The Silent Hours

by Cesca Major

  My eyes light upon Isabelle in the distance and I call to Father. He nods and we both move off to catch up with them, check Maman has our papers. Monsieur Renard falls into step beside me; I haven’t seen him since I left all those years ago. His face has got new lines, thinner creases have appeared around his mouth as he talks, and talks: ‘… so young, that one over there can’t be more than seventeen if he’s a day …’

  I let his voice wash over me. So many soldiers. Isabelle’s blonde hair, lit up by the sunlight, a beacon in the greens and greys. I focus on her, wanting Renard to shush, not able to focus any more, starting to feel my breath shorten. An identity check, I think, but surely they could send me back? I could be back there.

  Why didn’t I run?

  ‘… never thought I’d see the day …’

  I reach Maman and Isabelle, who is holding Sebastien, resting him against her so that his sleeping face is nuzzled on her shoulder, blissfully unaware of the action around him. I can’t stop myself reaching out to stroke his smooth forehead. Isabelle smiles in relief at seeing us; questions rend the air from every direction. Maman is holding her papers in a fist. Now we wait.

  People are still arriving on the green. A truck appears and five or six men dressed to work in the fields, soil swiped on their faces, mud underneath their fingernails, jump down. I notice Monsieur Lefèvre, a nasty, piggy man, crude and fearsome, watch them. My heart is in my mouth as I see his eyes widen: he’s sweating. He jumps when one of the soldiers barks an order at him.

  Time passes and people begin to sit down. I have too much energy and pace uselessly. I try to look relaxed, knowing Maman’s eyes will be trained on me and Father, that Isabelle will want to feel reassured. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Father is smoking a cigarette with Renard. They are both silent, waiting. We are all waiting.

  Some soldiers are talking to the mayor, he leaves with them. The town crier translates what another soldier is telling him: ‘We believe there are weapons in the village, we are going to search for arms and ammunition …’ He continues, but I can only hear the roar in my ears as everything shifts.

  This is no identity check.

  My mind gallops through the possibilities. The little German I know is useless – they are speaking too quickly and I strain to make sense of any of it. I wonder whether any of the villagers are hiding weapons and, if they are, will there be reprisals? Isabelle is hugging Sebastien close to her. He has woken now and will soon need feeding.

  A machine gun on a tripod.

  The weapon is being manned by a young soldier with sandy hair and freckles. He is chatting, carefree, throws back his head to laugh at something his companion says. The mayor returns. I watch his group, a frown on his face as he talks again with the soldiers, indicates one of his sons. A few of us jump as a shot is heard in the distance, and another. A woman nearby whimpers.

  ‘The women and children will wait in the church as the village is searched.’

  At this announcement, chaos ensues. Families cling to each other, soldiers parting the ways, pointing to the men, directing them away. We are going to be separated, and I instinctively huddle close to Isabelle, reach for Sebastien.

  The order is repeated, and we are all being swept along. Father and I are pushed back as people move between groups; a soldier appears at my elbow, indicates I should follow. Father pauses momentarily, torn, then joins me. I twist my head around, turn: I can’t see them. I don’t see them. I see the heads of others. They are somewhere. I think I hear Isabelle’s voice calling to me.

  We are ordered to sit facing the houses. We can see the women and children move away; they form an enormous line, a snake winding down the high street, punctuated by the soldiers. Two girls, twins, freckled and wide-eyed, hold hands. We can hear the clatter of the children’s wooden shoes, the crying, the shouts to loved ones intermingled with the harsh orders in a foreign tongue, in our village. The day takes on a dream-like quality, as if at any moment I will be awake in my bed in the barrack hut with the others, that we will pass round the illicit cigarettes, swap our nightmares.

  A farmer has come forward, tells a soldier quickly that he owns a 6mm rifle, has a permit, describes where it is, asks whether he needs to fetch it. He is gabbling, droplets forming on his brow; we all sink into ourselves. The soldier dismisses him, starts to divide us all into groups. I am glued to my father’s side, reach out for his arm when it looks like we will be split.

  We are told to stand up. There must be fifty or so men in our group when we do. We are led off, down the high street, in the opposite direction to the church. I see the spire in the distance, a comfort.

  They make us clear the barn of machinery, so that we can all fit inside; they want us there while they search. We move rapidly, eyes meeting. I recognize some of the other men, not all. We are all moving in a terrified silence.

  As we work, two soldiers share a cigarette and another sets up a machine gun on a tripod in the entrance. My back beads with sweat. There are a couple of tiny squares of window in the back, covered in thick, yellowing cobwebs; a door that is padlocked. We are hemmed in and I feel nauseous, trapped.

  A man to my right whispers to his neighbour: ‘They are going to kill us.’ My hand slips and I drop the crate I am carrying. I can feel eyes on me, pitying; my own father is close to tears.

  We are shoved into lines and there is a moment of waiting, of silence. I see a soldier sitting on a step outside the barn. He cradles his head in both hands, and it is then that I know it is true.

  We are going to be killed.

  An explosion. Shouts. A relentless noise as they let off rounds of the machine gun. I look across to see my father falling at the same moment as I feel a spattering of pain in my legs and chest and I too am off my feet, flung backwards into the filth, landing on top of another.

  My head turns, I can’t see my father. As I lift my head to search I hear a sentence spat in German, see the figure of a soldier stepping around bodies, heading towards me, young, focused, his uniform starched, the light from the window reflecting off a watch polished to a gleaming shine.

  He is pointing a pistol at my head.

  He throws a comment to the man behind him, and then his eyes meet mine.

  TRISTAN

  They arrive in the village at just after lunch.

  Papa has been away in Paris ‘tying up loose ends’, which I think is some kind of business talk. Mother has been getting rather tired of just us for company – you can tell because she has snapped at Luc twice today, and she never snaps at Luc, really. Dimitri and I have been keeping out of harm’s way by playing hide-and-seek around the house.

  We both know Maman is in the front room and we won’t hide or look there but we haven’t told Luc as it is quite funny when he gets snapped at. Eléonore is off at some girl’s birthday party. I imagine it will be deadly dull, but Dimitri does point out they will probably have goodies there and we are both secretly hoping Eléonore will bring us back some treats. I bet she won’t, I think, scowling. I would for her.

  I hear the call from the attic. I was about to hide in the trunk – Luc never finds me up in the attic. He’s too much of a baby to come up here, ever since I told him about the ghost who haunted it – an old farmer who had shot himself a hundred years ago. Dimitri wasn’t scared when he heard my story: he doesn’t believe in ghosts and ghouls. ‘I am a scientist,’ he announced, puffing out his chest importantly and sniggering as Luc wailed at my words. He told him it was all nonsense but Luc just looked between both of us with worried eyes, unsure which older brother might be lying. Best not to test, best to simply stay away from the attic.

  I lean out of the top window to hear what’s going on, pushing on the window and cringing at a row of shrivelled flies, their little corpses all lying still on the windowsill, their tiny legs sticking up. The town crier is calling the whole village out onto the green; he’s ringi
ng his bell in the high street.

  I hear Maman call us all from downstairs. Luc calls back to her and Dimitri must have appeared from his hiding place in another part of the house, as I can hear footsteps running down the stairs.

  I climb down the old wooden ladder that hangs from the attic space and quickly brush the dust from my trousers away – Maman doesn’t like us playing in the attic. I race downstairs.

  ‘Not so fast, my darling,’ Maman says, handing me my coat. She is carrying Luc, his arms round her neck. Dimitri is standing by the door.

  We leave the house in a huddle, Maman shooing me to hurry up. I have my arm stuck in my jacket though, and I nearly trip over the edge of the pavement trying to keep up and get my arm in.

  It’s strange seeing this many people in the village at the same time. Even when we go to church there doesn’t seem to be this many people hurrying along. Through a group of people nearby comes André. He looks odd, all wide-eyed. His mother is nowhere to be seen. I stop, wiggle my hand through my sleeve and wait for him to catch up.

  ‘Pssst, Tristan!’ He beckons, running into a little side street off the pavement. I don’t want to lose Maman, but André is signalling to me. I can see Maman making her way to the edge of the village green – she has stopped to talk to that bore, Monsieur Renard. Mademoiselle Rochard is standing near them. She is holding her baby in her arms, whispering to him as he rests against her. His name is Sebastien; she told me once at school in the playground.

  I make my way over to André.

  ‘Come with me,’ he urges.

  ‘I can’t,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m not going up there,’ he says, nodding his head at the village green.

  ‘What? Don’t be silly! Everyone’s going.’

  ‘I won’t. It’s the Nazis – I’m not going. Don’t go,’ he says, pleading with me.

  ‘I’ve got to.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ he repeats. ‘It feels like in Alsace the last time. I’m not.’

  There’s an awkward pause. I don’t know about Alsace and I don’t know what to say. André is still looking at me. I peer down at my shoes mumbling, ‘I should go to Maman.’

  He doesn’t say anything back.

  ‘Well …’

  Still André doesn’t say anything. ‘I’ll … see you at school,’ I say, turning.

  I leave him in the shadow of the side street and find my way through the people, back to my mother.

  ‘Thank God,’ she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, drawing me to her side.

  I look back at the side street but André has already gone.

  There are so many soldiers. They are standing in their uniforms, the sunlight glinting off the buttons on their coats. Their boots are gleaming. Papa once said that they are so clean they must eat off them. I think he must have been joking although when he said it he didn’t smile. Dimitri is staring at them too. We haven’t seen many soldiers in the village before now – just one or two outside the hotel, with drinks. They seem very tall close up.

  Maman is looking at the crowds of people for Eléonore. I see the girls before I see Eléonore – two of them are still wearing party hats, and I am sure one of them is holding an apple tart in her hand. Eléonore’s eyes find Maman and she comes running over, hugs her.

  ‘What’s going on, Maman?’

  ‘It’s an identity check, my darling.’

  I wonder what that is. It’s busy and confusing as we wait. Everyone is looking for someone. One of the officers is giving orders to his men in German and signalling to the various groups of people. One soldier is speaking into the town crier’s ear. ‘Will the men and women please separate,’ the crier translates. ‘Children are to go with their mothers.’

  There is movement and I am glad Maman has a good hold of me. A woman nearby starts making a high pitched sort of noise. I squeeze my eyes shut, hope the sound goes away. The crier repeats the command: ‘Will the men and women please separate. Children are to go with their mothers.’

  People are getting out their identity papers and kissing each other on the cheeks, like we’re all preparing to get on a train.

  Maman is herding us over to a group of women and children. I scan the crowd for my friends. Michel is too far away – he is looking solemnly at his father, who has kneeled down to talk to him. They hug each other. I want my papa but he is in Paris, and we are being bustled about and Maman is talking in a low voice to Luc. Eléonore looks a little pale and I have a sudden urge to hold her hand.

  The soldiers have surrounded our group and we are walking in lines to the church. The men are left on the green. I see the old postman, who Maman always invites in for a morning café au lait, half kneeling on the ground. A couple of the younger men in the village are surrounding him, looking concerned. A soldier nearby is shouting something in German at them. I can’t hear. The postman is clutching his chest.

  Mother pulls me towards her. ‘Come on, Tristan.’ Some of the children are singing as we walk. ‘Come on.’

  The heavy wooden doors of the church are open and we are pushed inside. There is noise everywhere now. The soldiers shout things to each other and a couple of the women are clutching at them. Wives are crying for the husbands they have left on the green, asking to be with them. Michel’s mother is sobbing, Michel pulling her away from the soldiers.

  I think of André, and wish I had run down that side street with him.

  Maman sits us all down in the corner; the stone floor is cold and uncomfortable. I want to be outside. Luc is whining and Maman tries to soothe him. I stand up, trying to see what people have started pointing at.

  A black box, a strange thing with long wires coming out of it, has been placed in the middle of the church. People are pressing themselves into corners, staring at it. It starts smoking and there are screams and cries.

  I cry out as well, take two steps back, bump into a woman I don’t know. She’s staring at it, too. People run around the pews, finding their children, calling out for grandparents, friends. The soldiers are leaving, and the big doors are being pulled shut. Women start flinging themselves at them.

  We are being locked in.

  Maman turns to us. ‘Tristan, Dimitri, Eléonore. Sit down.’

  We look at her blankly. We are all looking at the box in the middle of the church.

  ‘Tristan,’ she beckons, pulling me onto her lap and drawing Luc closer. ‘Stay with me here.’ She is calling to Dimitri and Eléonore too. ‘Come on, my darlings.’ We are like tiny ducklings, all keen to get close to her.

  Her voice is a familiar sound – that voice has told me tales of knights in shining armour, soldiers going into battles, great wizards who have done amazing spells.

  ‘Listen to me, darlings,’ she says.

  In the distance I hear cracks, like a string of loud pops. Maman makes a strangled sound. We clutch her. Moans go up from the women. Another round of popping, and the shouts in the church grow louder. The black box is still smoking and everything is hot and blurry. Yet another round of pops and people fall silent. Where are the men? What is happening outside?

  The black box starts to pump out thick, black smoke and I cough, watching people race to escape, my eyes stinging. Fists bang on the doors. People claw the stone walls. Mother wraps her arms around us. ‘Eléonore, keep your brother safe.’ Eléonore looks like she is in a dream, but her arm reaches round my shoulders. I lean into her.

  We all move closer to each other, Maman is still speaking, still asking us to listen to her. I can hear Eléonore’s heart beating, so quickly, drumming, and her skin is all hot. We look desperately at Maman.

  A girl drags herself up to a narrow window behind us. Other people are trying to climb out of other windows by the altar. We follow the girl’s every movement. Maman stops talking. The girl, about Eléonore’s age, is nearly out – she’s dangling through the win
dow, then she pushes her way through the gap. She is going to make it, she is leaving this place.

  A burst of popping and her body slumps forward.

  ‘Eléonore, look at me,’ Maman says firmly. ‘Tristan, Luc, Dimitri … boys, please listen.’

  Luc has stopped whining and is looking at her, his eyes huge.

  ‘Tristan,’ Maman repeats.

  My eyes are still on the girl in the window. Her foot is twitching.

  ‘Tristan, please,’ Maman says.

  I curl into her arms and she speaks to us all in a low voice.

  ‘Close your eyes, all of you,’ she says. ‘Come on, all of you – eyes closed, no cheating.’ She laughs a little, as if we are back in our bedroom, as if she is about to tell us another fairy tale.

  I close my eyes. It is a relief from the stinging of the smoke.

  Maman’s voice continues. ‘Imagine you are sitting on the bridge over the stream,’ she says. ‘Can you see yourselves there, my darlings? Luc, can you see yourself with your big brothers? Dimitri, can you see yourself? You are reading, mouthing the words the way you always do, and Eléonore, you are bathing in the sun. Luc, Tristan, you are both sitting on the bridge, dangling your feet in the river,’ she explains. ‘Can you see yourself there?’ she repeats.

  I open my eyes, looking up at Maman.

  ‘Darling, close your eyes,’ she pleads gently.

  I obey.

  ‘I’m there on the bank, sitting on our old blanket, eating the first strawberries.’

  A scream pierces through our daydream and she hugs us tighter.

  ‘Can you see me?’ she whispers. ‘Try, darlings. Can you see me there?’

  ‘Yes, Maman,’ we croak, almost at the same time. Eléonore whispers it; I think only I hear.