Wednesday, November 19, 1947. Some dates remain forever engraved in one’s memory, triggering a nostalgic smile when one recalls them. For several days I had been deliberately aiming to the side of the target, ensuring I would be placed on cleaning duty with Jean. Lartigue, incensed at such mediocrity, had nevertheless come to accept that he would never make me a soldier worthy of the name and contented himself with screaming at me to scrub the latrines and floors faster and harder. His appearances grew rarer. That day I found myself scrubbing the barracks floor on my own. Yet again I was disappointed not to see my friend. We were now a week overdue putting our plan into effect. Perhaps we’d simply have to forget about it.
Just when I had given up hope, Jean appeared with a mop in his hand, followed by Lartigue, yelling as usual. I was shocked to see how awful Jean looked. He was a mere shadow of his former self, totally possessed by the character he had created for our purpose over the previous three weeks. I knew nothing about the theatrical arts, but the man clearly had exceptional talent. Once discharged, he would surely go on to great things in the arts world and become famous.
Jean gave me a sly wink, dunked his mop in the bucket of hot water, and began swabbing the floor. The hysterical drill sergeant screamed at the top of his voice. But when he realized that neither of us was paying any attention to his ranting, he gave Jean a massive kick in the backside, sending him flying. Jean lay on the floor grimacing and groaning in agony like a mortally wounded animal. Something in the tone of his wailing made me realize he was no longer acting. Lartigue simply yelled louder and kicked him even harder, no doubt hoping to silence his cries of pain, appearing to have lost all control. With each blow of the drill sergeant’s boot, I could see the little boy humiliated by his classmates and mistreated by his parents, the teenager shunned by the girls, the young man terrorized by the bullets and shells of the battlefield and the blows of the Germans, the husband cheated on by his wife. All of Lartigue’s deepest fears and inner pain seemed to have risen to the surface in a dark frenzy of violence the likes of which I have rarely witnessed. Saliva frothed around his lips, his eyes bulged in his head, and his face turned scarlet in fury. I believed he truly wished to kill Jean, who now lay unconscious, his limp body racked by the drill sergeant’s kicks.
Even the most peaceful among us find that there are moments in life where something clicks and sends us over the edge. A shiver of rage rushed up my spine, the black rage of indignation that people feel when cornered, their fundamental liberties flouted. I leapt at Lartigue, knocking him off balance, and his head smacked into the floor with a dull thud. I stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the inert figure. For a moment I wanted to pummel him, smash his face, rip him apart, smear the floor with his blood. I imagined his smothered pleas, the despair and remorse gathering in his eyes as the Grim Reaper leaned in. After all, didn’t I too have the right to take the easy route of violence, of cruelty, rather than always playing the sensible part? I approached Lartigue, the blood boiling in my veins, grabbed him by the collar, and raised my fist high in the air.
Right as I went to strike him with all my might, I saw the face of Mathilde covered in tears, inconsolable at the thought of never being able to hold me in her arms again. My fist stayed poised in the air, and gradually I relaxed. The hate slipped away. I let go of the drill sergeant’s shirt. What should I do now? I jumped to my feet and realized that our plan had suffered a serious setback. Before me lay two men, completely unconscious, perhaps even dead. The situation was grave indeed. If I wanted to see Mathilde again and marry her one day, I must extricate myself from this quagmire I had gotten myself stuck in. But how? Drag the two of them into a corner and pretend nothing had happened? If the drill sergeant was merely unconscious, I’d be hauled before a court martial for mutiny when he came to. A tough prison sentence would be in the cards. I couldn’t face that, nor could I face the prospect of not seeing Mathilde for goodness knows how long, if ever. I heard steps approaching in the corridor, no doubt other soldiers alerted by Jean’s cries. In desperation, not knowing what else to do, I lay down on the floor and feigned unconsciousness. A few minutes later, the nurses put us on stretchers and carried us off to the infirmary. I sensed an air of incomprehension as they carried us through the barracks. A nurse lifted one of my eyelids. Would he realize the masquerade? He peered into my eye for just a moment, then let it go, no doubt wanting to attend to Jean. My mind swirled with the many imaginary scenarios that might get me out of this mess.
15
A few hours later, when I was ready to face my superiors, I called out as if I had just regained consciousness, taking care to clutch my head in apparent pain. A nurse ran to my bedside, accompanied by a portly officer of considerable rank. He sat down heavily and looked at me for a few moments. He must have been trying to deduce the truth from my appearance and gestures. Still clutching my head, I begged the nurse to give me something for the terrible pain. The officer frowned, as if doubting me. A shudder of anxiety ran down my spine. The nurse placed a poultice on my head, securing it with a bandage, then discreetly left the room. I found myself alone with the officer.
“So, Vertune, I hope you have been able to rest a little,” he said in a serious tone.
“My head hurts,” I lied.
“Indeed, indeed.” A pause. “I am Colonel Auguste Villaret, commanding officer of this base. I am hoping you might shed some light on this . . . affair.”
“What affair?” I asked naively.
“Don’t you remember anything?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“You were found lying on the floor.”
“What happened?” I asked, playing my role to the hilt.
“That’s precisely what I’m trying to find out.”
“What do you mean?” I said, acting surprised.
“You were not alone.”
“Oh?”
“Next to you were lying one Jean Brisca, his coccyx fractured, and Sergeant Major Lartigue, who can’t remember anything either. What the hell happened in that room?”
He looked completely flummoxed. Then I had a sudden stroke of genius. I decided to seize my chance before it was too late.
“You say that I was lying next to another soldier and the drill sergeant?” I said, pretending to recall something.
“Yes, do you remember?”
“We were on cleaning duty, weren’t we?”
“Indeed you were!”
“Yes, that’s it, I remember now,” I said, frowning as if in concentration. “Sergeant Major Lartigue was yelling at us to scrub harder. Then he kicked the other soldier in the backside as hard as he could. I wanted to intervene but he punched me in the head, and then . . . I don’t remember anything after that.”
“I see,” he said, unconvinced. “So you mutinied against a noncommissioned officer?”
“No, I . . . I just wanted to help my friend,” I stammered, feeling like I was losing control of the situation.
“Your friend? Jean Brisca is your friend?”
“No . . . well . . . He’s a barracks comrade, that’s all. The drill sergeant was kicking him so hard I thought he’d kill him. I just wanted to stop him.”
“I see. Jean Brisca was indeed covered in bruises, so I suppose I can believe you as far as that’s concerned.”
“It’s the truth, sir.”
“There’s something that escapes me, though.”
“What, sir?”
“Why was the sergeant major also on the floor?” He frowned.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he realized he’d gone too far, got scared, and pretended to have been knocked down too?” I suggested, quite sure of myself. “I can’t see any other explanation, sir.”
“I see,” said the officer levelly. “You are saying that Sergeant Major Lartigue lied in his statement and that he recalls perfectly well what happened?”
“I suppose I am,” I said, sensing that I was now committed to my chosen path.
“You know, you
’re lucky, Vertune. This isn’t the first time Sergeant Major Lartigue has exceeded his authority, shall we say. I don’t know if your story is true, but since I don’t wish news of this business to get out, I am going to believe you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, fear knotting my stomach.
“One last thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you like to be discharged from military service in exchange for your silence?”
“No, sir,” I replied, thinking of my brothers and the fields. “I won’t say anything.”
“Don’t you have family or a girlfriend waiting for you?” he asked, intrigued.
“I do. But I want to complete my service, it’s a matter of honor.”
“As you wish. You seem like a decent guy to me. Watch out, though. Decent guys aren’t too popular around here.”
He stood up, nodded goodbye, and walked out of the room. I never saw him again—nor Lartigue either. We never found out what happened to him. Jean was taken to a military hospital. As he told me later with his usual verve, the coccyx is a fragile bone that takes a long time to heal following violent trauma and requires extensive rehabilitation. By a quirk of fate, it was during his convalescence that he met a nurse who would become his wife a few years later and with whom he’d have two children. Our initial plan might have failed, but other paths opened, other perspectives that would never have appeared had the furious drill sergeant not lost control that day. People’s lives are made up of such chance occurrences, coincidences, and choices.
As for me, I soon recovered from my imaginary head injury. When I was discharged, three days later, I found I had been assigned to the kitchens for the rest of my military service. Colonel Villaret ensured that I received favorable treatment in the barracks, having judged me to be “a decent guy.” Nobody ever bothered me again. I happily assisted the cook in his everyday tasks, accompanying him to market early in the morning to buy fruits and vegetables, preparing the recipes, and so on. All in all, it was much less exhausting than spending endless days running around, crawling along the ground, and shooting at paper targets.
One day, as I was mixing fruit for a coulis, I knocked over a box of raspberries. I cursed loudly as they rolled across the white floor trailing delicate lines of red pulp. The past resurfaced, the spilled fruit evoking the garden of my childhood filled with a thousand fragrances, the branches of the raspberry bushes running along the fence, the long leaves of the apple trees waving in the wind. I saw my mother singing among the trees, arms stretched skyward, wearing her washhouse smile. I wanted to take her in my arms and waltz with her. The cook entered and swore at the sight of the fruit on the floor before getting on with his work as if nothing had happened. He preferred to hide behind his apron rather than deal directly with his fellow men, who were far too complicated for his liking, fruits and vegetables being much more docile.
A while later I received a postcard from Jean thanking me and telling me his news. He had been discharged from the army upon his release from the hospital and had finally returned to acting. The play he and Marc had written had been a big hit, much praised by the critics. They were sure to become famous—it was just a matter of time. He told me they were planning our trip to Germany. Marc had a friend near Mainz who ran an inn; he had done some research on Gerhard Schäfer and come up with an address in Frankfurt. They would come get me the day of my discharge, as agreed. That was still a few months off, so as keen as I was to meet the German officer’s daughter, I would just have to be patient.
I also received a letter from Mathilde telling me that her father was ill and that she was worried for his health. He was resting at home while she looked after him. I clutched the letter to my heart as I fell asleep that night. The paper still bore the scent of the Blanchart farm, and a hair was stuck to the adhesive strip. I missed Mathilde terribly. For the first time in my life I understood what a long-distance relationship really was. I came to comprehend many things about emotions during that period, how their intensity differed from person to person. The frustration of being rejected by my father, as painful as it had been, was less intense than that of not being able to kiss Mathilde. That was deeper, more invasive. I often had vivid dreams about that first kiss, and I could still feel Mathilde’s lips crushing softly against my own as I wrapped my arms around her. I would awake with a start during the night, my heart racing, as my eyes desperately sought her in the darkened room. After a few seconds, I would realize that it was just a dream, a resurgence of my deepest desires. Then I would go back to sleep in my little barracks bed, my forehead beaded with sweat, filled with the anguish of her absence. Mathilde was the love of my life.
16
I stood on the sidewalk that morning, breathing the sweet air of freedom, the sun warming my skin. I glanced up and down the street for Marc’s car but saw no sign of the inseparable pair of actors. I put down my bag and sat on it. Passersby looked at me curiously, particularly the kids, when they saw my shaved head.
The minutes passed, soon reaching an hour, and I began to worry. Jean had assured me they would both be here. I had difficulty believing they had changed their minds, though really nothing about human beings would have shocked me anymore. Then a large car turned onto the street, backfiring and trailing a thick cloud of smoke. People stopped and stared at the ruckus going by before being enveloped in the filthy exhaust fumes. They coughed, hands over their mouths, and cursed loudly. The car honked wildly as it approached. I saw Jean’s slender profile at the wheel, his loyal companion, Marc, at his side, smiling as usual. They both waved excitedly as the car shuddered to a halt with a squeal of brakes. Jean got out of the car, ran toward me, and gave me a big hug.
“Hello, my friend!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.
“Hi, Jean!” I replied, moved at his affection.
“Excuse our lateness, but we were rehearsing all night and I didn’t keep track of the time.”
“Don’t worry, I only just got here,” I lied.
“Good. You’re finally free!”
“Yes, I am.”
“Great! Let’s go to Frankfurt!”
We reached the German border in the early afternoon. Around us lay the majestic Alsatian forest, branches swaying in a light breeze. I thought of the French and German soldiers killed in action in these vast forests, the trees not giving a damn about our insane human conflicts. At the border post, a uniformed guard asked for our papers and our reasons for crossing. We replied that we had to visit a sick aunt, and the soldier opened the barrier and let us through. We proceeded along the roads of this devastated Germany, still occupied and undergoing reconstruction. The inhabitants looked worn out, weary of the misfortunes that had ruined their lives. They trundled through the streets, lugging bricks and bags of cement to rebuild their bombed-out homes, casting a mistrustful gaze over the French soldiers who occupied this part of the country. All that mattered to these folk was living in peace in a civilized world and never knowing war again. For several hours we drove through forests and fields, villages, and army checkpoints, without anyone stopping us. The roads still showed signs of bomb damage, three years after the war’s end.
We finally arrived in Mainz around three p.m. This town on the banks of the Rhine was on the edge of the French occupation zone, twenty-five miles from Frankfurt. The American occupation zone was across the river. We parked beside an inn. Marc got out of the car and was greeted by the innkeeper with open arms. They exchanged a few words in German, then beckoned us over. We shook hands warmly with him, although I admit it was difficult to forget his nationality after all we’d been through. But that didn’t seem to bother the man, who invited us to follow him inside, where he served us a copious meal. The Germans have a reputation for being generous hosts, and I discovered that that is well deserved. The innkeeper served us sausages with white cabbage, a typical dish of the region, accompanied by as much beer as we could drink. He spoke in a loud, low voice in that language whose barbaric consonants grated
on me beyond measure. I listened to him politely without understanding much, since Marc’s translation lagged somewhat behind the man’s delivery.
When we had finished our meal, the innkeeper drove us over the Rhine. Half-drunk, he sang the whole way, the car swerving all over the road. We nearly hit the sidewalk several times, but reached the checkpoint without incident. An American soldier signaled us to stop. He approached the car, recognized the innkeeper, and waved at him, then frowned when he saw the rest of us. We handed over our papers. The soldier’s frown faded when he saw that we were French, and thus allies. Jean, who had picked up some English in the Paris theater scene, explained to the American the reasons for our trip. He considered us for a few seconds, then said we could pass on the condition we return by midnight—otherwise he would have to report us to his superiors. We agreed and set off for Frankfurt at top speed.
An hour later we pulled up on a narrow street with tall houses striped in bright colors, clearly typical of the town. The innkeeper pointed at a house several doors down, and we got out of the car. As I walked toward the building where the German officer had once lived with his wife and daughter, I took several deep breaths to give me courage. Beside the door was a large panel listing all the building’s inhabitants. I quickly scanned the names. My eyes froze when I saw the words: Gerhard und Martha Schäfer.
Seasons of the Moon Page 8
