In my Dreams it is 1944 Again

by Michele McGrath

  In my Dreams, it is 1944 again...

  Michèle McGrath

  In my Dreams, it is 1944 again...

  I dreamed again last night.

  The war has ended and the prison cells are thrown wide open. I run out, looking for him, screaming with delight. He is coming down the passageway towards me. I run into his arms, sobbing out the anguish of our separation against the rough tweed of his jacket.

  I have never felt such happiness, to be free, to be loved, to be together again. Recently I dream the same dream night after night and I wake full of joy in the morning. As time goes by, new details are added, as if a story is unfolding before me. In my dream, I am not Helen but Annette, not English but French, not young in 2013 but in 1944. In my real life no one is special; in France I am deeply in love with Jean-Claude. The ending is always the same. The war is over and we are together. I am living in someone else’s life as well as my own, but who’s life am I living?

  I know no one called Annette; no one called Jean-Claude. I rarely watch war movies. I have never spent much time in France, although my grandfather was French. He died young, as did my mother. I have only the haziest memories of them both. Why do I dream vividly about a time and a place not my own?

  At first I was delighted to wake up and be so happy. Now I want to stay asleep, grasping at details of that other life. I try to hold on as they are dragged from me by returning consciousness. I am greedy for more information, curious about the lives of the people I meet.

  The town square is old and battered, with its war memorial, church and shops. The baker is Anatole. Madame Yvette makes the most delicious pastries. Père Richard, the Curé, was wounded in the last war and turned to God for forgiveness when the violence ended at last. The teacher, Vivienne, is a friend of mine. We were at school together. I am definitely in the summer of 1944, because the Allies are fighting their way across the countryside of France. The air around me is electric with both hope and terror. We are in the way of the advance and the Germans are preparing to fight. The town is full of them. We keep our heads down and move warily, as we go about our business. I am young and pretty but they no longer trouble me. The soldiers are thinking of other things; the time for dalliance has gone. I am thankful, because I must do an important job before the Allies come. If I do not carry out this task, history itself will be changed. How? Why? I am becoming anxious. How stupid it is to be anxious about a dream.

  I do not even know the name of the town where I am living or what happened in 1944. Yet the people seem so alive, it does not seem possible they exist only in my mind. I search for clues to their existence, without success. There are no records of a town with a baker was named Anatole or a priest called Père Richard. With so little information, I do not think I will ever find them. Over seventy years have passed, time enough for everyone to have died, if they ever lived or survived the war.

  I try to ignore my dreams but they will not go away until I accomplish my task. I sometimes wonder if I am going mad. My dream world is becoming more real than the world around me, like living inside a fascinating book. You are desperate to find out what happens, but you do not have enough time to read. Perhaps I will never know the full story.

  Then, last night, as I wandered through my town again, I entered the little church for the first time. It is white walled and smells of dust. Cane chairs, some of them broken, are scattered around the nave. I walk down the aisle towards the small stone altar and notice a missal lying on one of the seats. Idly I pick it up and flip it open. The inscription on the flyleaf reads, ‘Notre Dame des Fleurs’.

  “Our Lady of Flowers,” I murmur to myself. The name is so unusual I wonder if I have remembered the words correctly when I wake up. Is there a church anywhere in France with so distinctive a name? It is Saturday and I spend the morning on the Internet. I take hours, sifting the information on all the churches named ‘Notre Dame’ or the people selling flowers. The French sites tax my language skills, but I do not give up. It is a shock when the words jump off the page at me - Notre Dames des Fleurs, in the small town of Saint Clément les Eaux.

  The grainy old pictures look vaguely familiar, especially the shapes of the war memorial and the church. It could be. Saint Clément is not far from the Normandy beaches, but it is a small and insignificant little place where nothing much has ever happened. Why is it so important in my dreams? Perhaps something happened which was never recorded or the records were lost. I have found a starting point for my search.

  What should I do next? The answer is obvious but I have already booked my summer holiday and used up my leave. My friend, Alice, and I are going to Corfu. Then her mother becomes ill and she has to cancel.

  “You go,” she says. “It’s a shame for both of us to miss out.

  “Do you want me to be around?” I ask her.

  “Not really. My sister is coming home to help. There’s nothing anyone can do except sit with her. You’ve been working hard, you need a holiday. Go. I doubt anything will happen before you get back, but I can’t leave her now.”

  So I am left with a two week slot to do what I want. Corfu would not be much fun on my own. I cancel my holiday and make arrangements to go to Saint Clément.

  If Saint Clément is the town in my dreams, perhaps in some dusty old attic there are still traces of Annette and Jean-Claude. I might find the reason why I should dream about them so intensely, seventy years later. If not, at least I tried and perhaps I will be at peace.

  The sun is shining as I drive down the long white road, shaded by plane trees. I feel happy and excited and apprehensive, all at the same time. In the last month, my dreams have been even more vivid. The faces are clear and I hear the voices, sharp and distinct. I understand them perfectly, even though they speak in the local patois, but then, in my dreams, I speak it too. My heart thuds as I pass the blue and white sign which tells me I have arrived. There is little traffic. I drive slowly, looking around me. Everything is familiar except for a row of modern houses. They seem out of place in the ancient, stone built town. I park near the church and make my way inside.

  It is cooler here, out of the blazing sun, and smells of dust, as it always has. A few candles are flickering before the Madonna and sunlight falls in shafts across the aisle. The seats are lined up in neat rows, but none of them are broken and no missal is lying there forgotten. The place seems both familiar and strange to me, all at the same time. As I turn to leave, I notice a small brass plaque on the wall. It has been lovingly polished and gleams in the soft light. Someone has placed a vase of flowers on the shelf below. They are wilting in the heat.

  Emile Arnaud

  Jacqueline Benoit

  Annette Mathieu

  Michel Moreau

  Père Richard Valois

  Mort pour la patrie

  Juin 1944

  “Dead for France” I whisper the translation and start to shiver. June 1944 is the time of my dream and I recognise these names, all of them, but especially Annette’s. Jean-Claude’s name is not there. Did he live?

  I am in the right place, but this is not the way it should be. In my dreams, Annette did not die. She was released from prison and met Jean-Claude again. I grope my way to a chair and sat down heavily. There has been a mistake. I will ask the priest. Perhaps he has records from that time. As I am leaving the church, an elderly woman is being helped up the stairs by a young man. She has a bunch of flowers in her hand. They are both strangers to me, but they may be able to tell me something about the plaque.

  I am sorting out the French words in my mind, when I hear the old woman gasp.

  “Annette,” she murmurs and sways. The young man catches her as she falls and lowers her gently to the groun
d. I kneel beside her and her eyes flicker open.

  “Annette,” she says again and grasps my sleeve.

  “We must get her inside out of the sun,” the young man is anxious. We lift her between us and take her into the church.

  “Can you fetch the doctor?” The young man asks me.

  “I don’t know where to find him,” I tell him, “I am a stranger here. You go. I will stay with her until you come back.” He gives me a long look and then nods and runs out of the church.

  The old lady’s eyes open and she smiles at me. Her eyes crinkle up at the corners. Suddenly she looks familiar. My mind clears and I recognise her. For a fleeting second, she is no longer old, but young and pretty.

  “Vivienne?” I ask hesitantly, clutching at the memory and she nods.

  “Why did you take so long to come back?” she asks.

  I do not have an answer that makes sense. Fortunately we are interrupted by the arrival of the doctor and the young man before I can reply. They fuss around her but she keeps hold of my sleeve and will not let me go.

  “I have waited so long to see you again,” she tells me, “Do not leave me now.”

  “Who are you, Madame?” the young man asks me, curiously.

  “An old friend,” I tell him. He looks bewildered. I do not blame him. There are decades between this woman and me and my accent marks me out for a foreigner.

  The doctor insists we take her home. He can find nothing wrong, but she must rest. She has had a shock.

  “I have a car...” I offer and the young man looks relieved. He has cycled into the town to see his grandmother and the doctor’s car is still in the garage. They both came here on foot.

  Her room is full of dark furniture, shining with polish. Faded photographs line the mantelpiece. She lies on the sofa while her grandson pours each of us a cognac.

  “My name is Robert,” he tells me, handing me a glass.

  “Helen...” I begin but Vivienne interrupts me.

  “You are Annette.” She uses the intimate ‘tu’, which is never used to strangers, making Robert’s eyes widen with surprise. “I thought you were dead. I was so sure I made them put your name up in the church.”

  “But Mamie, who do you think she is?” he asks sharply. “Look at her, she is younger than me. When were you born?” He turns to me and his voice is sharp.

  “1986,” I reply, truthfully.

  “You see?”

  “But it is not as simple as that,” I begin, and tell them about my dreams. The young man is sceptical. My story does not make sense to him or to me. Yet I know too many details of that time and people who are long dead, even though I come from another country and another time.

  “Can you tell me about those days?” I ask Vivienne, “I feel as if there is something I have to do, something that is vital, but I do not know what it is and the dreams will not cease until I do.”

  Vivienne’s eyes close. For a moment, I think she has fallen asleep, but, when her eyes open, they are misty with tears.

  “I will tell you about the last time we were all together,” she says slowly. “I will never forget that last day. Sometimes, I, too, see it in my dreams.

  We received special orders. Père Richard had a radio concealed in the church. The Germans found it later and shot him. He was a good man who just wanted the war to end. Everyone hoped for liberation, but few were brave enough to do anything about it. The last message Père Richard ever managed to get through to us told us to blow up the bridge at Lancy. We had to stop the Germans tanks driving over to threaten the advancing troops. If we could cut the bridge, the next crossing point was miles away. Jean-Claude went off to fetch the dynamite and fuses that we had buried in Emile’s barn. Annette and I had to alert the others who would be needed. She was to go north and I went south. We wished each other luck and cycled off in different directions. That was the last time I ever saw her.

  The Germans had patrols at each end of the village. I expected to be stopped and questioned, but my cover was good. My aunt lived a few kilometres away and I often visited her. That day, the patrol was jumpy because the Americans were nearby and they were afraid. So I had a much harder time getting through. At one point I thought that they would turn me back, but one of the officers recognised me and eventually I was allowed to pass. I have always believed that Annette did not pass the other barrier. Her story was weaker than mine and people just disappeared in those days. The Germans shot them, if they were lucky. I always believed that had happened to her.”

  “In my dreams she lived,” I objected, “she was released and found Jean-Claude again. What happened to him?”

  “We never found out,” Vivienne hesitated, almost as if she was forcing herself to speak. “Emile was so badly injured when he reached the cave where we were meeting that he could not tell us much. It was a miracle he escaped at all. The Germans had the farm surrounded and they fought their way out. They separated to divide the pursuit. Emile had no idea what had happened to Jean-Claude. One or two people, who never liked him, whispered that Jean-Claude had run away, because he was never heard of again. No body was ever found and no one had seen him arrested. After the war there was a lot of rumour and unpleasantness. He was the leader of our group. Some of the others were jealous of him and he was not here to defend himself. I never believed what they said but they would not put his name up in the church. Too many people objected.”

  “What happened next?” I ask.

  “We waited as long as we could for him, then we went to the bridge. There were fewer Germans than we expected. We were able to fight them off long enough to set the explosives, although we had only half the quantity. Jean-Claude was carrying the other half. Fortunately, the explosion was enough to weaken the bridge so the tanks could not cross and that made a difference.” She wipes a hand across her face and sighs.

  “This is too much for you, Mamie,” Robert says, glaring at me, “you need to rest.”

  “I agree,” I say, “You are tired. I should go now.”

  “Do not leave,” she says, “I am all right, only old and the memories make me sad.”

  “I could come back another day,” I offer, “when you are rested.”

  “Come tomorrow,” she insists and, when I nod, she lets me go.

  Then I am out in the sunshine and Robert walks beside me to my car.

  “My grandmother has not been well this winter and excitement is not good for her,” he tells me. “Perhaps it would be better if you did not return tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” I tell him, “I do not want to hurt her.” My need drives me, not hers. I must find another way.

  That night, in the small hotel, my dreams are different. This time I am at the barrier, talking to the guards, trying to leave the town with my message.

  “Where are you going?” the sergeant asks me.

  “To Madame Moreau’s, I have been mending this dress for her.” I tell him.

  “Can’t she mend it for herself?” He is suspicious.

  I shrug. “Her eyesight is not good. She cannot thread the needle any more.”

  Fortunately he does not know her. He examines the dress which has been neatly mended, but not by me. He asks a few more questions and then he waves me through. I cycle slowly. I must give him no reason to call me back.

  Michel is in the farmyard, when I arrive. I pass the message quickly. He will alert others and I have more calls to make. It is late when I finish my round, nearly curfew. I hurry away. The path is steep and I wheel the bike. I am tired and have to rest before I reach the top. From here, I can see over the fields towards Emile’s farm. Movement catches my eye. Men are creeping towards the farmhouse, spread out and silent. My heart thumps. Have Jean-Claude and Emile left yet? There is a shimmer of light in the doorway. Someone is still inside. I must warn them, but how? I look around wildly. There is nothing around me but grass, burnt brown by the summer sun. Then I remember the matches in my pocket. I pull out a huge tuft, set it alight and run along spreadin
g the blaze. The dry stalks flare up brightly and the smoke spirals into the evening sky. I hear a shout below me. The fire has been seen and now I must escape. I push the bike under a bush and run, gasping. The wood is near. If I reach it and hide, I will be safe. Luck deserts me and I trip. Before I can rise, they are all round me. I can feel the soldiers’ hands as they yank me to my feet.

  This time there is no happy awakening. I am trembling as the telephone shrills its urgent summons.

  “A call for you, Madame,” the hotel receptionist says. Vivienne has something to show me and I must come back again today. I try to make an excuse but she insists. She will wait for me.

  I hurry out. The dream is still vivid. I am shocked to see the peaceful world outside, free from the violence of war. Robert is there when I arrive. He does not look pleased, but he brings me into the sitting room. His grandmother picks up an old photograph from the table and hands it to me. A group of girls and young men are laughing happily at the camera.

  “Annette, Jean-Claude, Michel, Emile...” I recognise most of them. “They are the people in my dreams,” I tell her.

  “She is telling the truth,” Vivienne says, looking at Robert. “Very few photographs of the whole group were ever taken. As far as I know, this is the only one and it has not left this house. Yet, she can name people who are long dead.”

  “I don’t understand,” he says.

  “I don’t either,” I reply, truthfully enough.

  We sit for a moment, wondering. I still hold the photograph. There is one face I do not recognise. He has never been part of my dreams, although there is a fleeting resemblance to someone else.

  “Who is this?” I ask, pointing.

  “Don’t you know?” She looks surprised.

  “I have never seen him before,” I tell her, “who is he?”

  “Annette’s brother.” I see the disappointment in her eyes. Although she knows I cannot be Annette, I have her face and, up till now, I have had her memories.