by JH Fletcher
For a moment she could not understand what she was seeing. There was the stone wall, white-painted, that separated the cemetery from the road. Behind the wall, tombs. Effigies of angels with wings outspread, stone columns, marble slabs. Between the tombs, strips of grass, much overgrown. In front of the wall …
… what appeared to be rubbish, in piles. The wall was stained all along its length. As she watched, a group of men and one woman in a torn skirt, hair a light-brown tangle about her hunched shoulders, stumbled into view. Eugénie noted the cross-belts and blue tunics of the soldiers who herded them like cattle: no time to waste here. The group was bunched together, backs against the wall. The soldiers were no longer visible. A crash of gunfire and suddenly the huddled figures were gone, mown down in an eye-blink. A cloud of blue smoke drifted over the bodies lying upon the other dead, whom Eugénie had mistaken for rubbish.
Horror-stricken, her mind could not take hold of what she had seen. She tried to identify the woman, but the torn skirt, the light-brown hair, were indistinguishable amid the line of death.
She continued to watch. It was horrible, but she could not wrench her eyes away. A man in a braided tunic came to inspect the victims. A booted foot stirred first this one, then that. Once he leaned forward, peering closely as though to check something, before moving on.
There were tears on Eugénie’s cheeks, but she made no attempt to brush them away. She could not have moved to save her life. The inspection, at once casual and meticulous, brought home to her the full horror of what was happening: the calm, systematic murder of those, no doubt innocent as well as guilty, who had been rounded up by the soldiers.
Now the troops were shoving before them another group of victims. Men, this time, some no more than boys. The sun was barely above the horizon; it was impossible that the courts could have sentenced so many in so short a time. The military had obviously decided that it was their job to save the courts the trouble.
Again the guns thundered, again the bullets’ impact flung the bodies pell-mell against the bloodstained wall, again they fell to lie in haphazard sprawl upon the already dead. Behind the gunfire from the cemetery, Eugénie could hear other, more distant volleys, disciplined and repetitive; she could visualise the piles of bodies growing ever higher across the tormented city as the process of extermination continued.
Crash.
Crash.
Crash.
Below her the officer once again carried out his inspection. Again he bent, checking. This time he did not walk on, but drew his pistol. Eugénie saw the reflection of sunlight on metal as he aimed it, the jet of smoke from the muzzle. A moment later she heard the sound of the shot, visualised the hideous jerk of the head as the coup de grâce struck home.
Thoughts, emotions, raced. It was unbearable, unbelievable, impossible, terrible …
It was happening.
In that hysterical moment, she thought there was no reason why it should ever end, why the process should not continue until the city’s entire population had been exterminated. Perhaps that was their plan. Perhaps they intended to make an example. Perhaps it did not matter that she, her husband and children, were not political, had never been involved, were innocent of all wrongdoing.
What about the men, women and children even now facing the firing squads in Père Lachaise and across the city? Did they all deserve death?
She did not believe it.
There was a knocking at the door.
‘My God!’
Yet beneath the swoop of terror, immediate and devastating, she knew that it could be neither police nor troops. They would have kicked the door in; these blows were not violent but furtive, as though the caller sought not vengeance but a refuge.
All the same …
‘Shall we see who it is?’ Alain wondered.
‘No!’
They waited, wide-eyed, frozen. The knocking came again.
Still they did not move, their very blood congealed in their veins. Then Marie, who had become quiet while Eugénie was at the window, let out a howl so piercing that it must surely have been audible halfway across Paris. At once the knocking came again, louder and more panicked. Behind the knocking they could hear a woman’s voice, imploring.
‘M’sieu, m’sieu …’
Alain stared at his wife. ‘It’s Claudette —’
‘Leave her.’
‘I can’t do that.’
He crossed swiftly to the door and opened it. At once their caller flung herself into the room and turned, panting, to face them.
Claudette it was, indeed. Claudette Lebeuf, eighteen years old and Alain’s model on the rare occasions when he could afford to employ her. She had always been beautiful, was beautiful still, yet with a look of terror on her face.
‘They’ve arrested Justin …’
Justin l’Aimé was her lover, a young man a year or two older than herself, who over the last two months had produced a steady stream of pamphlets on behalf of the Commune.
‘What happened?’ asked Alain.
‘We were at his place. The soldiers must have known where to find him. They came and broke the door down and took him away.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘I hid in the cupboard.’
Eugénie was uncomfortable with this girl who took off her clothes so that artists could paint her. Even clad, the unseen flesh remained an intrusion. It was unreasonable, even ridiculous, but that made no difference. She had no reason to dislike Claudette, but did, had no reason to trust her and did not. Times like these, it didn’t pay to trust anyone.
‘I’m surprised they didn’t search the place.’
That was all she said, but Claudette read what lay behind the words and gave Eugénie a resentful look. ‘If they had, I wouldn’t be here,’ she said.
Maybe, Eugénie thought. Who knew how she had got here, with the streets full of soldiers? A girl as pretty as that, a model? People were being shot all over the city, yet she was not only alive but apparently unharmed.
Gunfire echoed from the streets below, reinforcing her suspicions.
Who knew why she was here, come to that?
So asked the question. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had nowhere else to go.’
‘Why go anywhere?’
‘I was afraid the soldiers might come back —’
‘Why should they? If they didn’t bother to search the first time?’
‘They might have done later.’
‘I’d say they had no time to come back, wouldn’t you? Not with all the things they’ve got to do?’
Like shooting people.
Alain was staring at her, unhappy with the way she was talking. Perhaps he thought Claudette needed a bit of tenderness, this girl who took her clothes off for men. Did other things for men, too, perhaps; how should Eugénie know?
‘You’ve got friends closer to Justin’s place than this. Why didn’t you go to them?’
‘I tried, but no-one was there. I thought you’d shelter me. But if you don’t want me…’ Claudette on her high horse.
We don’t, Eugénie thought. You may think you’re looking for shelter but what you’re really doing, know it or not, is putting our necks in the noose, too.
It was too much to hope that Alain would see it like that.
‘Naturally we’ll shelter you,’ he told Claudette tenderly. ‘Did you find out what happened to Justin?’
She shook her head. ‘As soon as they were gone, I ran for it.’
More gunfire from the street reminded them — if we need reminding, Eugénie thought — how much they were indebted to her for that.
‘After things quieten down, I’ll go and see what I can find out,’ Alain promised her.
Claudette put her hand on Alain’s arm. ‘You’re a true friend.’
Eugénie was furious. Never mind that they had two children of their own. This … this creature came here, waved her bosoms under Alain’s nose — it wasn’t even as though
he’d never seen them before, for God’s sake — and sense flew out of the window. Well, they would see about that.
‘You’re going nowhere,’ she told her husband.
They turned to stare at her, resenting her for disrupting their beautiful vision of shared sacrifice.
‘I shall do what I want,’ Alain told her angrily.
‘Can’t you hear what’s going on?’ she demanded. ‘They’re killing people down there, for God’s sake!’
‘I said I’d go when things have quietened down.’
Let him be angry, Eugénie thought. Let him be furious that his wife dares stick her nose into what was showing every sign of becoming a beautiful friendship; a fat lot she cared about that. She focussed her eyes on Claudette. ‘You want to know what’s happened to Justin? I’ll tell you. They’ve shot him, that’s what. Like all the others down there in the cemetery.’ She turned to Alain, who was willing to endanger them all by his idiocy. ‘Justin wrote pamphlets for the Commune, remember? Start asking what’s happened to him, they’ll shoot you, too. After that they’ll come up here and shoot the rest of us. You’re staying here, like I said.’
‘I shall leave,’ Claudette said. ‘I am not welcome here.’
‘I can’t allow that.’ Alain took her hands. ‘You heard what Eugénie said. They find you now, they’ll shoot you as well.’
‘Why should you care about that?’ Claudette very haughty, pushing her advantage for all it was worth. ‘You have your own children to consider.’
‘We shall protect each other,’ Alain said.
Enough to make you throw up.
2
The shootings continued all that day and the next. None of them left the apartment but, by the third morning, all was still. To Eugénie’s ear it was a brooding peace, even more threatening than the violence that had preceded it. Then they had been in no doubt what was happening; now they could not be sure of anything, and the uncertainty preyed on their nerves.
At lunchtime Alain said he was going out. To see what was what, as he put it.
Two days before, Claudette had announced her own intention of leaving. She had done nothing of the sort, had indeed kept her sweet lips tightly closed on the subject ever since. Now, immediately, she was aflutter.
‘Take care …’
Eugénie said nothing. She thought Alain was foolish to leave the apartment so soon, but then he was foolish over so many things. She was not about to insult him by suggesting he was incapable of looking after himself, whatever she might think privately. So she kissed him on the cheek, locked and chained the door behind him and turned back into the room to wait.
Now, with only the two women and children in it, the apartment seemed more crowded than when Alain had been there. Claudette’s sulks, the way her eyes followed Eugénie resentfully about the room, showed that she felt the same. With Alain gone, there was nothing to distract them from their mutual dislike. So they scowled and snapped at each other, waiting for Alain to come back.
By dusk he had still not returned.
On top of everything else, Claudette was now throwing melodramatic tantrums, weeping and wailing under Aline’s frightened eyes.
‘They’ve shot him! I know it!’ She clutched her brow with a fevered hand while her huge eyes swam with tears. ‘I shall never forgive myself!’
It was all Eugénie could do not to slap her. ‘He’s done nothing. Why should they shoot him?’ Yet knew that innocence, in this new and terrible world of firing squads, was no guarantee of survival.
‘Because I know it! I know it!’
On and on, until Eugénie thought that if she’d had a gun, she’d have shot her herself. Instead she seized the girl by the shoulders and shook her, fingers cruelly pinching, and derived a mean pleasure from doing so. ‘Will. You. Be. Quiet!’ And tossed the blubbing thing away from her, like rubbish. ‘There are children …’
Claudette was little more than a child herself; her wails intensified under Eugénie’s anger.
To distract herself, Eugénie crossed to the window and once again stared down at the angled wall of the cemetery. No more executions had taken place but the bodies were still there, piled like fire wood. A couple more days and they’ll be stinking, she thought. The whole city will be a charnel house.
A pleasant thought, on top of all the other thoughts.
Behind her came the scrape of a match as Claudette lit the candle. At once Eugénie turned. She marched rapidly across the room, slapped the girl’s hand away and pinched out the flicker of flame.
‘What was that for?’ Claudette’s fingers in her mouth.
Stupid, on top of everything else.
‘You want people to know we’re here? Two women alone?’
‘It’s getting dark …’
‘So we’ll sit in the dark.’
Until Alain comes. Was unwilling to think how they would manage if he didn’t.
Now it was dark. Within the room, the building, across the wounded city, there was no sound, no movement. The children had been mercifully quiet all day and were so still. Even the structure of the building was devoid of its normal creaks and groans, as though it, too, held its breath.
And still Alain did not come.
Claudette gasped and hiccupped.
Start that again and the children might follow suit; Eugénie found the prospect unbearable.
‘Be silent!’
There came the sound of footsteps, echoing sharply through the building. Footsteps ran up the stairs.
‘It is Alain!’ Claudette cried joyously.
Let us hope so, Eugénie thought. Yet would neither speak nor permit herself to hope, but waited in silence, breath trapped in her throat.
A knock on the door. As when Claudette herself had arrived, the sound was furtive, hurried, and Eugénie let her breath out. She walked deliberately to the door, taking her time about it. She eased it a crack, enough to make out Alain’s worried face staring at her in the darkness.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re back, at last.’
Not much of a welcome but, after the hours of waiting, she did not feel in a welcoming mood.
‘Let me in,’ Alain said. ‘They’ve butchered half the city out there.’ She unchained the door and he came swiftly into the room. ‘Why are you sitting here in the dark?’
Because we are two women, alone with your children. Alone and unprotected. But said nothing of that. When she was ready she would say it, but not yet. ‘Claudette, light the candle.’
After the darkness, the light made their eyes wince. Alain sat down in a heap while Aline, released from who knew what terrors, flung herself at him. Claudette, whose own terrors had been more noisily expressed, was not far behind. Eugénie nursed Marie, feeling herself no part of the joyous reunion with this man who for so many hours had left them to fend for themselves.
If Alain felt her distance, he gave no sign of it.
‘It’s bad out there. Very bad.’
‘Did you find out what’s happened to Justin?’
‘Only that he’s been arrested.’
Which they had known already.
‘They’ve taken hundreds away. Thousands. For interrogation. Or so they said.’
For execution, Eugénie thought.
‘They’ve even taken Courbet.’
Another artist, mercifully not a close friend or even acquaintance, who had served on the Commune’s Central Committee.
Eugénie looked at Claudette and smiled maliciously. ‘Justin was close to Courbet, wasn’t he? A friend of his?’ She felt no shame at tormenting the girl, whose very presence had tormented her since her arrival two days ago.
‘They were never close,’ Claudette assured them, and herself.
‘Then I’m sure he’ll be all right.’ Although her smile held no such assurance. In the meantime there were more practical considerations. ‘Did you bring any food?’ she asked Alain.
‘Nothing.’
‘We’ll have to go hungry, then. We’ve not
hing here.’ She knew he’d never given it a thought and gave him a look to tell him so.
‘I tried,’ he lied, defending himself against her unspoken criticism. ‘There are no shops open anywhere.’
‘Maybe they’ve decided to starve us to death. Easier than shooting, I suppose. Was there no-one in the streets at all?’
‘Only soldiers.’
‘Did they question you?’
‘I made sure they didn’t see me. People said they’re questioning everyone who had any connection with the Commune.’ He looked at Claudette. ‘You won’t be safe if you stay in Paris.’
‘I had nothing to do with them.’
‘But Justin did.’
Eugénie was all in favour of Claudette leaving. The sooner the better, as far as she was concerned.
‘We’ll have to smuggle you out of the city,’ Alain said.
Which had not been Eugénie’s idea, at all; that would be a shooting matter, if they were caught.
‘We can’t get involved,’ she said.
Alain’s eyes sank into her, like claws. ‘So we throw her into the street? Is that what you’re saying?’
If he was looking for a fight, she was willing. ‘We have two babies, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘I shall go now.’ Claudette, ashen-faced, was on her feet. She was being brave and, as usual, making a three-act performance out of it. She spoke exclusively to Alain, as though Eugénie had ceased to exist. ‘You have sheltered me and I’m grateful. But your wife is right. You have your children to consider. And her, too, of course.’
Trust her to slip the knife in, Eugénie thought.
Alain paced the room. ‘They’ll soon find out you were with Justin, if they don’t know already. All they have to do is check the people who knew him until they find you. We’ve got to get you away before that.’
Claudette’s face was the picture of terror, as though only now was she coming to understand the danger she was in. That all of them, thanks to her, were in.
‘Didn’t you tell me your parents live on the Seine, somewhere?’
‘Near Rouen, yes.’
‘If we can get you there …’
She would be safe. Probably. If I were in her place, Eugénie thought, I wouldn’t stop at Rouen. I’d get out of France altogether. But doubted that the girl would think of such a thing or be capable of doing it if she did. To run so far into the unknown needed courage, perhaps more courage than to stay. Eugénie suspected that Claudette would not be up to it; she had shown little sign of being brave, so far.
