel over-dressed in my woollen coat and polished office shoes. On the other side of the park, an old man on a bicycle clatters down the pathway, causing startled pigeons to make way, his shopping jigging up and down in the basket on the front. A couple, lost in conversation, look behind them as he passes.
‘Any news of Paul?’
She shakes her head, a blonde ringlet comes loose. ‘Nothing new. Poor Mama.’
I nod, picturing my own mother in our apartment, a light hand squeezing my shoulder in passing.
A woman nearby is handing out lavender posies from a basket, their faint aroma mingling with the smell of sweet chestnuts. Passers-by are shuffling past either avoiding her eyes or seeing her off with a few centimes, promises of luck in their ears as she thanks them. Her ageing eyes light up as the money changes hands and she bids them good day.
Isabelle gets up from the bench and walks towards her. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ she calls behind her.
I watch her as she greets the woman, both of them glance over at me. The woman reaches into her basket for another posy. The little purple bunches are tied with thin, coloured ribbons, and Isabelle selects one, handing over some coins in return. The woman says something that makes Isabelle’s light laugh ring across the park as she pockets the coins. Isabelle returns, even brighter now against the background of the park, the trees stripped of their leaves, the sky a threatening grey. She sits by my side on the bench and presents the posy with a flourish.
‘She said it will bring the young gentleman some good luck.’
‘Thank you.’ I accept it. ‘How nice of her.’
‘It’s not nice, it’s fact. You can’t question magic,’ she says, watching the woman accost someone else a little further off.
I clutch the posy in my hand, looking sideways at her, and hope that she’s right.
PAUL
Dear Isabelle,
I know you will probably think my letters flat and too brief. I don’t claim to have your talent for writing and how I love getting your letters. You give me a glimpse into the village, the shop with its dusty floorboards, no matter how much Maman sweeps, all the customers clucking about. Madame Garande lecturing Maman about the stock. I feel I am back there with you all hearing the little bell greeting an arrival. How I suddenly miss the moments of quiet, those long walks beyond the river and into the woods with no route planned, drinking cider on the picnic rug as I fish. It seems I can never be alone here. The lads are in good heart, it is not what we’d thought at all, there seem to be so many men from so many villages. I’ve never known the hum and buzz of so many bodies together and yet everyone has his own history.
We have travelled some distance since I last wrote and my feet seem permanently blistered. I am glad to have had some experience of work in the fields because carrying this backpack around can be hard going for some. The ground is like iron. I have struck up a friendship with Rémi, a lad the same age from Saint-Junien who spends a large part of the day telling me about his old job in a paper mill. I had never known there is so much to know about paper. Fortunately, when he is not talking about paper, we have a great deal in common. Whenever there is a free moment we manage to rope the others in to some kind of ball game. You would roll your eyes at so many men getting excited about a football, although I have told them my sister could be quite a force at the back. I am not sure Maman has ever forgiven you for ruining that dreadful candy-pink dress in aid of such a heroic save. What a shame you don’t still play.
As for Claudette you can rest at ease my sister dear, for she hasn’t captured this soldier’s heart just yet. I am not sure I will ever be ready to relinquish the memory I had of her when she snapped at Mother for dropping the flour and messing up her suede shoes and you called her an idiot and threw her out of the shop. I did not know a girl’s mouth could open that wide. You never were destined to be best friends. Still at least now I know the easiest way to annoy you when I return. Although I’m not sure even I could marry a girl just to have the last laugh.
Much of our daily life is training but I think we will soon be ready. Obviously I’m not allowed to share a great deal in these letters but be reassured that I fight alongside the best and bravest men of France. They are pretty formidable as a bunch – when we sleep under the same roof the whole place vibrates with snoring. I never had a brother, although you were always keen to play the part, but I imagine this is what a whole family of brothers is like, or a great boys’ school (although none of us is any good at spelling or mathematics – boxing perhaps).
Promise to look after Mother and keep Father from becoming too glum. You could always make him smile when nothing else could. As for me I shall continue to daydream of Mother’s rillettes de boeuf and the lemon soufflé like air that melts the moment it is in the mouth. I’m practically slobbering over this letter now. I think we’ve all become quite obsessed, continually talking about food and drink. It seems everyone’s mother makes the best meat course in France.
Don’t be too bored – someone needs to act as caretaker for the lives we will return to soon. Paul
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
She reads to me from the Bible. She has a sweet voice, a quiet lilting accent, and the familiar words wash over me, words that were such a comfort in another life. The extract today is from Exodus; she is retelling the story of Moses, adding little thoughts and prayers of her own as she reads the passages aloud. She knows this chapter so well she could read it fluently without looking at the text, but Sister Marguerite carefully ensures every word is spoken with due reverence.
‘Every son that is born to the Hebrews, you shall cast into the Nile, but you shall let every daughter live.’
I used to find it hard to believe anyone cou
ld ever rule in such a way, that a human being could expect people to follow such an absurd order. I don’t think that way any more. I simply wonder why the daughters were allowed to survive. Some men would have wanted to be more thorough.
‘… and she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds at the river’s brink.’
I picture the scene on the muddy bank, the little basket made of bulrushes, a distressed young girl so desperate for her son to survive that she is willing to cast him out into the currents of the river rather than hand him over to the authorities. Surely this desperate act is one only a mother can understand? I never truly loved anything completely and wholly until the day they handed me Paul, wrapped tightly in blankets, his face a violent shade of pink, wailing.
The labour was long and the birth complicated. They used forceps so silvery and alien I felt faint when I looked at them. I was wrenched open, could smell blood, could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck, head, through my limbs, could hear myself screaming as if I was someone else. But all was forgotten once I realized what I had brought into the world. A release, every muscle relaxed, I could feel the mattress beneath me, see my baby swaddled, knew it was over. The doctor later told Vincent that I almost died.
In the days that followed his birth I remember seeing Paul from a distance, too weak to raise my head or hold him for a long time. I strayed from certain bliss to blind panic when I woke, imagining that the birth had never taken place.
After a week I was strong enough to sit up in bed. Paul was placed in my arms and I looked down at him and realized utter perfection. This tiny being, created by me and my husband, was beautifully formed, a life in my arms, the opportunity to become anything, absolutely unspoilt. He looked at me with his wide eyes and all I could see was my own happiness reflected back in them.
His skin was so smooth I spent hours stroking his arms, his chubby legs, tickling his stomach. Neighbours bought us blankets and clothes and I scrubbed the fabrics to ensure they were clean and welcoming. Vincent bought a rocking chair in which I could nurse him and I would quietly hum lullabies from my own childhood as we watched the sun rise in the early mornings. He would sleep with a little screwed-up expression, breathing softly and evenly, and then he would wake fully and look at me, his gaze resting solely on me, his mother. He had wisps of sandy hair, grass-green eyes, and he fitted so neatly into the crook of my arm.
‘… when she opened it she saw the child and lo, the babe was crying.’
So Moses was found but his poor mother, on a distant bank somewhere, would never be sure of his fate. She would simply be praying to someone that her baby would be discovered, saved, taken out of danger. All she would know was uncertainty.
I smile, look down at my son, but something is wrong. He is breathing but his breaths are different, quicker, shallower. He is thinner, his arms and legs longer, no longer the chubby little boy I know. His wisps of sandy hair are darker, cover more of his head. The blanket he is wrapped in isn’t mine. My breathing comes faster, great panicked gasps as my hand reaches out to pull back the blanket from his face. The eyes that look at me are black, the lashes are dark. This is not my baby. What have they done to my baby? What have they done?
Arms shake me awake. Sister Marguerite is by my side, her eyes frantic. ‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘Are you in pain? What is it? How can I help?’
A silent scream.
SEBASTIEN
‘I’ll go over the plans for the opening of the new branch with you today. We must start to arrange …’
Father stands and smacks the table with flat hands, making us both jump. My mother drops the spoon for the jam. I am left hanging mid-sentence, my train of thought entirely forgotten. He clutches the edges of the table and breathes out slowly. ‘It’s this waiting that’s so awful.’ He scrapes his hands through his hair and sits back down. He looks at Mother, taking her hand in his, an apology in the gentle stroking of her wrist.
She calmly picks up the spoon and squeezes his hand back.
We both know what he means.
I have attempted to convince myself that France won’t see any fighting and, though doubts edge in, I like it this way. I am not helped by Father insisting I am foolish to think so.
These days, I seem to be finding any excuse to leave the house. The weather is warmer and, as I shut the door to the apartment, head down the stairs to the high street, I feel my muscles loosen, the downturned mouth of my father fading from my mind as I open the front door and look around Limoges in the daylight. Rubbing my aching leg (I shouldn’t have rushed the stairs) I turn left, always surprised by the everyday buzz of the high street.
Thick coils of saucisson hang in nets in the window of the butchers opposite; peaches sitting plump and appealing under an awning in the greengrocer’s next door. In a small road off the high street, men on stools sit outside their houses half in shadow, smoking stubs and swapping news. One woman, a scarf knotted at the front of her hair, is beating a rug from a window on the second floor, clouds of dust spiralling to the ground. The men don’t break their talk. A soggy newspaper lies forgotten in the gutter. Someone has stepped on Pétain’s face.
Up ahead I can see the library, imagine the figure waiting for me; then wonder briefly if she will be wearing her olive-green coat. She is always wearing it in my head. Perhaps it is too warm.
By chance I saw her at the tram stop last week. She looked at me like she had been waiting for me, that same look, familiar, as if we have known each other for years. Her face lifted up to mine as we swapped news; I felt awkward, aware of the other people waiting, listening to my inane remarks. The tram trundled up the high street, quicker, I felt, than normal. I rushed the next sentence, felt lost in the sudden din of its noise. Beneath the rumble, the call of the conductor, someone ringing the bell, she asked me to meet her again.
Today.
As I approach the stairs leading up to the library entrance she emerges from another side street. A motorcar passes in front of her and she waits to cross the road. She is wearing a pale blue dress, her hair hanging in loose curls, held up by a single clip. She turns her head to check the street and then crosses, her mouth widening into a smile that warms my whole body.
‘You came,’ she says.
TRISTAN
Our car is now at a complete stop and Maman tells us all to get out. Papa goes over and talks to one of the other drivers, whose car seems full to bursting with belongings: lampshades, bed sheets, books and clothes are all piled high. If he had a wife and children no one would know, as they’d be buried under all the items. He waves his arms around a lot and shakes his head at Papa. He offers to light a cigarette for Papa, who never normally smokes. Papa cups his hands around it, the light shows up his moustache, a thin angry line.
Maman gives us all a macaroon and tells us to be patient. Eléonore is stretching her arms up like a ballerina, leaning one way and the next to ‘loosen her muscles’. People are looking at her. Luc is asleep again in the back seat. Dimitri is cleaning his glasses quietly next door to him, pinned by a leg. He shrugs at me helplessly. I wouldn’t let Luc sprawl all over me like that.
We climb back into the car and continue on as the sun sets in front of us, leaving great streaks of pink and orange that give the people outside an unnaturally rosy glow and make the whole day even more dream-like. There is a girl, a little younger than me, about eight, dabbing at her mother’s face as they rest under a tree. There is another family all huddled onto a rug underneath an enormous umbrella, bags scattered about them, too tired to go on. An elderly man and woman are slowly pushing a trolley of books in front of them, one hand on the bar of the trolley and one hand in each other’s.
It seems to me the whole of the city is on the road, not in their houses. One man is carrying a saucepan and a guitar. A woman is dragging her child on a sledge; another goes by with a wheelbarrow full of bags. An older boy walks quickly as the younger bro
ther holds his hand, doing little, quick steps to keep up. The older boy looks over at our car as we pass. He’s about my age, I think. His reddish hair is combed into a neat side parting like he’s walking to church. He glares back at me. I look away, pretending to be looking at the sky. My face burns. Why can’t we be there yet?
The minutes crawl by and our car is no quicker than anyone outside. I think we will never get there. It is getting dark now and Papa is talking to Maman about the needle that shows the petrol. Everybody on the road seems quieter in the night, or maybe I have just got used to the sound of boots and belongings dragging, the sighs of those walking. You can’t see them clearly any more but you know they are all out there, like a sea of ghouls walking alongside our car.
If I really try to listen I can make out the artillery fire in the distance, a sort of echo. Papa told me to stop talking about it. I have slept a little but my legs are so cramped now and stupid Eléonore has stretched right out so that she has practically shoved Dimitri into me. Luc woke up a while ago, his blond hair all sticking up so I laughed at him, but then he started to cry so Maman had to shush him and ended up telling us all a story that we used to love to listen to about a merman and his adventures in an underwater kingdom. But she started crying in the middle of it and Papa stopped the car and they hugged. She sniffed and apologized and said she was being silly, but the whole thing made me angry and I wanted to kick the stupid car and run outside and go back home to Paris.
It is past dawn now and Papa says we are going to stop soon and eat a sort of dinner and look for somewhere to sleep. I’m not sure you can call it dinner if you’ve missed all the meals before it but I am not about to point that fact out to Papa.
