Seasons of the Moon

by Julien Aranda

  Then he headed off to the fields, accompanied by my brothers and their tools. When they had disappeared down the track, I sadly lowered my head. The whole world was collapsing beneath my feet. I was seized by a feeling of failure. Never would I shine as brightly in my father’s eyes as Themoon did in the sky. Truth has an acid taste. My father would never love me. Summer was coming to an end. My mother couldn’t help me anymore and I had to go back to the fields. Work became routine, alienating. My former drive had left me, replaced by indifference. Out in the fields I thought about the sailors in their beautiful striped outfits, their hair ruffled by the ocean breeze. I would have loved to join them, greet the crowd in the port, chat with curious onlookers, and sail off far away to live my dream. But I had to face the facts. I was just a farmer’s boy, filthy with the soil of his field, whose only fate was to till the earth until he died. The rest was just an illusion, the bittersweet fruit of my imagination. I hopped with impatience, waiting for day’s end, brooding on my discontent in a kind of mental confusion, and dreaming of elsewhere. I wasn’t like the others. And I already knew that this difference would be a problem. The Vertune family would never accept one of its members wanting to make his own way in the world.

  6

  One September morning my father walked me briskly down the dirt road to the village. I remained silent beside him. We stopped in front of a stonework building. Inside, a small bearded man was pacing back and forth. When he saw us, he came out and extended his hand. My father shook it mechanically, with no warmth, and left as silently as he had arrived. I looked up at the strange man, who was scrutinizing me from behind his round spectacles. His thick beard contrasted with his fine features. He exuded a pleasantness that immediately inspired my trust.

  “Hello, Paul,” he said in a soft voice. “My name is Monsieur Duquerre. I’m the village schoolmaster.”

  “Good day to you, sir,” I replied shyly.

  “Do you know what a schoolmaster is?”

  “Yes. It’s the man who teaches the classes!” I answered proudly.

  “Exactly! Welcome to Brillac School. Follow me, I’ll show you around the place.”

  I took the schoolmaster’s hand. He was clearly surprised to feel my little hand in his and stared at me, dumbfounded. I sensed that he was touched by such a gesture. He stopped in the shadow of the building and gave me a lukewarm smile. Then we entered, passed several empty rooms, and came to an empty courtyard. The schoolmaster explained that this was where the children played when they weren’t studying. My brothers sometimes mentioned their mornings at school, but they had never said anything about playing. They all spoke of this establishment with the same disdain, particularly Jacques, who was bored to death here. But I thought this schoolyard was beautiful. It was huge and dotted with plane trees conducive to children’s games. Everything else about the place was fantastic too, so different from the settings I was used to. I couldn’t wait to enjoy this magical environment with my schoolmates.

  I could tell that the schoolmaster noticed my wonderment, but he didn’t remark upon it. He led me into a room with a commanding view of the whole playground and invited me to sit down. Handing me a glass of water, he said, “So, Paul, did you enjoy this visit?”

  “Yes,” I replied, awestruck.

  “From now on you will spend your mornings here. You will join my class, starting tomorrow, and you will take lessons up until the School Certificate.”

  “What’s the School Certificate?”

  “It’s a diploma you will receive at the end of your studies. With that you will be able to do whatever you wish in life. Do you know what you want to do later on?”

  “I would like to be a sailor, sir.”

  “That’s a fine profession,” he said, a little awkward at this avowal. “But you will have to learn to read and write, for you can’t become a sailor if you’re illiterate.”

  “What’s illiterate?”

  “It’s when a person can’t read or write.”

  “Like Papa and Mama?”

  Monsieur Duquerre didn’t answer. He simply took me by the hand and led me back outside to where my father was waiting. My father didn’t look up as he shook the schoolmaster’s hand again. He was usually so sure of himself, but now I saw shame in his eyes, as if he felt inferior to Monsieur Duquerre. The schoolmaster went back inside.

  On the way home, I didn’t dare ask my father if he was illiterate, for fear of angering him. I simply observed his gait, that of a farmer worn down by work. That evening, when the farm fell silent and my brothers slept, I thought about the schoolmaster, his bushy beard and his round spectacles; the playground with its plane trees, their trunks devoid of branches; the sandpit in which everything was imaginable; the classrooms that would soon be filled. I imagined myself in the middle of all these children in a hurry to be taught so they might stand on their own two feet, far from the wheat fields. The schoolmaster’s words resonated in my head: You will have to learn to read and write, for you can’t become a sailor if you’re illiterate. Would I be able to learn those skills?

  My next few years were accompanied by the sound of the schoolmaster’s whistle and the swoosh of the scythe. I quickly learned to read and write, fascinated by the world of literature and knowledge. I was the first to arrive for Monsieur Duquerre’s lesson every morning, and I sat at my desk impatient to wrestle with the new knowledge—which was never enough to satisfy my curiosity. The schoolmaster was initially surprised at such diligence but eventually got used to my enthusiasm. He too began to arrive earlier and earlier. What more beautiful gift could he receive from a pupil than that they eat up his every word? I devoured his teaching without dropping a single crumb. He quite naturally developed a fondness for me—perhaps even love, I don’t know. The word in the village was that, despite his erudition, he lived alone, surrounded by his books. Knowledge frightened country folk, as did those who promoted it. In those days, nothing was more important than feeding one’s family. Most people had never ventured more than six miles from the village. What point was there in being educated?

  Besides reading, writing, and arithmetic, I studied geography, the history of France, and ethics. One winter evening, Monsieur Duquerre taught me to recognize the constellations in the sky. He pointed out that Themoon was written as two words, the moon—another sign that my childhood was fast receding. He smiled as I blushed with shame at having shown my ignorance. Later, I was astonished when he pointed out our geographical location on a map of the world. My naive eyes couldn’t get over seeing the oceans, the continents, and the poles clearly marked on the laminated card. The blue expanses on the map made me think of the sailors. I imagined myself in the future, wearing my uniform and navigating the currents of the Gulf Stream, glimpsing the tip of Cape Horn, and braving the devastating gales of the Roaring Forties. That made me happy. I memorized the names of the countries, their capitals and major cities, as well as the French departments, prefectures, and subprefectures. I would recite them during afternoons in the fields. My father watched me without uttering a word, with that barely veiled jealousy that the uneducated often bear toward the learned. Knowledge was within reach, I just had to pluck it from my schoolmaster’s teachings. Inside the school walls I recovered a taste for life, and despite the afternoons of drudgery, I felt as if I could reach out and touch some of my wildest dreams. School was a gateway to a bright future in which everything seemed possible.

  The year 1939 marked a turning point in history. Evil gnawed at the edges of Europe. Hitler invaded Poland, causing France and Britain to declare war on Nazi Germany. The chaos extended as far as the frontiers of the Soviet Union. Europe became a giant inferno in which humanity slowly perished. Our country was now at war. The world map hanging on the wall was out of date. German domination now stretched far beyond its borders. Shortly after the announcement of France entering the war, Monsieur Duquerre drew me aside and explained the conflict raging nearby. Tears began to run down his cheeks as his detailed lesson
drew to a close.

  “Why are you crying, sir?” I asked, moved.

  “War is an awful thing that takes everything we have,” he declared as he wept.

  “Did war take something from you, sir?”

  “Yes, my father.”

  “How?”

  “Dead in the trenches of Verdun during the Great War. A shell fell on him. He went there to protect his homeland. Nobody protected him.” He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. “I’m going to show you something.”

  Taking an envelope from his satchel, he ran his fingers gently down the edge and withdrew a small folded sheet of paper, which he handed to me.

  “You can read it if you like,” he said, as if offering me a piece of treasure.

  I carefully unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a letter, in delicate handwriting. What I read touched me deeply.

  Dear Édouard,

  I write you this letter to tell you that everything is fine here. We rise at dawn each day and contemplate the German line facing us. The Germans, who are really not so different from us, also watch that we do not advance into enemy territory. We wait in our hidey-holes, a bit like how you do at school when you play with the other pupils. You see, when all is said and done, as much as we may have grown up, we are nevertheless all just big children.

  Last week, for Christmas, we left our trenches for the first time and chatted with the enemy, exchanged gifts, and played football together. I must admit I no longer understand the point of this war. Yet we are still here, waiting in the winter chill.

  Édouard, my darling son, I want you to know that I love you with all my heart, that I think about you and your mother day and night, that you are with me wherever I go, and that I will love you both always. If something were to happen to me here, I want you to be strong, my son, to become a man despite your tender age, and look after your mother. You are my two angels and I will never desert you, wherever I may be. I hope to come home soon and hold you in my arms. I love you both.

  Papa

  I reread the letter in order to better grasp the meaning of the words, imagining my schoolmaster’s father in his dirty hidey-hole, then kicking a ball around with the enemy. What a curious contrast, I thought. The First World War had caused millions of deaths, scarring whole families for life, cutting down so many innocents. Amid this incoherent farce, some soldiers had made peace for the space of a quick match before holing back up in their dens again. I couldn’t help thinking about my father. Under a deluge of shells, would he have understood that life is too short to carry one’s most intimate feelings to the grave? Would he too have set down on a blank sheet of paper the words I’d been waiting for since my birth? Monsieur Duquerre slid the letter back into the envelope as he wiped away the last of his tears. He told me he must go to Rennes, the capital of Brittany, to look after his mother and meet with the school’s inspector, a man who had high ambitions for him.

  I returned to my parents’ farm with a heavy heart. When my father saw me arrive, he told me I was just a good-for-nothing who would never be a man. I went to lie down in the garden and dozed in the shade of the apple trees. I felt comfortable under their tranquil branches, alone in the world.

  The following Monday, Monsieur Duquerre told me he was leaving for Rennes. His mother was very sick and was counting on him to take care of her, as his father had instructed in his letter. He promised to get me a scholarship to study in Rennes. He would be replaced by another schoolmaster. The inspector came to fetch him in a black car. Monsieur Duquerre shook my hand coldly so as not to arouse any suspicions regarding our secret relationship, then got in the car, which drove off down the road. I never saw him again, despite his promises and efforts on my behalf. He left me to my fate, alone in my childhood village.

  I was angry with him for a long time, until one day in a library, many years later, I saw his name on a list of those who had died for France. He had been conscripted to defend the motherland, like his father before him, and had been shot in an ambush close to the German border, in a little village near Alsace. Had he thought of me the day he fell, his chest riddled with bullets? He, the little schoolmaster whose existence had been ravaged by war, who had devoted his entire life to helping others, was now dead, lying in the cold ground.

  I returned to school the day after his departure, but my heart wasn’t in it. The new schoolmaster was too busy writing books and had no time to spare me outside of school hours. His only effort was to lend me a few books, which I devoured and gave back to him. A vast emotional emptiness seized me. Monsieur Duquerre had been much more than a schoolmaster. Over time he had become a real father to me. Now I would have to do without.

  Something had changed in the village. We soon witnessed the arrival of a battalion of Nazis with orders to secure the Brittany beaches in case the enemy tried to land there. They came to the farm to seize our wheat. My father objected vociferously and was roughed up in front of his family. The German soldiers roared with laughter as he lay on the ground, his face covered in blood. I pitied him and helped him back up, but he didn’t thank me for it. The Nazis left, their packs stuffed with grain. We were now the children of an occupied France, a republic split in two. The red and white colors of fascism were everywhere, stamped with the hard, crooked lines of the black swastika. We learned to live in terror of the enemy, who would frequently stop us to check our papers. It seemed like they were searching for something specific as they scrutinized us and scanned our ID cards from every angle, looking for the slightest indication of forgery. Later we learned the horrific truth: they were seeking Jews to murder in their camps in Poland. Many men from my village were taken for Compulsory Work Service. My father was lucky to escape this when they came for him. The large truck pulled into the yard, packed tightly full of men, and there was no room for him. Was it destiny or purely chance? I couldn’t say. Life’s long journey contains plenty of mysteries, the origins of which we shall never know.

  My father continued tending his fields, as if the enemy patrolling the edges of his land every day were invisible to him. The wheat was clearly more important than anything else. He seemed rooted in his field for eternity, like the ears of wheat he’d been scything since the dawn of his existence. Yet one October afternoon he died.

  We never knew the precise circumstances of his death. What had he been thinking before he passed away? Had he repented for his behavior? For a long time I imagined his death as I went to sleep at night, alone in my bed. A romantic end, as in the books I devoured. Standing amid the plants, which never disputed his authority, my father reveled in the whisper of the wind through the golden stalks, moved by their oceanic stirring as he contemplated the mysterious shadow sweeping across his field. Submerged in a cocktail of emotions, worn out from a lifetime of drudgery, he crumbled to the ground, his eyes raised heavenward to the moon’s diurnal smile. By a strange twist of fate, the Reaper cut him down with the same dexterity my father displayed when scything the ears of wheat. Just goes to show there’s no such thing as coincidence in life.

  7

  It was a gray and rainy day. Brittany was wearing its autumnal cloak, the trees their ochre robes. When we saw him lying lifeless in a wooden box, we had to accept the reality. He was quite dead. I drew near the coffin and perused his face. I thought I could discern a slight smile. In death, my father displayed a semblance of grace. He lay there, cold as ice, hard as stone, but his face was serene. Perhaps he had to die in order to reveal his true nature to us. I felt nothing that day as I stood before his final resting place—neither sorrow nor rage, nor anything at all. I gazed at him with the same indifference he had shown me the day of my birth. I wondered only what would happen to my brothers and me without him. We stood as if frozen before this lifeless, soulless body. I was surprised to see Jacques, whom my father loved most, hold back his tears. He stared at the whiteness of the body with a teenager’s fascination at the stillness of death. My mother bent to kiss her husband’s forehead. As her lips brushed th
e icy skin, she pulled back, as if surprised by the chill of the corpse.

  We buried my father the next day. All the villagers gathered to pay their respects and lay flowers on his coffin. They acknowledged his courage and lamented this man departed too soon. They consoled my mother, now a widow, standing rigid in front of her husband’s coffin. Then we laid him in the earth. As the coffin descended into the dark hole of the freshly dug grave, everybody wept. Such hypocrisy. No one liked my father. Why are they weeping for a man who never shed a tear for anyone? The ceremony drew to a close and the villagers dried their crocodile tears. We headed back to the farm. The joy of baptism is counterpointed by the despair of death. There’s no consistency in this grotesque masquerade.

  On the way we passed a few German soldiers; they were too involved with warmongering to console us. They nevertheless had enough respect not to bother the funeral party, all dressed in black. Death frightens even the fiercest soldiers.

  When we reached the farm, a meeting was held, stretching late into the night. Decisions were made. My father’s farm and fields now belonged to my mother, in accordance with their premarital agreement. The Vertune sons would work the land together, and when Jacques was ready he would take over running the family concern. Our uncles would take turns helping us for the first few years, after which Jacques would assume complete responsibility for the farm and for selling the wheat. The young man was considered the most capable of feeding the Vertune family. When they told us of their plans, I shuddered, imagining spending the rest of my days enslaved to those fields I hated everything about, even the smell of the earth defiled by my father’s body. I felt caught in a trap, a hostage to fate without any consideration of the individual and his views. It was a trap with no escape, no exit. I would be chained to the land, like generations of men before me. The question of my studies now seemed anathema, my family’s survival believed to be more important than the idle pursuit of knowledge. My adolescence began the day my father died.