“The Roman has platonic ideas - we repeat - the Roman has platonic ideas.”
Not for us!
“The waves will immortalize the butterfly - we repeat - four times.”
The Butterfly. Not for us.
The messages continue to be broadcast. Clément adjusts the set with infinite patience and concentration, constantly listening.
“I like omelette flambée - we repeat - twice.”
Omelette flambée, that’s us! Clément gives a start. He translates: munitions to be dropped by parachute on field B (a field of sugar beet which belongs to Raboullet). When?
“That’s the third time we’ve received the same message…still no day or time given. It’s enough to try the patience of Job!”
Clément takes off his spectacles, wipes his eyes, holds out his hand to me and draws me towards him before putting on his spectacles once more, misted over. I can hardly see myself in them. My image is reflected in the two little round circles of glass. It is indistinct as well, Clément’s short-sighted eyes come into focus, shining and wide open, very dark brown, almost black, they come nearer and nearer; my own eyes need see no longer. With my eyes closed I have made my night an accomplice, as I did in my ground floor flat in Clermont-Ferrand when I drew the blinds. Only in Clermont it was oblivion and longing. I called absent hands to my aid. I gave myself up to phantom caresses which were real enough…until I had quietened the anguish of their absence. Panting, empty, absent from my own self, I remained for a long time looking at my false night, spent for nothing.
* * *
The orange glow of the setting sun is slipping behind the mountain, the birds are starting to sing their twilight love songs, night will soon grow heavy upon us. Gérard and his men have not returned - a bad omen.
My soup is getting thicker, it becomes more and more like Madame Raboullet’s soup; she inspired it, after all. A wooden spoon stands up in it. The water slowly evaporates with lumps of overcooked vegetables while the radio transmits Mozart’s symphony 40 in G minor, conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham. Its tragic notes of despair, but also of heroic refusal move us to the depths of our being. Clément turns down the volume to lessen its effect, but in vain!
“I must get back to Clairefontaine” I say. Clément says:
“Wait until it’s dark. They might come. They’ll be so pleased to see you”.
Now it’s the Andante. I am overcome by the divine tranquillity of its discordant Minuetto Clément takes my head in his hands, leans his damp forehead against mine, our lips meet, our embrace is full of passion and despair. He goes back to his table, Mozart soon gives way to personal messages, curiously in tune with the tragic and heroic message of the symphony they interrupt.
“A friend is coming tonight” is the second message we are waiting for after the “omelette flambée”. The ‘friend’ should have come by now. He hasn’t. The speaker announces “end of personal messages”. Clément turns off the radio. He says:
“I’m beginning to think that Gérard was right…Our elusive “friend” is obviously too busy…or just bloody-minded.”
“But this is terrible!” I say, feeling utterly outraged by this let-down. I ask: “Does London know about this?”
“They do…I spend my time telling them that if they want us to stop the enemy’s armoured cars fleeing northward they’ve to send us proper ammunition for the operation. Twice they cut us off… probably fed up with my repetitive messages.”
I asked myself then as I ask myself in retrospect: was it because we were accepting young communists who felt ill at ease in a Maquis mainly orientated towards the Catholic Right? Surely, London and Le Général must have known about them and might have felt reluctant to arm young “fanatics”, disciples of Jean-Paul Sartre’s new perception of La Liberté, who might cause trouble after the war if not during. I remember how Clément and Gérard feared for the future of their recruits and how they were proven right. Indeed, many of those named fanatics would die in the last hours of the war either in combat or in concentration camps for a freedom they didn’t live long enough to experience or enjoy.
* * *
Clément and I step outside the bothy, downhearted, asking ourselves the mute burning question: what are we doing here, this starlit April night? Are our itineraries, our apprenticeships all for nothing? Are we to throw out the past, our past bound for ever to our dead lying in their graves under fresh soil?
“I don’t think our comrades will be coming back tonight”, he says. And so it was.
I spent the night (the only one) in Savignole. This is the first time Gérard and his men have been away from base for more than twenty four hours. The Bothy seems emptier than usual. Seated on the bare floor, Clément and I feel indescribably melancholic. Morbid images pass before us, a chill seizes us both. Clément draws nearer to me, caresses my cheek, then takes my hand and says “ Rachel my love I think it is time you knew something about my past, I mean the recent past, just in case…” and he suddenly changes his posture, perhaps to distance himself from the present, in order to turn back a page or two of his life for I could tell it was not going to be easy for him to do so. I am ready to receive a secret weighing heavily on him, yet apprehensive of what he will say, wishing the boys would enter the bothy this instant, that they would sit around the pot of soup I had prepared for them, tired but voluble as they all are after meeting with danger and challenging it once more.
I listen to the rustling of the wind over the twigs and sprigs of our fragile thatched roof. Soothed by it I pledge myself to be worthy of Clément’s surrender to his past.
“You know I am married…well, I am not sure I still am. Jacqueline my wife chose a week prior to our departure from Strasbourg to tell me point- blank that she won’t follow me to Clermont-Ferrand. She talked with her parents, she said, who dissuaded her from leaving with me on the grounds that Alsace is her ancestral home and country (they are the famous wine-growers Berkmann). She ought to show solidarity with her fellow-Alsatians in times such as these…and anyway it would be wrong, they said, for Valéry, our seven year old daughter to be deprived of her grand-parents and teachers…one has no right to traumatise a young child for purely political motives. They said more. Jacqueline said more too. It was awful and it hurt. She ended by making the appalling statement, crimson red in her face and passionate as I had never seen her before: “And don’t forget ME: I am Alsatian… heart and soul … my ancestors were German… my parents speak and think German. I am not going to let them down at this point in their lives…”
I shall never forget her long cold gaze before she left the room. I must tell you, Rachel… the whole edifice of our conjugal life crumbled before my eyes. Her claim to be still German was the last straw. I saw my little daughter Valérie standing there, alive and beautiful amidst the ruins of our marriage. You know, days before we were due to leave she had been packing all her precious possessions neatly in her little rucksack, excited by the prospect of change. I had prepared her for what I called our adventure, but she knew it wasn’t quite like the adventures she had been reading about in fairy stories. She is intelligent. She knew from experience that Strasbourg was being invaded by hostile forces that they seemed to be feeling at home but had no right to, that some people welcomed them with open arms, that others hated the sight of their black boots and their arrogance. I must say that the sight of heavily armed soldiers taking possession of familiar public places had made little Valérie very frightened, particularly when walking back from school. So I told her we would go to a place in the mountains too far for the Invaders to reach. She knew I was lying, of course, but to start with that’s the best I found to say to her.”
A cramp forces me to get up. Clément does the same. He comes close to me again, encircling me with his powerful arms. Neither of us moves for a while, both in desperate need to prolong the comfort of our closeness. Yet between us I could feel that Valérie, all vibrant and loving, had joined us in spirit, that her father’s arms closi
ng on me were closing on her too.
When I open the heavy door of our bothy the brightness of the early morning light tears me apart. I was not ready for it. The effects of a sleepless night spent in waiting and listening to my lover’s sad story blurs my vision. I rub my eyes and want to cry, but material living takes hold of us both. I see Clément preparing to shave and return to the present, and to what he had said to me hardly three months ago: “There’s work to be done”.
I look up. The pine trees so huge above us are as many dead souls. Clément smiles at me. I carry his message of love, if not of hope, as I make my way to Murol.
13.
Murol and Kafka.
At the beginning of spring Gérard wanted me to get myself known in the region as the young lady from Clermont-Ferrand who had come for a holiday in the mountains to see if the purity of the air would cure her boils. The Murol chemist gives me injections prescribed by my doctor in Clermont. I am supposed to be renting Raboullet’s bothy strictly for health reasons. It seems to work. For now. In fact it works so well that Jean has a ready-made reply to the Militia when asked where he is going carrying a whole larder on his back: “I’m taking supplies for the demoiselle who’s ill”. Mind you, he knows how to walk quickly without being seen and avoid an encounter with the Militia. He dodges about like a rabbit. So do I, actually. Early in the morning, or when it is already dark, I set off for Savignole never following a straight line with my load, accompanied by Nourse who lets me know with a growl when he smells the presence of a stranger; I call him to heel and we wait. Problems start when there are no trees to protect us from view. Unfortunately there are many such open spaces in volcanic Auvergne. I weave from copse to copse. Sometimes I sit down at the foot of an oak tree, resting my body against its large trunk, but I feel most at ease when I march through a forest of fir trees; they create a welcoming darkness and you can see through the lattice of their boughs.
April! It is the month when the sap rises everywhere, when rain makes the earth exude strong, intoxicating smells, when Nature speaks of youth and hope. Today I linger under my favourite oak tree (it knows me well by now) to breathe that scent of rebirth, to watch those tiny insects frolicking among the new grass. At my feet the elder bears its tiny white flowers which taste bitter. Further the narcissi - coucou they call them here. Further still scabious dance round the trunks of the hazels. Do you know what they call them in the Auvergne? “drunkard’s nose”. Needless to say they are red. I imagine that a shepherd, English this time but as close to Nature as Jean, would have given the scabious her name: “You’ve got a nose like Dad’s”, amused by his own irreverent comparison. The scabious, taking its nickname very seriously would murmur, like King Midas’ reeds, ‘drunkard’s nose, drunkard’s nose’. A hundred years on, who knows, it will be known as ‘drunk rose’ or something similar without anyone knowing whence it came. Words suffer their tortuous metamorphosis as men’s thoughts and tribulations do, reinventing themselves ad infinitum by children singing nursery rhymes, by lone shepherds like Jean speaking with nature by scribes writing it all down, upstroke downstroke, in books of legends and prayers.
I tear myself from this moment of supreme peace. Lately, meditation has not been granted me. Every morning and evening striding from my bothy to Savignole has been an experience in overcoming both worsening physical pain and fear. I truly envy the comrades who are always together; they can at least pass their fear from one to the other and replay acts of bravura by contagion. I can only pass on my misery to my dog. He responds to it by coming a little closer to me, wagging his tail. I press his body against mine in gratitude and off we go again. Today we set out towards Murol. A weekly chore.
My first port of call is the grocer’s for my monthly sugar ration. The atmosphere is unusually tense. The customers are talking heatedly about the ambush which has taken place in the rue Montlosier in Clermont-Ferrand. They say people have been killed, mostly civilians, how scandalous! It’s all the fault of those terrorist brutes, they don’t care about women and children, do they? It’s not their women, their children! You aren’t safe any more in your own home these days, “pas vrai?”
My hand trembles uncontrollably as I pay. Would they be talking about Gérard and his men? I rush out of the grocer’s, hesitate over going to the chemist. He’s a double-dealer; each time he invites me to step into the backroom for my injection, I expect the Gestapo to arrest me. But the colonel’s orders are to act “normally”, to complain about my aches and pains quite openly, to go and have a drink at the café, to act as if…So I decide to go to the café first, to sit and pull myself together before making my appearance at the chemist’s.
“Mademoiselle Henner! You here?”
I turn round. Maurice de St Pré stops his Mercedes, beside him is a young, elegant blond woman. I keep walking as if I were deaf. He gets out of the car, slams the door, catches up with me and puts his hand on my shoulder. I give a start, turn round and say:
“You! What brings you here?”
“A change of air. You?”
“Same thing.”
“Is that so? I didn’t see you at the hotel. Are you staying there?” “No.”
His stare becomes icy, empty as it was on the 2nd of February. I start walking again in the direction of the café to show that the conversation is at an end. St Pré catches me up:
“Where are you staying then?”
“What’s it to you?”
My question offends him but he forces himself to smile condescendingly.
“Everything interests me and that includes you. Actually, I am here on a mission…mixing business with pleasure!”
“Good luck with your mission!” and I walk away.
“Yea! You must have heard…there was a terrible fracas at Clermont last night! Terrorists attacked a convoy of armoured cars. A fine mess, I can tell you…your friends! It was them!”
I turn round. I say: “What are you getting at?”
“I am the one to ask questions, not you, dear Mademoiselle!” he says savagely. I walk away, he seizes my arm and propels me across the street and up against a lamp post. I tear my arm away from his grip with such force that he stumbles, turns pale, his mouth and cheeks twitching as though he’s about to throw a fit.
“Don’t touch me!” I scream. (Actually I said: “Abat les pattes”).
“Mademoiselle Holier-than-thou!” he yells, “We’ll find them, your terrorist pals…we have information about them…about you…not very clever, are you? Not very clever at all!” He comes closer to me reaching for my arm again. I step back, full of venom.
“Get your dirty paws off me!” I yell loud enough to be heard by the populace now assembled, silent and hostile. I sense this hostility like an incoming foehn blowing over the place.
“How now…how dare you!” He chokes, he’s ready to strike me but he changes his mind: “You’ll pay for this!” he says, “You’ll pay dearly …just you wait! Vengeance is a plate one eats cold!”
His stupid remark makes me burst into hysterics. I spit at him, shout “how original”, turn my back on him by crossing the street. I am shaking irrepressibly. The bitter taste of hate is rising to my mouth. Onlookers stare at me, standing there as judges, merciless and sullen. Meanwhile, St Pré has got back into his car, shouting at the gawpers:
“Watch out you people! She’s a terrorist!”
In this pretty little town in the heart of the Auvergne, it has taken a few minutes for me to become the enemy. Inside the café the customers have drawn back the curtains, driven by an insane curiosity to witness what will happen next. Are they hoping to watch my execution on the grande palace? Probably. Their faces are masks without a soul behind them, staring at me. I go to the café to confront them. The curtains fall back in my face. They speak rejection. They cut me out. The only solution is to retrace my steps and go back up the main street which will take me out of this town possessed…this town gone back to savage and yonder times.
When after the wa
r, I read Kafka’s ‘The Trial’, the Murol scene-on-the Grande-Place became The Trial’s re-enactment. The locality was unchanged, so were the accusers on the Grande Place, so was the persecution sprawling over the bleak décor and far beyond it.
From Murol to Raboullet’s farmhouse takes a good half hour if you have got legs. Mine fail me right now. I call for my dog who had disappeared during the fatal encounter. He had been chasing a bitch on heat otherwise he’d have attacked my attacker. With a sigh of relief I greet his return. I can see he’s had a good time and shows signs of it by making an unusual fuss of me. I regain my composure and leave the accursed place at a normal pace. Out of view I run. I long to see old Raboullet. He’ll be supportive, no doubt. He can be so reassuring and wise when he is sober, which he is most of the time these days, his way of manifesting his love for me. “She’ll end up by realising it” he must be thinking. Yes indeed, I do, my dear friend! You’ve given me proof enough…
Madame Raboullet opens the door, her hands covered in flour; she is in the process of making bread. She quickly goes back to kneading the dough. She makes a sign that Raboullet is not to be spoken to. I catch sight of him sitting in the furthest corner of the kitchen, looking fiendish and spoiling for a fight. I make for the door to exit, but change my mind, turn round and ask: “What’s wrong?”
“Tha’s the bloody cheek to ask!”
“Do you mean the ambush in the rue Montlosier?”
“Aye! yon maquis…made a right mess…killed civilians, kids, women!”
“Surely its not them! They are not irresponsible!” “They were this time!”, he says, “they killed civilians with grenades…your pals, their grenades. They make me sick, d’ye hear? Savignole, out! Finished! I don’t want to have anything to do with that kind of slaughter!” He shouts, he shakes, he’s mad with rage. I don’t know which Saint to ask for protection. Madame kneads her bread mechanically, she pushes the dough, hits it with all the strength she’s got. I wish I could do the same, borrow her single-mindedness, her sham deafness, hit the dough. Instead I am the dough, being jostled and pummelled. Oh why, God of wretchedness, why punish me? I’ve had enough for one day! I refuse to believe that it is Gérard’s doing. This insane ambush is not his style; he is scrupulous, humane, cool. It must have been the others, those from Chambon. Not much of a consolation! The crimes of others become our own in these circumstances, we dig our communal graves, we bury ourselves deeper and deeper in the dung heap of our need for revenge.
A Packhorse Called Rachel Page 10
