The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

His first question.

  Simone stirred, tasted, and waited for another question and none came. She sat back. This was living without a past. His father must have died long ago. It was like sharing a space with another woman. Like the kitchen in Peronne, with mother making coconut-ice pudding, her mother making lemon juice drinks with sugar, her mother nodding as father said they should stay; her mother on the train, spitting and the uniformed hand snaring her throat, so strong she couldn’t turn for one last eye-kiss with Simone, a rifle at her rib-cage, hauling her out of the carriage. Her mother. Pray God she didn’t suffer. Pray God they shot her quickly.

  The first tear sizzled on the stone and Jacques could see it came from her body since it fell from a still face. She pulled at the tiny sleeve, wiped at her eyes, and looked up.

  “War.”

  He poured the last of the wine into her glass, and went down to the caves for a new bottle and a piece of wood for the fire. He’d forgotten the chicken’s bowls. Spooned them grain, left them in their pecking order and went back to eat.

  He cut the bread, she ground pepper, he cut a little cheese. She poured wine for them and water for the mother and he took it in. “I forgot the cow.”

  “Needs the bull?”

  “Yes.”

  “Duthileul?”

  He said nothing.

  “More?” His mother asked.

  “A little.”

  Her head shook. In these days, in these times, the man was making. All his trust in money. He needed to shake hands with death and drop soil on a child’s coffin.

  “Eat, please.”

  “This is hers?”

  “Yes.”

  He felt gauche, just gauche all everywhere. “You like her?” The mother looked into her son’s eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Eat.”

  He turned and nearly trod on the dog.

  He wanted to lean his body back till it was afloat in the air and howl this happiness.

  “I never shout,” he said, sitting at the table.

  “No?” she smiled.

  “No.”

  The silence was as warm as her stew and he ate hungrily. Took more and wiped the plate clean with bread. Cheese and then he put water on for coffee. He leaned in to his mother.

  “Coffee, Mamman?”

  “At night?”

  “Oh. No? Tisane? Anything?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “You haven’t eaten much.”

  “I enjoyed what I had.”

  He picked up her tray, tipped the bread to the dog, left her room and came back to their room.

  Simone made coffee. When he reached for his tobacco she took the chair to the fireplace and their eyes met.

  “The bench is yours.”

  They sat aside the slowing fire, he smoking and her staring into the ash. The dog lay, looked once from her to him, and settled.

  Time strolled oblivious past. Time spent with her.

  Time spent easing.

  When the cat came in she poured it milk. She lit a candle. “What time is Mass?”

  “Eleven.”

  “She won’t come?”

  “No.”

  “Sleep well.”

  “And you.”

  She went to her room.

  He lay above her and his thoughts descended. But when they reached his desires he didn’t imagine her, Simone; he thought of Sara and her big breasts and pulled quick and quiet as he could to get it over with.

  Simone heard the thin voice at the wall and rose, his shirt falling around her, and went in to the woman’s room. The smell hit her. “The pot?”

  She lit the mother’s candle and took the pot out to the night, emptied it and came back quiet as the fields in her bare feet.

  “Do you want anything?”

  “A glass of water.”

  She returned with it and the woman nodded. “Shall I close the windows?”

  “The volets, thank you.”

  She reached out and pulled them to and the woman watched. “Take the black dress and a mantilla for Mass.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Simone took the dress, blew the candle out and left her. He forgot, they both thought.

  Sunday.

  Mass. It had rained, as he’d prayed. Only a day late. He took the cows and looked back at Home.

  This could never last. This can never last.

  Simone dressed and he went upstairs and sat on his blankets to pull on his Sunday shoes.

  She’ll go.

  Live with me and a dying woman? And what when mother dies?

  If.

  If Mother dies. ‘Iffing, Jacques’.

  Yes, yes – but, alone with me? The two of us. She wouldn’t.

  No, Normal will be alone. As it was always going to be. So, there is just this Time to pass with her.

  She was waiting.

  In his mother’s black. Her hair combed and tied, with a fringe. He opened the mother’s door.

  “You’ll be late. They won’t trust her. Don’t blame them, we’re only peasants.”

  “But you trust her?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then that’s enough.”

  He left her and stepped out of the house. Simone was waiting for him. They strode down the lane to meet his village and their God. He would have been ashamed if he’d noticed how quickly he forgot his mother to taste the walk with her.

  “I’m nervous,” he said.

  “You’re nervous?”

  “You must know already – how they’ll be.”

  “That’s true.”

  The trees gathered at the bend and they turned into the nave of beech and oak.

  The villagers gathered in front of their church, waiting for the stranger. Curious. Suspicious. Some even fearful. War rumours were as abundant as food and good sleep were scarce. She could be anything from anywhere. Chibret was a weak fool, he should have said no. As the men shook hands, the women nodded shortly to each other, as though some Pope had once decreed it sin to smile on the Sabbath before taking the sacrament.

  The bell rang and Madame Lacaze walked inside to pray alone for her son’s soul. The men stubbed out their cigarettes as Arbel and Ardelle came into the square. Everyone loitered. Arbel shook hands and he and Ardelle shrugged their ignorance.

  Duthileul’s car came to a halt and though he was Jacques’ nearest neighbour, and they all shook his hand, no-one considered asking him or Dominique, his son, nor the old Mother about the girl. The bell stopped. The village funnelled forward into the cool of their church. As Curé Phillipe came to the altar and Mass began Jacques and Simone came in at the back. Curiosity won easily over Christianity. In ones and twos and then whole families, they turned to stare. Jacques, beetroot, nodded. The children were droll, the parents’ impulse undiluted. Serious eyes, locked. The priest coughed and the heads turned back, the younger needing a prod. Simone knelt with them.

  Since Peronne, she and God had drifted apart. She had rejected the idea that the slaughter of her parents was part of some design she was too naive to grapple with and had come to the belief that God was a by-stander. And if that was so then prayer for action, prayer for Him to take an active part was pointless. He could not. He might want to, might ache to, but it was not possible.

  And so, for what should she pray? Even if all of us, everywhere, prayed for the same thing – peace, now – it wouldn’t happen. Hitler was stronger than God, at the moment, obviously.

  So she prayed for His recovery. He would need all His strength to rid His world of Hitler and the killing.

  “Have some of mine. My life is stronger. Take.”

  Beside her Jacques prayed to understand if this was part of His plan. This miracle. And that mother might live and grow to share it. Chibret prayed for his sickly wife who would live another forty-eight years and see him to cataracts and the shakes. Mignon prayed for the war to end and his vile requisitioning job with it, that he might return
to his friends. Grivault prayed for the war to end and the Jew’s money to be shared. Duthileul prayed that God should please Himself, since God’s will suited Jean-Louis Duthileul. Arbel prayed for guidance when the war came, and Ardelle prayed hardest, that it wouldn’t ever come. Sara prayed for the nerve to tell her mother and her mother prayed Sara wasn’t pregnant. Louis prayed for mushrooms, and someone to go with him that he could touch. Madame Lacaze asked Almighty Forgiveness for whatever fault might be laid at her door that had led to her son and his absence of character. Madame Cantagrel begged for the return of her son. And whilst they all sincerely asked God to end this war some left it up to Him to decide who should win. The Curé preached from Isaiah and Simone waited for its relevance to conflict. It had none.

  The hour passed, the sacrament was shared, and it was noted that she was wearing the mother’s dress.

  In the sharp sunlight women Jacques only knew from the backrooms of their husband’s shops came forward to wish his mother better, shake Simone’s hand and make their judgement. Those who dared a pleasantry were able to return to the flock, whisper ‘Northerner’, and fold their arms. Chibret wished them both well and she stood in a whirl of staring people till Jacques finally moved to rescue her, guiding her through a knot that separated as though they were leprous royalty, to introduce Arbel and Ardelle. He was touched when Ardelle placed three kisses on

  Simone’s cheeks and eased some weight from her day. Sara too, greeted her with touch.

  “Jerome’s at the Tabac,” she laughed, and heads turned. She laughed again.

  “D’you suppose the Lord counts the bars while we kneel? Come Simone, come and meet my heathen!”

  The village spread out, men to the Tabac, women to cook.

  “I thought you were his mother at first. That would be a miracle. How is she? What do you think?”

  Simone paused. “It’s only three days – she’s weak.”

  “She’s a ghost, my mother says. Here! Look, this is mine.”

  Sara led Simone forward to bring Jerome to his feet, shake her hand, and the six of them sat.

  The old men of the village nodded past and into the cool, the Vichy press and their hopeless talk.

  “Don’t ask him about religion.” Sara said loudly.

  “Don’t ask him about the war either,” said Arbel, “or politics.” Jerome shrugged into his glamour.

  Janon grouched out, wiped the table pointlessly and flicked his chin up for an order. Went back inside to report she drank red. “How was the opium?” Jerome looked at them all.

  “Good. Pagan.” Sara punched his arm.

  “What?” Ardelle looked to Arbel.

  “Religion Is The opium of The Masses.” Arbel would need a serious drink before he rose to such feeble bait. “One of his masters taught him his Catechisme.”

  “Lenin,” said Simone, surprising herself.

  “Marx,” said Jerome and toasted her with an empty hand. “Who?” Ardelle turned to Arbel.

  Arbel and Jerome laughed. Ardelle looked round at them all and set them all off.

  “Well, who is the mec?”

  Arbel laughed again, young, and a voice from the cafe ground into their nerves.

  “Respect... no respect.”

  This time they all laughed and a hand slapped hard at a table inside and they stopped, Sara’s hand on Jerome’s arm, instinctive.

  “You should farm sheep,” Jerome called.

  “Don’t know sheep.”

  “Look in a mirror.”

  And he turned back. Too pleased with himself, Jacques thought. Janon came out and paused long enough in his serving to defuse their laughter. Cigarettes were rolled, and the men leaned back and smoked.

  “Salut.” Sara touched Simone’s glass. “Welcome.”

  “Salut.”

  Arbel didn’t drink, he poured the wine straight down. Taste was not the point. It was taken as a fire-extinguisher. Simone watched, fascinated. Ardelle caught her eye.

  “I know. An hour with God, a good wife, no war, and he drinks like loyalty. Eh?”

  “I’ve always done it.”

  “And that makes it all right?”

  He considered the question. “Yes. And you knew I drank when you married me.”

  “We knew at school you drank!” Ardelle said to stifled laughter. Arbel sat forward and smiled, two-toothed, at Simone.

  “Did you feel like a Bosche in church?”

  “A stranger, yes.”

  He sat back, to think of something else to say.

  Jacques looked from Sara to Jerome and knew neither had said anything yet.

  Now he too sat back into the chair, and tasted an entirely new sensation.

  She’s with me. She came from the sky and she’s with me.

  And when this drink, this talk is over, she will come home with me.

  He had no impulse other than to pass the time.

  Simone absorbed the bare and dusty square of this St.Cirgues, this café, these people, his friends. These were his boundaries, now hers.

  “Where are you from, Simone?” Sara prompted the talk they all wanted.

  Simone told it slowly to control the tears, Jacques noticed. They all crossed themselves when her parents died, Jerome strangling the gesture. When her story reached Lyon Jerome came bolt upright. “L’Humanité? Did you read it?”

  “Of course. We distributed it.”

  “And then?”

  “Collaborators. A denunciation.”

  He settled back. Nodded, hard. Simone wound the story sharply up into their hills, with no talk of Souceyrac or escape routes and the church bell signalled an hour since Mass.

  The walk home again.

  The common had become blessed.

  The basking lizard scuttling, panicked; the jays a riot of moving colour, a stag beetle he identified and when it rose, huge in its sudden flight, she jumped back and laughed at her fear and he was charmed, charmed to death.

  “And how are your nerves?”

  He grinned. “Fine. Yours?”

  “O.K., thank you.”

  Puech came into view.

  The dog ran down the steps, its whole hind-quarters wagging. Jacques went to his mother’s room.

  “They stared.”

  “Only natural.”

  “Yes.”

  “I did. You do.”

  He pulled the door closed. “Yes, but I love her.”

  A chasm of Silence opened. “No, son. No. Not yet.”

  “I do, Mamman.”

  “Don’t tell her.”

  He laughed. “Why not?”

  The woman dredged at memory and found the words easily. “Because Love is to be shared. Wait till she shares it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And you’ll eat?”

  “I’m not— Yes.” He left her.

  It was his joy.

  Her laughter and her loving-time had been so fleeting and so crushed. And in her son’s passion she saw how far hers had passed and how she was holed deep by the shell she’d become. A Death drummed in her ears, pulled at her heart now that, of course, her son could be complete without her.

  She was neither sad nor glad. She thought of July tomatoes. Ripe. And you either pick them or they fall. Rot. Leave a seed. And here he was, grown and glowing with the same joy that had been drowned in the cankered well of her life. Time to die. She drank some of the soup and ate a piece of bread and slept exhausted by that effort.

  Soon, soon.

  Simone sat and he smoked.

  He could hear the moments passing. Each one a memory. ‘Don’t tell her. Wait till she shares it.’

  But will Love wait here for her to love me?

  He smiled, warm as the fire, breath rushing through his nose and she looked up for a second.

  Love me? Love me like this? Never. No.

  But I’ll wait and as long as she’s here Love will wait too. Why would it go? And hers might come? He smiled again and shook his
head softly. No.

  I’m no-one.

  4

  Herrisson struggled with his conscience. Was he a Gendarme of France or Germany? And the nights he concluded Germany he beat his wife silently in their sex and she turned to no-one.

  Mignon bought Grivault a black-market bottle of his favourite pastis and apologised but the Prefecture demanded more meat. Gestapo in Cahors now.

  Feyt tailored, and the village fretted about Simone.

  When Chayriguet called to see Sara the secret was finally shared with the mother.

  “He won’t marry you.”

  “No.”

  “Fire and destruction. Fire and damnation!” Then, “She doesn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Oh shame and damnation! You fool.” And now the tears.

  “How can I hold up my head?”

  “He doesn’t believe. I can’t make him. I wouldn’t want to.”

  “Shut up. You oaf! You don’t do that. You don’t do that.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “Of course, yes, sex, yes, there are no saints here. But you marry.”

  “Or..?”

  “Disgrace.”

  “Not in God’s eyes.”

  “Oh? And how would you know, miss? Eh? I don’t meet God every day. I don’t speak with Him. I speak with them.”

  “And?”

  “I can’t now, can I?”

  “Wasn’t worth much then. He loves me.”

  “Does he? Get him to prove it.”

  The talk would cycle endlessly – nothing words could mend.

  A kilometre off the road between Senaillac and St.Cirgues, in the endless pine hills, men gathered.

  Phillipe, a geography teacher from Cahors, Serge, a mechanic, Michel, a barber, Bernadie, a squat iron human, ex-Mayor of Senaillac, Fred, who’d been the school chef and big Jean-Luc, the second-team football captain in Latronquiere, an electrician.

  They met with knives, hunting rifles and shame. And they talked. Of patience now and the struggle to come for Liberation. Then Vengeance and Justice and finally, Revolution and a new France, pure and hard. They spoke of De Gaulle and France Combattante and of themselves, France-Tireurs. And how they must train. And recruit the soldiers of a new France. And build a chain of safe places. Of safe friends. Places to shelter and places to hide. To hide weapons. And money. And food. A constant supply. And radios. For when the Time came. When The Germans came, as Phillipe promised they would. And they spoke of Vigilance.