by Cesca Major
We carry on playing gin rummy, frozen like deer in the moment when the floor vibrates – something a little too close for comfort, no one wanting to be trapped here. I focus on my hands as I start to feel the room close around me, the shadows on the walls dancing. Picking at a nail I breathe out slowly; Edward catches my eye, understands, gives me a weak smile. We rest against the walls, shut our eyes.
Father’s burble of a laugh, tickled by something I’ve said; Mother’s easy presence, her piano pieces fluttering around the apartment like they are tripping on a breeze, and then … Isabelle. A halo of sunshine around golden hair, green eyes that flash in my dreams, waking me with a start like she’s been watching me sleep.
In the morning, we stumble out and survey the streets around us, staring at the blown-out upper half of a nearby house, bed and belongings dripping out of the exposed wall, spewing its contents into the street below: the bath, balanced precariously at a slant, tiles, bricks, books, china, fragments. Two figures standing wordlessly hand in hand staring at it, the woman’s neat grey curls under a burgundy felt hat, the man in a large overcoat, as if they are about to take their daily constitutional.
There is no word. Jean-Paul and I are in regular correspondence – without his wires of money I would have never made it this far – but he has heard nothing from my parents. The local gendarmes are being wholly unhelpful, and a lot of their mutual friends either can’t help or refuse to do so. Never once in the letters do either of us hint at the reasons behind the silence, neither of us ready to admit the rumours we have heard. I beg Jean-Paul to keep up the search, desperately guilty not to be back in France helping him.
‘I am so pleased you got out,’ he often repeats. ‘And your parents would be too.’
He continues to run the bank in both mine and Father’s absence, for us to return to after the war. I cling to his optimism: I devour newspapers for news of them, not knowing how much of what I am reading is simply propaganda served up by the Allies, but shocked anyway by the talk of camps, of men, women and children being shot, sent away.
How can everyone stand by? Is it really all true?
I try to picture my mother in these appalling circumstances but can never fully convince myself that the delicate woman who loves her figurines, delicately embroidered patterns, the pianoforte, can have found her way to one of these places. Nor can I conceive of my father being treated as some faceless nobody; I see him grumbling about the heat on a summer’s day, noticing a speck of dust on his coat and removing it with a quick flick of his wrist. Any fool can see that my parents are simple, pleasant, well-mannered people.
I hold on to this hope as I continue to enquire. I write dozens of letters, haunt the gates of various embassies, read every newspaper, beg Edward to make his parents use their contacts, their friends’ contacts. No one has heard anything.
It’s as if nothing extraordinary has happened at all.
Edward helps me find work with an ambulance crew. I learn how to check the tyres, battery and radiator, how to keep the levels topped up before every outing. They need help, physical strength, and I feel useful, enjoying the ache in my limbs at the end of a day as I weave back through the darkening streets of London, in amongst the bustle of other commuters, or uniformed men and women on leave, hastening to whichever social event might drown out their war-weary thoughts for a moment.
For me, in my head, I am stuck in France. I see Isabelle everywhere; in every laugh, a glimpse of blue dress, a red suede shoe, blonde hair. It is never her – a flash of her, but always smaller and disappointing: the shoes belong to a stout brunette, the laugh jars, the blonde hair is too short. For a second though, a second of possibility, I ache for it to really be her. I crave her reassuring gaze, steady on my face; to see myself as she sees me, somebody strong. I try to conjure up the feel of her touch on my arms, the small of my back; I try to recall her laugh captured in a glove, a sputter. The ghost of her kisses remain on my cheeks and, as I wipe my face in the mirror, I imagine I am wiping them away. I am scared that we will stay apart for years and I realize that, in many ways, I need the agony, need the sharp jolt when I realize it is not her, because then I’m reminded what I feel is real and if she feels a fraction of it, she will wait for me.
I write letters to her in a neat scrawl, fold them up carefully, buy envelopes for them. They speak of nothing and everything: the smeared grin of a toddler on a bus; the sound of the anti-aircraft guns over the city at night; the sky, almost free from stars above my head; my introduction to whale meat. My parents. The war. Then a series of questions enquiring as to the minutiae of her day, her life, questions so humdrum that they force me there, across the Channel, back in front of her, listening to the details firsthand.
Every time a letter arrives in barely legible, slanting blue ink – she has always had terrible handwriting, she admits – I feel I am at home again in my bedroom in Limoges, my mother downstairs singing a little aria as she plays, Father reading in his favourite chair. I sit, head resting against the whitewashed wall of the single bedroom, a threadbare rug, scrubbed-pine chest of drawers, washbowl and faded photograph of Westminster Bridge the only accessories to the blank space, and close my eyes.
ISABELLE
My darling,
Please don’t despair, I can’t bear the idea that you are giving up on them. Someone is bound to know something and will help. It’s all the chaos of war, everything is so slow. Do have faith, they will be so happy you are in London. It sounds as messy and loud as I imagine Paris to be and you caught up in it all. You really mustn’t doubt the decision. It is safer this way.
Can I share our news with you? Paul has returned. He walked straight into the shop as if it were four years ago and nothing much had changed. It was so strange I can’t tell you. The whole camp was released because the Germans were going east. I think he’s still in shock. He looks impossibly old, I almost didn’t recognize him and he has a full beard and his eyes seem darker now than before. We are all so pleased to have him back with us. I know he doesn’t want to talk too much about things but the village will heal him. Maman is so happy she could burst, she hums snatches of songs in the shop, our customers don’t know how to take it. It is wonderful.
Please let me know if I can do anything to help you. The rumours are that it will be over soon, the British are on their way, the Americans too, it really can’t be long now. I will pray for that day and keep writing to you in the meantime.
There are things I want to share with you, so desperately, but I want to see you in person, to be able to see the look in your eyes and feel your arms around me when you learn them. Please don’t blame me for concealing them.
Don’t give up hope,
Isabelle
ADELINE
1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
Frost coats the windowpane and the windows are cloudy with steamy cold. I dress quickly, staring at the grille on the door, freezing at a distant noise, a sneeze, some steps. They disappear off and I push my feet into my shoes, brush at my skirt as I catch my eye in the square of mirror above the washing bowl and jug. My eyes are red-rimmed, the deep lines around them made more prominent by lack of sleep. My thin lips have been chewed.
I put a hand to my throat. The woman in the mirror copies me. We pause, staring at each other.
Blinking once, I know I can’t procrastinate any more. I place a hand on the top of the chest of drawers, the smooth wood grounding me in the moment. I walk towards the door, pausing by it to listen. The hint of coffee and croissant wafts through the grille.
I open the door, looking to the left where, at the end of the corridor before it turns, another door awaits me. I don’t want to be seen, could not bear the look on Sister Marguerite’s face: hopeful.
It will be empty. I know there is no service at this time – the nuns are eating, having finished Prime a few minutes ago. I heard them leave in a long lin
e, the gentle swish of their habits, cloth brushing stone, whispers from some, a small cough. Then the sounds of benches being scraped back in the distance, cutlery clinking.
I know I have to leave now, have been building towards this moment, promising myself it would be today.
Stepping into the corridor I feel myself wobble. Swallowing the fear I move in a straight line, eyes not leaving the door cut into the stone. I pass arched windows, the stained glass dulled by the weather beyond; in an alcove to my left, I can feel the chipped marble figure of Saint Bernadette watching me walk past. I wipe my hands on my skirt, my throat feeling like sand.
There were times when I wanted to attend services, when the church had been a sanctuary, lying watchful at the top of the village, when I would feel relief as I pushed open the heavy door, feel the coolness wash over me, slide into a pew, rub the rosary beads, familiar as they ran through my fingers.
Standing in front of the door now I swallow again, and place a hand on it. The iron handle is bolted into the wood, the deep oak panels weathered with age, rough to the touch. Gripping it, I pull and open the door. It swings into the corridor, a faint creak as the heavy hinges move.
Stepping over the threshold and ducking through it, I have made my choice.
The room is darker, smells closer and thicker than in the corridor. I turn and pull the door back; it thuds shut and I shiver with the sound. As I tentatively approach the bottom of the aisle, the chapel seems to be holding its breath, observing me, this small figure.
No one sits in the rows of wooden pews; the stained-glass windows turn the light into streaks of green and yellow that split the air like a rainbow. Behind the altar Jesus breaks bread with his disciples; the scene of the tableau is a relief carved out of wooden panels on the back wall. Sister Marguerite has read the familiar story to me many times. Candles stand ready to be lit in brackets on the wall, a lingering smell of smoke suggesting they were used that morning. In the lectern, the gilt-edged Bible lies open at the middle, awaiting a reader.
Sister Constance wants me to attend the services, but I can’t sit there and join them: so many other bodies around me, crammed into the pews on either side, filing in and down the aisle, their breath warming the air, the candles lit, their shadows quivering on the walls, the tightness in my chest as I sit trapped on either side by the black habits of the nuns, pale hands clasped in laps, a hundred rosary beads and mouths speaking familiar words. I can’t do it. Even alone in the chapel I feel the darkness of the corners inching towards me as I stand here, head now clogged with thoughts; my chest rising and falling to a quicker pace, I lose the sense of calm as my preparations melt away into the cracks of the dusty flagstones.
I am walking up the aisle with my family. Vincent is carrying Isabelle, her bony legs like matchsticks compared to his forearms, Paul scowling as I smooth his hair down once more, looking awkward in his shirt and tie, tugging on his collar, looking at the window high above the altar, clearly longing to be outside.
The first hymn rouses the building and Isabelle stands on the pew to my side, trying to follow the words in the book. The sermon is ponderous and the prayers come as a relief. Paul scuffs the floor with the toe of his shoe, practically shouting the ‘Amen’ a second too late. I look at him, my mouth set in a line, and he reaches for my hand.
We go to file out. I whisper a prayer, make the sign of the cross at the crucifix and place a hand on Paul’s shoulder to lead him out. Vincent follows, Isabelle resting on a shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed. We move down the aisle as a four, past the plaque, the names of the soldiers who died in the First World War listed on its surface. I walk past it without a thought.
I am walking up the aisle with my uncle. I am clutching his arm, staring at the wide figure at the end, feeling a hundred eyes on me. Overwhelmed I look away, past the faces. A cream ribbon on the end of one of the pews has come loose. The church is crammed with flowers and the air is warm with the scent of lavender and roses. My breath is thick beneath the veil, which gives everything a creamy wash. Vincent turns then, his eyes searching for me, and then I see his teeth as he breaks into a smile and I can’t help but giggle, nerves fluttering in my stomach as I approach him. The veil is lifted over my face and my uncle kisses me on both cheeks but all I am aware of is the reassuring shape on my other side as Vincent waits for me to turn to him.
Looking around at the chapel it is the now, the present, which seems to have become blurred – the images of the church in the village seem clearer, the faces that have often been in the background, faceless, now step forward, features sharper: her eyes no longer indistinct but green, there is a spot in an iris, a ringlet of blonde snaking over a shoulder; his enormous muddied hands rest on my arm, he is wearing a familiar checked work shirt; and then my boy, sandy hair sticking up, younger than I normally recall him.
My family.
They have found me in this place.
The room becomes darker around me as I focus on them: the walls blend with the floor, the smell of burning softens the edges. Then they are fading, and the corners of the room seem darker than night. I can feel my breath catch in my throat, try to control myself.
I close my eyes, refuse to be dragged under, picture the corridor beyond the chapel door, light flooding through the windows, the worn patches in the middle of the stones where so many nuns have made their way down the halls.
As I slow my breathing and open my eyes again, the room returns to normal: the candles wait to be lit, the wooden pews a rich brown, the stained glass glowing in the space. Things have righted and I allow myself a small smile. Turning to the crucifix ahead of me, I incline my head a fraction and leave.
Leaning back against the door in the corridor, my eyes adjusting to the brighter light – more pale blue and grey now that I am out – a sudden breeze forces me to wrap my arms around my body and I hurry back to my room, wondering if things have changed for me.
Wondering if I am ready now.
PAUL
Some nights I forget and I wait in the darkness to hear the ragged breathing, a distant cough, of another man. Then there is nothing but the quiet hum of insects in the night air, the gentle wafting breeze that lifts the bottoms of the curtains and for a moment makes my heart stop as a shadow crosses the opposite wall. I sit up quickly, a quick breath out, before I realize.
Father and I speak of his own war experiences and I feel like I have been given a key to a different man’s past. Men he fought alongside, men he rested up against, mud, rainwater filling their boots, the shudder of shells all around them, smeared photographs of girls with mild smiles, earnest eyes, passed around. Promises made. So many men.
I tell him of the others. The work, enforced monotony, our reckless attempts at sabotage, our utter helplessness, kept for months, then years. Some escapes. Mostly failed. I tell him about Rémi.
When we talk it is dark and I just hear the steady rumble of his replies, talk to the space, able to spill our secrets to the night without having to meet each other’s eyes and recognize our own fear there. I know that next door my nephew lies sleeping in this other world, untouched by the ugliness.
His brand-newness makes me think of the old me, the boy who left, so full of excitement, so naïve. He gives me hope that I can find that boy again, that this gentle village life can be mine again. I don’t want to venture further; I feel like I am truly home now.
Some nights I sleep, fully, no dreams, wrapped in the warmth of our small house, my family around me.
TRISTAN
Christmas is absolutely my favourite time of the year. Every Christmas Eve, Maman lays out a glass of sherry and a couple of macaroons and a carrot for the reindeer and we get into our pyjamas, say our prayers and hop into bed. I pray for an extra-large present in the morning, but don’t admit that to anyone as I know Maman would be angry with me. ‘Un-Christian,’ she would say.
I can never sleep for t
he excitement, and I am always convinced that I hear Père Noël tip-toeing around the house leaving goodies for everyone at the foot of their beds. Dimitri says it’s impossible that I could ever see him as he has to visit so many children in one evening and he worked out that Père Noël can stay for only 3. 2 milliseconds in each house and that isn’t even as long as a blink. He has to visit around a million billion thousand children in one night. Approximately. And he doesn’t even just visit the children in France – he goes all over the world. He probably won’t go to Germany this year though, because the children there have been really naughty.
Anyway, I’m not sure Dimitri has factored in the time-zone difference. We have been learning about this in Geography. Apparently in Australia it is daytime when it is night and summer when it is winter – most peculiar. I’m sure that Père Noël does stay a while, as the sherry and the macaroons have always been drunk and eaten, and he is magical so can probably stop time, or something like that.
I’m nervous that he might not come at all because there is a war on and a lot of things have stopped because of it. No one drives cars any more, although I know Père Noël has a sleigh with reindeer, so a lack of petrol won’t stop him. Maman has told me that he will still visit but might bring different types of things this Christmas because of these ‘trying times’. Hitler must be trying to win a war in Lapland too. And what with the fact that we’ve moved house twice, I’m really not sure Père Noël will be able to keep up – it makes my head spin and I am a part of this family. He has remembered for the last two years, so I sincerely hope he will this year too.
