Seasons of the Moon

by Julien Aranda

  I stood up, gave the iron lady one final smile, then set off toward the nearest street. These would be my last moments of freedom for weeks, and I savored them. As terrible as the imprisonment of the fields was, that of the army would be a real ordeal. Little did I know that inside those barracks—where a kindly chap dropped me off in his car—a twist of fate would take my life in an entirely new direction.

  13

  The first few months were not easy. Used as I was to the wide-open space of the countryside, it was hard to adapt to my new horizon, comprising the four walls of the barracks surrounded by forest. Being deprived of freedom has always filled me with a sense of injustice toward those in a position of authority who subjugate their fellow man on the pretext of a cause they themselves avoid serving at all costs. It was during this period of my life, locked up in the barracks, that I began to reflect upon the very principle of freedom. I had been subjected to the authority of a father who hated me, then that of a brother who’d been my ally before trying to destroy me, followed by the German soldiers, and finally my country’s military. When would the time come for me to seize my life with both hands and make my own choices once and for all? Why on earth had I not, in all my eighteen years, just once been the sole skipper of the vessel of my existence? At night, when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I would wait until everyone was sound asleep, then creep into the latrines and weep in silence.

  We got up at five o’clock each morning and went for a run through the vast forest. Our drill sergeant, Lartigue, a veteran of both world wars, was driven by a cruel desire for domination. What horrors had he endured on the battlefield to turn him into such an abject being so devoid of humanity? He rejoiced in his absolute power, and his narcissism was unlimited. He yelled insults interspersed with orders all day long. We were completely cowed, not daring to say a single word. Even the stoutest among us—Henri, a guy from the Savoie region with whom I got along pretty well—endured the torrent of insults and the belittling of his entire family and Alpine countrymen. But what could we do? Any challenging of the state’s authority would have been madness for which we would have paid dearly.

  After the physical exertion of the mornings, afternoons were devoted to weapons handling. We would spend hours in the baking summer heat aiming at distant targets, constantly cursed at by Lartigue, who was never satisfied with the results. The worst shooters, who always included me, were assigned cleaning duty. Over my two years I polished miles of floor and acres of windows, toilet bowls, and sinks, and sometimes also dishes when the cook was snowed under. I spent whole afternoons on my hands and knees, exhausted by these thankless tasks. Often I dreamed of escaping that hell, but then I thought of Mathilde and reconsidered. If I escaped I would be considered a deserter and sought by the authorities, in which case it would be impossible for us to marry. I just had to grit my teeth and endure.

  On our one day off per week, I wrote long letters to Mathilde. She always replied immediately, telling me about her equally boring life, the routine of a young woman stuck doing all the household chores. She would always end her letters with an affectionate phrase, such as I miss you, Paul, or I can’t wait to see you again. I missed Mathilde terribly. I even had difficulty remembering what she looked like, despite the photograph she had given me. It’s odd how distance sometimes effaces the dearest memories, refashioning them either through an idealizing filter or by omitting precious details.

  One October afternoon, after having flunked shooting training yet again, I found myself on cleaning duty with Henri, who, like me, spent a lot of time on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush. Henri was a cool guy whose only aim in life was to return home to Savoie and live up in the mountains away from the busy and bothersome world. He spoke little, fell asleep as quickly as possible come evening, and made himself quite inconspicuous in spite of his imposing size, which earned him a certain mistrust on the part of the drill sergeant. He was brave but not reckless. We marched, heads bowed, toward the closet where the cleaning gear was kept, to the jeers of the other recruits—a ritual mocking of those playing the part of cleaning ladies for a few hours. Having gathered our cleaning supplies, we headed for the kitchens, which we had been ordered to scour from top to bottom.

  When the cook saw us, he muttered darkly and pointed at a huge pile of dirty dishes to be scrubbed before dinner. In a corner I noticed a man I’d never seen before, a puny guy about my own age with slim features, who greeted us with a smile, in stark contrast to the foul-tempered cook. He was stirring a huge pot, with a vacant, bored air. I was just rolling up my sleeves when Lartigue entered the room and ordered us to stand at attention. We did as commanded, standing stiffly with our thumbs pressed to the seams of our fatigues. The drill sergeant walked around us, hands behind his back, wearing a serious expression. He stopped directly in front of me.

  “Vertune!” he screamed.

  “Yes, sir!” I replied without hesitation.

  “How many times you been on cleaning duty this week?”

  “Three, sir!”

  “In how many days, Vertune?”

  “In three days, sir!”

  “Do you find that normal?”

  “No, sir!”

  “So why are you here, then?!”

  “I’m a bad shot, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” he sneered. “I don’t give a shit about your sorry. What I want is for you to be a good soldier and—”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Did you just interrupt me, Vertune?!” he screamed, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

  “Excuse me, sir!” I replied with fear in my belly.

  “Are you giving me orders now?”

  “No, sir, I just wanted to . . .”

  “Shut up! Shut up, you hear me! I don’t want to hear your voice again until you complete your service, Vertune, is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He came closer, his face now inches from mine. I could smell his foul breath, and my nose began to pucker. He seemed to sense my disgust for him. Before I knew what was happening he dealt me a blow to the stomach so violent I was glued to the spot, before crumpling slowly to the ground, eyes rolling back in my head, gasping for air. Lartigue laughed cruelly as I squirmed on the floor. It felt like my guts had been crushed. When he had had his fill of my pain, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

  My eyes met the stunned gazes of the young man and Henri, not sure whether to leave me on the floor or to help me, wary of the drill sergeant’s wrath. As for the cook, he continued as if nothing had happened, no doubt used to the cruelty administered to recruits. I gradually got my breath back. The young man came over and helped me up. I thanked him and he went back to stirring the huge pot. The urge to desert was stronger than ever, but I rolled up my sleeves and approached the sink, determined to tackle the mountain of dirty dishes. I gritted my teeth and started scrubbing. The pain shooting through my stomach forced me to stop several times.

  It was late that night before we were done scrubbing the dishes, and we went to bed without having eaten more than a crust of bread. Once the lights were out, I took refuge in the latrines where, curled up in a stall, I wept and wept. I was worn out by so much revilement, tired of being so unfairly treated by other men. The light suddenly came on. I quaked at the idea of Lartigue seeing me in this state. I quietly got to my feet and waited behind the stall door.

  “I know you’re in there, Paul,” came a gentle voice. “Open the door.”

  “Who’s there?” I said, afraid.

  “I’m the trainee cook, we saw each other earlier.”

  I opened the door and found myself face to face with the young man from the kitchen.

  “I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself. My name’s Jean. Pleased to meet you.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “I saw it on the meal sheet. I’m with the other regiment, in B Wing. I got here a month ago.”

  “I didn’t know there was another regiment he
re.”

  “There’s no more room in the other barracks, so they’re sending us here, a few units at a time. Say, that drill sergeant walloped you pretty good in the kitchen earlier.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been there too. Had a few beatings myself, but I’m still alive. They’re all crazy here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen, Paul, I know what you’re going through, it’s the same for me. So if you feel like talking, I’m here. We need to stick together at times like this.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile.

  “OK, I’d better scram, wouldn’t want anyone to find us here like this. G’night!”

  “Good night.”

  At the door, he turned and came back.

  “Say, do you know Paris?”

  “No, not really.”

  “How about I give you a guided tour on leave day? This Sunday suit you?”

  “Yes, why not,” I said instinctively.

  “Great. We’ll leave the barracks at eight a.m., OK?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stood there on my own for a little while longer, staring at my lean face in the large mirror. My eyes were still red from crying, puffy with sadness. The light seemed to be slowly fading in them, the optimism waning, unsteady. I was but a shadow of myself, a melancholy specter roaming the corridors of the barracks, seeking in the mirror’s reflection the irrefutable proof of my belonging to the real world. I touched my face. My hands felt cold as ice. I thought of my mother kissing my dead father’s forehead and recoiling, shocked by the chill of his skin. For the first time in my life, I felt scared of sinking into despair, into the dread of never being free, into madness. I would have liked to take refuge in Mathilde’s arms, or Mama’s, those women who never judged me, never sought to control me or torment me or bring me down, but it was impossible; they were three hundred miles away. I had to pull myself together at all costs, stop moping. I thought about Jean. I had just made a friend, or at least an ally—the definition of the word friend being extremely vague to me. The thought of him lifted my spirits. I went back to bed. Around me men snored, or stirred fitfully at some nightmare. It’s not all black, I thought. Jean seems like a nice guy. We’ll see what Sunday brings.

  14

  That Sunday, we met outside the barracks at eight a.m. Jean smiled when he saw me and shook my hand. We waited for Marc, a friend of his, who had offered to take us all into town. It was late October, and the sky was overcast and gray. We breathed long streams of vapor into the cold air. Jean seemed nice enough, but I remained a little wary.

  His friend arrived soon in a classy little car. He seemed nice too. As we drove along, he told me that he had done his military service in the same barracks a year earlier and, like us, couldn’t wait to be free of it. When I asked him what he did for a living, he replied, “I’m an actor, like him.” Jean nodded and explained that they both belonged to the same theater company and that they had plans to produce their own plays together once he was done with his military service. Jean added, with a smile, that he had tried everything to get a medical discharge, from faking heart trouble to puking in front of the doctor, but none of his “performances” had yet had any success. Still, he continued to ponder the star turn that would finally pull the wool over the eyes of the medical staff and give him the liberty to pursue his passion.

  Marc dropped us off not far from the Gare Montparnasse, the train station where I had arrived several months before, wishing us a good day’s exploring. He would pick us up that evening to take us back to the barracks. We first went to the Eiffel Tower, which I admired for the second time, before heading to Les Invalides and its vast esplanade. After crossing the river Seine, we walked up the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, then turned around and came all the way back down that grand avenue to the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries Gardens, and the Louvre, before crossing back over the river into Saint-Germain-des-Prés and then up to the Luxembourg Gardens, past the Panthéon and the Sorbonne, ending up at Notre-Dame Cathedral. It was a long walk, but I was so fascinated to discover the history of my country through these monuments that I felt I could have kept going indefinitely. Jean was an excellent guide, employing all of his actor’s craft and enunciating clearly in a booming voice. He would stop in front of a monument and act the part of a king in his castle or an archbishop in his cathedral, playing each role with breathtaking accuracy. He clearly took great pleasure in telling the story of his hometown, gesticulating wildly as he narrated various characters’ exploits—which I would later discover were mostly the fruits of his imagination. Now and then passersby would stop for a few moments to listen to his impassioned tales, and we would soon find ourselves part of a little group of people gathered around him, wide-eyed, lapping up his every word and applauding. He answered everyone’s questions, inventing stories they all swallowed, astonished at such general knowledge. The man was indefatigable.

  When I couldn’t walk any farther, we sat at a café terrace on the Île Saint-Louis and chatted as we watched the Seine flowing lazily by. Weary of talking, Jean asked me about my life before the barracks. I told him about my Brittany childhood, working the fields, my dream of becoming a sailor one day, my encounter with the German officer in the forest, his death, the discovery of his daughter’s photograph, and my love for Mathilde and our long walks along the beach. He listened to me attentively, interrupting only occasionally to clarify certain details. I discovered what it felt like to be the center of attention. For once, somebody on this planet was interested in me and what I had to say, and this did me a world of good. When I was done, Jean looked at me silently, simply nodding his head.

  “You know that thing about the German officer’s daughter, the photo you have? I might be able to help you with that.”

  “How?”

  “Marc speaks German. He knows someone on the other side of the border. He could drive us to Germany one day, if you’d like.”

  “But it’s impossible to travel to Germany at the moment.”

  “Where there’s a will there’s a way,” he said with a wink.

  “Can you really help me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you like!” he replied with a smile. “Well, once we’re done with all this and we’re out of the barracks for good.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What do you want me to do for you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just doing it to help you.” He seemed surprised at my question.

  I looked at Jean’s cheerful face. His features were illuminated with hope, his eyes full of kindness. It was chilly on this little Paris square, but the warmth emanating from this man wrapped itself around me, keeping out the cold. Jean wanted to help me without expecting anything in return, simply for the pleasure of helping a man who had been a perfect stranger only a week ago. I wondered what force drove this mysterious person sitting opposite me.

  “So, do you accept?” he asked.

  “Yes, sure, but on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I help you too.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is, at least to me. What can I do for you in exchange?”

  He stared at me dubiously for a few moments, thinking.

  “There’s maybe one thing,” he said hesitantly.

  “What?”

  “Help me get out of the barracks once and for all. I’ve got a plan.”

  “Will I risk a stint in the guardhouse?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled.

  “Then I’m in. What’s your plan?”

  “Make me out to be a loony who has lost it from being cooped up in the barracks.”

  “You think it could work?” I asked, doubtful at his chances of success.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he replied, all smiles. “And what’s more, just between you and me, I’m a pret
ty good actor, so anything’s possible.”

  Jean explained his plan to me. It was admirably simple. We would arrange for both of us to be on cleaning duty the same day. Once together, he would throw himself at me for no reason. After having demonstrated how crazy he was, he would allow himself to be restrained and would bawl like a baby, curled up on the floor, racked by a despair that no one could soothe, not even the psychiatrist at the barracks, who would examine him and also question me. I would reply that Jean had been acting strange for a while, that he could no longer bear being shut up in the barracks, and that he should be discharged as soon as possible lest things turn sour. If all went well, he would receive a medical discharge and could return to treading the boards. He and Marc would come pick me up when my own service was over and we’d head to Germany so I could speak with the German officer’s daughter. Quid pro quo. A perfectly sound plan.

  We sealed the deal with an enthusiastic handshake, each of us seeing the plan’s benefits. We agreed to execute it two weeks later, which would give Jean enough time to get into character, according to his actor’s methodology. Marc, who had just double parked across the street, approved of the plan and willingly agreed to drive me to Germany and interpret for me. He drove us back to the barracks; we entered separately so as not to draw attention to ourselves. There was no sign of Lartigue. He must have had a leave day too. Nobody could have imagined for a moment what we had planned.

  The three weeks preceding our plan were the same as before, an implacable routine of sports in the morning, cleaning and maintenance duties in the afternoon, and rounds of sentry duty at night. There was nothing to upset the dreary equilibrium of our days as army recruits. I sometimes glimpsed Jean in the corridors and noted his strange conduct. Usually so jolly and extroverted, he became more withdrawn, sad, eyes staring emptily into space, his face haggard. Lartigue would set upon him, beating him violently in front of the whole barracks. But Jean remained impassive, gritting his teeth and saying nothing. He would simply get up, hang his head, and cry. It seemed like all the life had drained from him. With his pallid face, he looked like a condemned man just a few minutes from execution. On several occasions I had an urge to stand up to the drill sergeant but repressed it, not wanting to reveal our friendship and compromise the plan. So we waited patiently.