The next day, I rose at dawn to go to the fields, far from the books that had so recently been my joy. I watched my childhood dream float away on the golden seas of the wheat fields, the stalks undulating in the wind like waves. My brother Jacques, now promoted to master and commander, turned into an even crueler tyrant than my father, less assiduous in his work but better equipped to do as little as possible himself. Jacques had understood when very young that you don’t command by breaking your back but by getting the psychological upper hand over everyone else. Some men are as changeable as the wind, shifting direction like a weathervane to pursue their own interests. Jacques was one such man. From then on, he had no allies in the fields. The solidarity of our childhood dissipated like a veil of mist over the sea, and we were all subject to his iron yoke.
I learned to become a man during those years, to grit my teeth, to imagine life more than live it. On our way to the fields each morning, we passed the school. I looked at the facade of the building in which Monsieur Duquerre, with his round spectacles, had taught me so much. Sometimes nostalgia overwhelmed me. But I didn’t lose hope. Soon the hour would come when I’d be free for good. In the meantime, I might as well keep smiling. My intuition would take care of the rest. Optimism always triumphs in the end, despite the assertions of those, like my father, who never smile.
8
The date was April 17, 1943, and the war raged above our heads, as British bombers dropped their payloads on the Rhuys Peninsula with the aim of annihilating the German forces based there. The screams of the villagers as the bombs fell suggested the coming of the apocalypse.
“Quick, to the cellar!” yelled my mother, terrified at the idea of losing one of her sons.
We scurried down the stairs and gathered in the farmhouse cellar. Outside, it was pure panic as people rushed for shelter yet again. Nobody had asked for war, yet here it was, ravaging our crops and houses without our say-so. There were only two solutions amid this chaos: escape or endure. The world is often binary. An exodus to the unoccupied zone, a couple of hundred miles away, was possible, thanks to the support of Resistance networks, but it would mean leaving behind family, friends, house, and land. Unfortunately for me—dreaming of pastures new—nobody in our circle seemed eager to leave the area. Nobody wanted to abandon land inherited from their ancestors, despite the bombs raining down on their farms, their cattle, and their livelihoods. So we had to endure. And enduring meant withstanding the injustices of the German soldiers, their incessant ID checks, sometimes even their violence. Whenever we were stopped by them, they would rant at us in their incomprehensible and strange-sounding language.
So that morning we sheltered in the cellar where the cider was usually stored, waiting for the deluge of bombs to end. Mama huddled on the floor praying, hands clasped in front of her chest, tightly clutching her crucifix and murmuring inaudible hymns, imploring the Lord’s protection. I watched my mother silently, unnoticed. She was still beautiful, despite the lines that grief had etched into her face. I adored everything about her: her large almond eyes, her slightly upturned nose, the ponytail into which she always gathered her hair. Crouching, surrounded by her children, she prayed for the end of this murderous madness that sometimes possesses men when they no longer listen to their hearts. The room smelled strongly of cider. Outside, the animals bellowed and howled, terrified by the bombs. Man is crazy, they must have thought. Jacques sat there impassive, simply waiting for us to be able to return to the fields. He resembled my father. Both of them shared the same capacity for nonreflection, for remaining unencumbered by emotions. I was the exact opposite. As for Pierre and Guy, they hugged each other, trembling with fear. They also shared a resemblance, a subtle mixture of my father and mother, the happy medium, but I was never particularly close to either of them. I simply prayed that the bombs wouldn’t hit us. We heard the long whistle of their fall, initially distant and then closer and closer, before they hit the ground with a deafening crash that shook the earth. With each bomb, I gritted my teeth hard, thinking of the victims, the unlucky ones. Sometimes you are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once, the bombs fell a few dozen yards from the house, the closest ripping through the raspberry bushes of my childhood, and I thought my last hour had come. War scars those who have known it up close, haunting them for eternity. In later years, a slamming door or exploding fireworks would cause me to tense up and recall those moments spent crouching in the farmhouse cellar, waiting for death.
The planes disappeared from the Brittany sky. We ventured out of our lair like hunted foxes to find that not a single bomb had touched any part of the farm. Fate had been kind to us this time. My mother picked up her household chores where she’d left off, without saying a word, solid as a rock. My brother ordered us back to the fields; we were late with the sowing and had another week’s work ahead of us. To my dismay, Jacques had refused any help from our uncles, preferring to toil from dawn till dusk. He wanted to prove his tenacity to the family as a point of honor, or rather ego. We set off for the fields, which I hated with every fiber of my being.
Halfway there, a group of soldiers demanded to see our papers. We each showed them in turn. One of them yelled a few words in German—I really didn’t like that language at all. Then they pushed us to the ground and began kicking the hell out of us. An officer’s boot pounded into my ribs, arms, and legs, and I screamed with pain each time the rough leather met my skin. They howled with laughter at our terror. When they tired of their violent game, they threw us in a truck. Jacques resisted, pushing one of them away. Their chief lifted his rifle and brought the butt crashing down into Jacques’s face, smashing his nose in a spurt of blood. Jacques stared at his aggressor, stunned. He seemed surprised at such cruelty, which was ironic given how tyrannical his behavior had been since my father died. But we all meet our match at some point. Jacques understood this and lowered his head, clutching his nose.
The truck drove off. We looked at one another, not understanding what was happening. The Germans talked among themselves in their barbaric language, paying us no mind. We hugged each other, the tension and anxiety palpable. Jacques held his nose, head bowed, cursing the Germans with all his being. Blood dripped from his nose, pooling at his feet. Guy and Pierre stared at me strangely, with a mixture of complicity, incomprehension, and a certain warmth, that brotherly affection my father had patiently strived to blunt. Sibling unity was restored a little in the cramped space of the vehicle. I felt at ease among them, despite our uncomfortable situation.
The truck pulled up in front of a huge white stone farmhouse. We got out, fearing what the soldiers had in store for us. A German beckoned us over to a barn a short distance away in which hundreds of hay bales were stored. He pointed at another, larger truck parked nearby and mimed loading the bales onto the vehicle. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was to be forced labor, not death. Another soldier went inside the farmhouse and emerged with a short man whom he pushed into the barn, sending him flying to the floor. The man looked up at us, his eyes full of rage. He nodded at us in greeting. It was Monsieur Blanchart, the village mayor. It took us three hours to load the hay bales onto the truck. When we were done, the Krauts drove off without even a word of thanks, leaving us all standing there.
“Filthy Germans,” exclaimed Monsieur Blanchart angrily. “They took all my wheat and all my cattle, and now they’ve commandeered my barn.”
“What exactly do they want it for?” asked Jacques.
“A munitions store.”
“And your hay?” I asked.
“They’ll burn it, of course! What do you think they’ll do with it?” he replied. “But we can’t do anything, nobody can. This damn war will never end.”
“They say the Americans will come,” said Jacques.
“The Americans have got other fish to fry, believe you me!” replied Monsieur Blanchart. “Anyway, come along to the house for something to drink. A little human warmth won’t hurt in these sad times.”
The
farmhouse was full of the pleasant scent of freshly baked bread. He invited us to sit.
“Mathilde, bring us some glasses of water!” he shouted in the direction of the kitchen.
“Yes, Papa, I’m coming,” said a younger voice.
“How are things at the farm?” he asked my eldest brother.
“Good. We’re a bit behind with the plowing, but nothing serious,” replied Jacques, then he scowled. “If the Krauts hadn’t grabbed us this morning, we’d have made some progress.”
“Don’t talk to me about those parasites,” said Monsieur Blanchart with annoyance. “I won’t sleep soundly till they’ve gone!”
“Me neither,” agreed Jacques.
The sound of clinking glasses came from the kitchen. Light steps approached, steps that barely touched the floor, and a girl appeared, carrying a tray with our drinks. This was the first time I set eyes on Mathilde Blanchart. My heart began to race, my palms grew moist, and I felt the blood drain from my face. She walked forward silently, concentrating so as not to spill the water, her long hair flowing over her shoulders. Her fair skin contrasted starkly with our own sun-weathered complexions. She must have spent most of her time shut up in the house. Women didn’t have much of a choice in those days. They were born, grew up helping their mothers, got married, had children, took care of the household tasks, then died, worn out by domestic chores. No emancipation or liberty; men determined everything. Only a few, more resilient women managed to succeed in this battle between the sexes.
Mathilde Blanchart placed the tray on the table and served us our refreshments. I watched her, seduced by the calm dexterity of her hands. When she was done, her father motioned for her to leave us, and she disappeared into the kitchen. Does Monsieur Blanchart hide his daughter to keep her from covetous eyes, protecting his treasure so no one can get close? In a village of 150 souls, everyone knew each other. Rumors circulated as fast as the wind, rushing from house to house with the comings and goings of the inhabitants. We knew that the village mayor had a daughter, but nobody had ever seen her.
We drank our water, thanked the mayor for his warm hospitality, and headed back to our fields, hoping we wouldn’t be pressed into service again by a German patrol. I thought of Mathilde as we walked, her white skin and her long flowing locks. She had paid me no attention, not even a glance, an indifference that made me a little annoyed. I felt the first stirrings of male ego, the same ego that was ravaging our countryside and our animals, and would be the source of much misfortune to come. I was already feeling the full force of love’s first torments. At fourteen years old, my knowledge of the subject was minimal—nonexistent, in fact. The only love I had ever known was between my mother and me. But these stirrings of emotion for Mathilde were quite different, more visceral. This love took root almost imperceptibly before gradually extending its long tentacles, like an octopus gripping a fisherman’s arm. The image of Mathilde soon came to haunt me day and night. Her face hung before me as I scythed the wheat. I smelled her imaginary scent as I drifted off to sleep, and I dreamed that, in the seclusion of her father’s barn, her extended hands invited me to enter her kingdom, the hay bales crackling with the sparks of my passion. I awoke to the silence of the night, covered in sweat. My beloved moon smiled down through the window while my brothers snored around me. At mealtimes I simply gazed at my plate, letting Jacques scarf my uneaten rations. My stomach was too preoccupied with fighting against the frustration of not being able to approach Mathilde. I soon had to face the facts: I was in love with the young woman and sick with the lack of reciprocity.
9
One Sunday morning, when I could take it no more, I pretended to have an awful stomachache. I lay in bed writhing in simulated pain. Mama wanted to call the doctor, but I begged her not to. She relented, kissed my forehead, and set off to church with my brothers. I got up and dressed, happy to have completed the first step in my plan. For a while now I had been observing Monsieur Blanchart at church, how he always attended on his own, leaving Mathilde shut up at the farm. I knew that his wife had died a few years earlier, but why hide his daughter away?
Time was of the essence. I grabbed my eldest brother’s bicycle and pedaled at breakneck speed in the direction of the Blanchart farm. As I approached, I was surprised to see several German trucks parked alongside the barn. Caught up in my passion, I had entirely forgotten their requisitioning of the building. I hid behind a bush and cursed this flaw in my plan. Those lousy Germans were everywhere. Not satisfied with preventing us from living our normal lives, they now deprived me of the possibility of making my romantic dreams a reality. I just wish this stupid war would end, I thought. But, Germans or no, my desires demanded action. I was ready to risk my life to get close to Mathilde. So I discreetly raised my head above the bush and strategically appraised the situation. The Blanchart farmhouse, located a hundred yards from the barn, appeared quiet. There was no sign of soldiers patrolling the area, just two sentries standing guard outside the barn. Rifles on shoulders, they stared into the distance. It was not going to be easy. The farmhouse was surrounded by thick forest, which would provide me with cover to advance. But the trees ended thirty yards from the house. My only option then would be to run across the open ground as fast as I could, a perilous tactic given the German fears about the Resistance. They would shoot me on sight.
Seeds of fear began to sprout in the well-plowed furrows of my resolve. This is utter madness, I thought. I don’t even know if Mathilde is there. What was the point of dodging German bullets, of risking my life, if I didn’t even get to speak to her? Maybe I really was crazy, unable to control this fanciful desire instead of waiting for the war to end to declare my love. But before giving up, I cast one final, sad gaze in the direction of the farmhouse. One detail caught my attention. A window that had been closed when I arrived was now open. It was on the other side of the building from the Germans, hidden from their view. Destiny had served up proof of Mathilde’s presence on a silver platter.
A wave of elation washed over me. I headed into the forest abutting the Blanchart property. Thorns scratched at my skin, and I grabbed a piece of wood to beat a path through the vegetation. I made swift progress. There are magic moments in life where the world around us ceases to exist and all that matters is our pleasure in succumbing to an urge. Lowering my guard that day was the first major error of my life. A hand roughly seized my shoulder, violently pulling me to the ground. I found myself looking up into the furious face of a German soldier aiming his rifle at me. I closed my eyes and thought of my mother’s face. “Achtung! Kapitän!” yelled the German, his lips flecked with saliva like a dog that has seized a hunted bird. A stream of urine coursed down my thigh, soaking my pants. My father had been right: I was nothing but a little girl. Papa’s scornful face floated before my mind’s eye. The German was screaming incomprehensible words. I would soon be joining the father I hated so much. My story was coming to an end. A German bullet would punch through my skin, rip my flesh apart, and send my guts spilling across the forest floor. I regretted lying to my mother. She would see my empty bed and worry about my absence while my soul glided over the fields toward the firmament. From up there I would watch her tears of concern, full of guilt at not having been able to control my passions. My mother would never get over it. I was just a good-for-nothing, an imbecile. They’d been right all along.
The expected gunshot never came. I heard the distant shouts of another soldier and the cracking of branches underfoot as he ran toward us.
“Halt! Das ist ein Kind,” 1 he shouted breathlessly.
The soldier with the gun trained on me stopped yelling and snapped to attention. The approaching steps grew louder and I felt the rasping breath of the man who had been running toward us.
“Who are you?” he asked in French with a strong German accent.
“I . . . I . . .” My eyes were still shut tight.
“Open your eyes!” he ordered.
I slowly opened my eyes and found myself
face to face with a soldier whose uniform was different from the others, darker. The man looked to be in his forties, with short, very blond hair, almost Scandinavian in appearance. His eyes were as blue as the sea. He’s handsome, I thought. He gave some orders to the other soldier, who briskly nodded and moved off into the woods. The man turned back to me and looked me up and down, noticing the patch of urine between my legs. I blushed.
“Are you in the Resistance?” he asked.
“No,” I stuttered, coming to my senses.
“What are you up to, then?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Why are you here, then? Tell me!” he screamed, pointing the dark barrel of his pistol at me. Shaking, I decided to tell him the truth.
“I . . . wanted . . . to . . . go to the Blanchart farm,” I said with difficulty, pointing toward the farmhouse.
“Why?”
“To . . . see . . . Mathilde . . .”
“Who is Mathilde?”
“Monsieur Blanchart’s . . . daughter.”
“Why do you want to see her?” he asked skeptically.
“Because . . .”
“Why? Answer me!” he screamed again.
“Because I love her,” I replied, immediately regretting my response.
He froze, seeming incapacitated by such a declaration. What place had love amid all this unspeakable barbarity? The man had probably forgotten the very definition of the word, repressed deep inside of his being and double-locked in a safe.
“You love her?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Yes . . .”
The pistol barrel suddenly withdrew. I breathed freely again. His eyes bored deep into mine. There was something different about this man, something human. He was clearly wondering about the veracity of my claim as he scanned my face for the slightest trace of a lie. He paced around me, stroking his stubbly beard, before glancing over at his subordinate, who seemed more interested in the beauty of the trees than any possible threats. Having apparently settled the matter in his mind, he crouched beside me.
Seasons of the Moon Page 4
