The Soldier's Girl: A gripping, heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel

by Sharon Maas

  ‘I want to hold Sibyl’s hand,’ said Victoire, doing just that. The four girls made their way back down the stairs into the kitchen; a big green square room where pans hung from the ceiling and pots of herbs lined a long windowsill. Mama was there with Auntie Margaux, who said,

  ‘Hello girls; have you been up to your room yet? Did you like it? Isn’t the view wonderful? Kathleen, I will take you up in a minute but I need to prepare the dough for the tarte flambée we are going to eat tonight. Run along, girls. Marie-Claire, you can take them to see the vines maybe?’

  Marie-Claire was just like her mother, she never stopped talking. Sibyl knew it was polite to listen attentively, and that’s what she did. Marie-Claire, leading them down a pathway that turned off from the main drive, was now explaining about the harvest, which, she said, was imminent.

  ‘We have to find just the exact right time to start the harvest,’ she was saying. ‘When the grapes have achieved their maximum sweetness, when they are succulent and plump and just begging you to pick them. Monsieur Dolch is a genius, he always knows the exact day. Monsieur Dolch is the father of Jacques. He is our winemaker. He is very good. Jacques knows it too. Jacques can tell you exactly when it is time to begin the harvest. He thinks he knows everything about grapes already but he doesn’t. His father knows more but is teaching him. Oh, here he is again. Jacques Dolch! Why did you bring those puppies? You should not separate them from their mother yet, they are too small! It is cruel! You think you know everything about grapes and puppies but you don’t!’

  Indeed, Jacques and the two Laroche boys had come running up, each with two puppies in their arms. Behind them ran a silky black dog, obviously concerned about her pups, looking up beseechingly at Jacques, who now held his two down for her to lick them.

  ‘I just wanted to show them,’ said Jacques, pointing at Elena and Sibyl with his chin, but not looking at them. Instead, he put one puppy in Sibyl’s arms and one in Elena’s.

  These were the first French words he had spoken since their arrival. ‘Gigi is right here. She doesn’t mind,’ he continued, in French, and then broke into a deluge of words in that strange tongue; his tone was quarrelsome, and so was Marie-Claire’s when she replied.

  Sibyl, busy stroking the squirming pup, couldn’t help it. Irritated by this rudeness, she interrupted: ‘What are you saying? Don’t you know it is rude if you have guests to talk in a foreign language?’

  Marie-Claire looked immediately apologetic, but Jacque’s annoyance – with Marie-Claire, or with her, Sibyl couldn’t tell – was palpable. He glared at her for a moment and then said, in perfect French, ‘I am not speaking a foreign language. I am speaking alsacien, because I live in Alsace and I am alcasien.’

  ‘In English, that is Alsatian,’ said Marie-Claire, in English. ‘But Jacques does not speak English. We should all speak English so he can see what it feels like.’ She repeated what she’d said in French, for Jacques benefit, who, it seemed, did not understand English.

  Jacques retort was in Alsatian, and there followed a stream of even more gibberish, but obviously wasn’t, since Leon and Lucien laughed loudly and even Marie-Claire seemed to be holding back a chuckle, which to Sibyl seemed like betrayal. She needed to protest.

  ‘But Alsatian is a dog – a breed of dog! It isn’t a language!’ Her favourite breed, besides. Her cousins in Norfolk had an Alsatian, and that was the kind of dog Sibyl wanted. Though any dog was better than none. And here there were three! And puppies! She cuddled the one she held, rubbing her cheek against its warm fur, and kissed it.

  They laughed all the louder, though Marie-Claire stopped immediately, grew serious, and said, ‘Did they not teach you history in your school? Did you not know that when you came to our place, to Alsace, you are coming to a country embedded in two countries, that we have our own culture, our own language, our own identity? If you want to understand us you must learn alsacien.’

  Sibyl and Elena could only shake their heads. No, they knew nothing of all this. Sibyl felt ashamed of her outburst, ashamed of her ignorance, ashamed of putting that ignorance on display. Most especially, of doing so before Jacques, that most exasperating of boys. She stood there biting her lip, trying to come to terms with her ignorance and her embarrassment. But Jacques wasn’t paying her awkwardness any attention. He had turned to the vine behind him, plucked one plump green grape and was inspecting it, shading his eyes as he held it up to the sun, before biting into it. A glazed, dreamy look came into his eyes; he seemed to be rolling that grape around in his mouth, savouring it with every cell of his body. He is far away, Sibyl thought, on a planet of his own.

  ‘Mercredi prochain,’ he said, in French, landing back on earth. He retrieved the puppies from Elena and Sibyl gently but firmly and without a further word in either French or Alsatian, clasped them to his chest, and gambolled off, Leon and Lucien scampering behind him, and Gigi prancing around them all, yapping.

  ‘Il est fou,’ said Marie-Claire, ‘but he’s probably right about the harvest. Next Wednesday! Let’s just hope the good weather holds.’

  Chapter 5

  The rich deep clang of a gong ripped into Kathleen’s consciousness.

  ‘À table!’ called Margaux from the kitchen. Kathleen rubbed her eyes and sat up; she had lain down on the couch for a rest but drifted off into sleep, and right now she’d prefer to simply lie back down and disappear back into oblivion. Better yet, go up to her room, put on her nightie, and lie down for the night. Sleep! Delicious sleep! She had not slept properly for –well, not since her world had imploded, almost two weeks ago. She would have preferred to forgo dinner and lie back down and not wake up again until… until the world was back in order again. But that was not to be.

  ‘Je viens!’ she called back, standing up and walking to the downstairs lavatory. She splashed her face with cold water. That helped.

  ‘Jean-Pierre is home!’ said Margaux. ‘He has been on business in Paris since Thursday but now he is back. He is just putting away his things in the office and then you will meet him. Where are those children?’

  She walked to the bottom of the stairs and cried out, ‘Enfants! À table!’

  The dining table was in a bay at the end of the kitchen, the windows on all sides overlooking the vines. The children appeared, one by one, and washed their hands at the sink, the Laroche children chattering away in Alsatian as usual, the Lake girls as silent as ever.

  ‘Do not speak Alsatian here! We have guests!’ admonished Margaux, and, mid-sentence it seemed, the chatter turned to French. Margaux smiled at Sibyl and Elena.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You will soon pick it up, especially since you know German. Children are so good at picking up languages, aren’t they?’ This last was to Kathleen, who smiled and nodded but said nothing. She felt dulled from her rest and really wasn’t in the mood for small talk, or any kind of talk, actually; and now she had to meet someone new, Jean-Pierre, and somehow be interested and polite. But no. None of that internal grumbling. It wouldn’t help the situation. She was a guest; she had to behave. She pulled herself together just as Jean-Pierre walked in.

  His physique was the exact opposite of his wife’s. Margaux was short and soft and curvy; Jean-Pierre was tall and thin, with sharp edges everywhere. He had a long thin face, high forehead, a strong jaw and almost pointed chin. Cold, thought Kathleen spontaneously, this man is cold. Whyever did Margaux marry him? They are so unsuited… but there’s no telling where love will fall, or on whom.

  Introductions over, Jean-Pierre took his seat at the head of the table, facing the bay. Margaux placed a steaming hot tarte flambée in the centre of the table, returned to the oven and fetched another one. ‘I’m sure you must all be starving,’ laughed Margaux, and Kathleen discovered that she was, because as well as not sleeping she had eaten not a single full meal since Mervyn’s death.

  The conversation at table was polite. All mention of Mervyn was avoided. Marie-Claire helped by proclaiming that harvest would begin n
ext Wednesday, according to Jacques.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘That boy is very astute and usually right, just like his father. I will go and see Maxence tomorrow. The Dolch men have wine running in their veins, not blood.’

  Margaux looked at Kathleen. ‘Monsieur Dolch is our winemaker. He is Jacques’ father. He is so clever when it comes to the growing of grapes and making wine.’

  ‘Dolch – that’s a German name! How strange; they both have French first names.’

  ‘Yes; a lot of families here have German surnames and French first names – and there’s a girl, too, Juliette. Madame Dolch, the mother, died at Juliette’s birth. Alsace is a hybrid nation. Back and forth between France and Germany. Since the war we are French, before the war we were German, and before that we were French. Now we are French again; since the Great War. And we are going to stay that way. That is just politics, though; the people just call themselves Alcasien and have done with it. Let the politicians do what they will. All we want is to raise our families in peace and enjoy our wine. N’est-ce pas, Jean-Pierre?’

  ‘That is so,’ said Jean-Pierre, ‘but in the end it’s about the wine, and Germany isn’t happy to have lost that. Don’t bury your head in the sand, Margaux. Germany is unforgiving, a proud nation. It does not accept defeat easily.’

  ‘Pah! Let them suck it up. Now we are French and we will remain French to the end of time. Germany lost the war and that is that.’

  ‘Germany doesn’t think so. They want Alsace back.’

  ‘Let them try! Idiot Germans! We are French now.’

  ‘Well, they have certainly left their mark. So many German surnames, German place names – Turckheim, Kintzheim – even Strasbourg is more a German name than French. And the Alsatian language is based on German.’

  ‘We are French! Don’t even mention the word Germany to me! We are French, are we not, children?’

  ‘Oui, Maman!’ came the chorus.

  Jean-Pierre turned to Kathleen. ‘Margaux is extremely anti-German, because the Germans killed her beloved Papa.’

  ‘The Battle of Mulhouse, 1914. The French army tried to get back Alsace, which they had lost in the Franco-Prussian war. Papa was in the first attack, when the army tried to recover Mulhouse. But the Germans made a counter-attack and that’s when Papa fell. May he rest in peace.’ She crossed herself.

  ‘The wounds run deep, as you can see,’ said Jean-Pierre.

  Margaux rolled her eyes. ‘Because the cut is deep. But in the end we won and since the war Alsace has been French.’

  ‘And Germany isn’t happy. It’s a proud nation – sooner or later it’s going to want Alsace back.’

  ‘Poof! Never!’

  ‘Darling, you’re so naïve. Germany is just across the Rhine. Do you think they are twiddling their thumbs?’

  Margaux turned to Kathleen. ‘My dear husband thinks there will be another war and Alsace will be German again. Over my dead body.’

  ‘I would not advise you to say such things. Another war is a very real possibility.’

  ‘Don’t scare our guest. It’s rude. Nothing is going to happen.’

  ‘Nevertheless it is foolish to hide one’s head in the sand. Everyone is tired of war, but…’

  ‘Exactement. Germany is tired too. Alsace is French and will remain French. There’s no need to be scared. Nothing will happen. Everyone is tired of war. Even the Germans –ordinary Germans I mean, mothers and fathers who only want to live their lives and raise their families in peace. People like us.’

  ‘But there is danger of another attack, sooner or later. France knows this. Why do you think they are building the Maginot Line? Have you heard of the Maginot Line, Kathleen?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, it does not even exist yet but it is planned over the next few years: it’s a series of defence reinforcements all along the border, on the French side of the Rhine, mostly north of Strasbourg; battlements to defend us against a German attack. France would not go to such extremes if there were not a real danger of attack.’

  ‘I said don’t talk of a war that will never happen to our guest. I’m going to change the subject. Kathleen, how do you like our riesling? It is good, n’est-ce pas? Have another glass.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘So, what do you think of Jean-Pierre?’

  Startled, Kathleen looked up. She had been gazing into the darkness beyond the bay window, captured again by grief, and hadn’t even noticed that Margaux, having gone up to say a last goodnight to the children, was back and had slid into the window seat opposite her. Elena and Sibyl had gone to bed an hour earlier, exhausted from the day of travel and adventure. Jean-Pierre had retired to his study. ‘Work!’ he had said. ‘It follows me home – no respite for a winegrower!’ And had left them to their own devices.

  Now, Kathleen didn’t know what to say.

  ‘What an odd question!’ she managed at last. ‘I’ve only just met him – and besides, he’s your husband, Margaux! Of course I – well, of course I accept him!’

  Margaux wrinkled her nose. ‘Accept is not the same as like! I would like your honest opinion. He is rather negative, rather cold, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Well I… I mean, I don’t think my opinion… ah…’

  Margaux broke out in giggles; and once again she was that uninhibited schoolgirl from Montrouge, irreverent and seeing the funny side in all circumstances.

  ‘Ah, your very English manners forbid you from telling the truth, I can see it! You don’t like him but you won’t say it out loud. But you can be honest with me, Kathleen; I won’t hold it against you. I think we should be straight with each other from the start. No –what do you call it – beating around the trees.’

  ‘Beating around the bush. Well, to be honest, I did find him a little, er, distant, maybe.’

  ‘There you go, so polite! But maybe you are right, maybe distant is the correct word. He is certainly distant to me, his own wife, so I can imagine how he feels to a stranger. But you are my best friend, chérie, even though so many years have passed. And I do not want to have secrets from you, and I hope you can share your own secrets. You made a very good beginning this afternoon. Come, have some wine. This is our very own gewürztraminer, Domaine Laroche-Gauthier.’ She filled Kathleen’s glass and then her own, and set the bottle down. Kathleen reached out and took her hand.

  ‘Margaux – I am so sorry. This afternoon I unburdened myself to you, poured everything onto your lap and I didn’t even ask how you were doing. It just all seems so perfect here. Perfect home, perfect view, perfect children, perfect wine…’

  ‘But not perfect husband, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You never really told me, back then, I thought it was so strange. That you got married as soon as we left Montrouge. You didn’t tell me anything about him, you’d never mentioned him when we were at school. But six months later, you were Mrs Laroche. I did wonder, but I was afraid to ask. It seemed so sudden. I just assumed it was a whirlwind romance; after all, I know you went to Paris immediately after school and I thought that was so romantic – but I wondered why you never mentioned falling in love so quickly, enough to marry. You never even described your fiancé and I didn’t want to be nosy.’

  ‘Ah, Kathleen. There’s a story behind that. I will tell you. But first, let’s drink to the future, and a new era. I just know that you have brought good fortune into my not so perfect life! Santé!’

  Their glasses chinked, they smiled at each other, they sipped their wine.

  ‘I don’t know about bringing good fortune. But you have certainly already turned my life around. I feel so much better already!’

  ‘Then santé once again! To a new beginning!’

  They drank again, and then Kathleen said,

  ‘So – you have a story you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘Indeed. This marriage of mine. You thought it was a whirlwind romance? Ha! The opposite was the case. It was an arranged marriage, Kathleen. From the start. Even my
attending Montrouge School was part of the arrangement.’

  ‘What! How bizarre! How did that happen? Who arranged it?’

  ‘Well, that’s the story, you see. This vineyard has been in my family – the Gauthier family – for generations. But then my dad was killed in the Great War and I was the only child, no son to pass it on to. My grandfather was a very dominating man; he was in charge of everything but the vineyard had been doing badly for some time before that and he was worried about what would happen, seeing as I was only a young girl. So he thought it was better for me to marry a wealthy winegrower.’

  ‘And your mother? What did she think?’

  ‘Maman had no say in the matter.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She is in Colmar, with her parents – her mother is infirm and she is looking after her. When they are gone she will move back in with me; we have a cottage waiting for her. Anyway – to get back to my marriage: I didn’t really mind, at the time. It just made sense. So Grandpère cast his eyes around for a good match but there was no-one suitable in the Alsace. So he had to look further afield and he found the Laroche clan, from Burgundy. They had a handsome son of marriageable age, vineyards aplenty in Burgundy, and were looking to expand. At the time our vineyard was quite small, just twenty hectares. But next door there was another vineyard, and that was failing too. The Dolch vineyard.’

  ‘Dolch – you mean…?’

  ‘Exactly. Maxence Dolch, the father of Jacques. One of the best winemakers of the region, unfortunately not a good businessman. He knows about wine, not about money. He was forced to sell; the Laroches bought both vineyards and combined them to make one big Domaine, Domaine Laroche-Gauthier, and Max Dolch was employed as winemaker; that was his condition of sale. But I was part of the deal. The vineyard would be Jean-Pierre’s Domaine, and I would marry Jean-Pierre.’