The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  And in the mother’s room that night she heard the sound of the German Army, the roll of the wheels, the clatter of the tanks, the symphony of invasion; and she lay and called their horror on, and when they passed her window she leapt aboard and Jacques found only her body next morning.

  6

  It rained, of course.

  Curé Phillipe, like all but one of his thin congregation, hadn’t known Jacques’ mother well enough to be able to speak of her, so he spoke of Christ and His sufferings and how Jacques could take comfort from them. He clipped the longer prayers to their nub, but only the pious noticed, and, it proving their piety, approved. Simone wondered if Christ would have talked about himself, but shook the thought away.

  Arbel and Jerome, Ebro and Jean-Francois took a corner each of the cheap box and Simone turned Jacques to lead the few mourners into the rain. They walked behind him, the men with their caps in their hands, the women paired under their umbrellas.

  The dripping procession stopped at her plot, where what had been brought back of her husband waited for her.

  Some flowers were put in his hand and then taken and placed on the box and Arbel and Jerome were straddling the hole, lowering the box, laying her flat. It made sense she be laid flat. To rest. To sleep.

  “Good-bye, Mamman,” and the words took gulps of oxygen to say. A hand on his wrist encouraged him to cry for her waste, her grief, her happiness now, and for his aloneness and he wiped his dripping face on his wet sleeve and started to roll a cigarette but the rain washed it from his hands and into the mud. The hand turned him now and he followed, happy to be led. People he passed nodded. He caught the habit and nodded back.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a drink,” said Jerome.

  “Oh.”

  Then, “The cows...”

  “Done,” Arbel said, “all done.”

  “I can’t think.”

  “Don’t.”

  Simone squeezed at his arm.

  Respect removed the caps and berets of the old ones gathered in the bar, and raised them to their feet. Respect not especially for her, but for motherhood and death. They watched him led to a table and a cognac fitted into his fist.

  Everyone he knew crammed into that bar. Any excuse for community.

  All of them thinking “Him and her, now...”

  It took half an hour for the first laughter. Sara. Eight months huge now.

  Jerome shushed her. Arbel bought another bottle. “What’s the joke?” Jacques stared at his glass.

  “This lot,” she said, “waiting for you to go so they can talk about you.”

  “And Simone.”

  “Yes.”

  “They can wait.” Jerome said.

  “They will.” Arbel re-filled their glasses. “To her.”

  “Mamman,” said Jacques and sloshed the drink down.

  He couldn’t think. He daren’t think. There was only one thing to think about.

  “Simone?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We’re orphans.”

  “Yes.”

  A cigarette was lit and fitted into his fist. The smoke rose straight. The bar waited, a thin mutter.

  “Jacques?”

  “Jerome?”

  “What was her name?”

  Jacques looked up at his friend. “Denise.”

  The bar silenced. Who’d remembered, who hadn’t, who’d never known, who’d never known her, who didn’t care. The rain fell outside.

  “To Denise,” Jerome raised his glass. “Bon voyage and bon courage.”

  The bar shifted with his atheistic piffle but said nothing. Just warmed itself from the inside. Pastis, gut-rot red wine –whatever. It was November 1942, and the commune was happy to use whatever excuse culture defines to drink together. Baptism, Christmas, an invasion, a funeral.

  Another drink, a pastis now, was pressed into his hand.

  He looked up. Allibert, round now and white-haired, his old headmaster.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “To her past and your future, Vermande.”

  “Thank you sir. Where’s my dog?”

  “Home,” said someone, gently.

  Home.

  Without her. With Simone. If...

  He poured the hot pastis down his throat.

  “If I felt every moment –like this –I’d be dead, too.” He’s talking. Let him talk.

  “To live so long in grief. That’s to die.”

  “She was tired,” Ardelle said.

  “She was mine.”

  The bar fell silent again.

  “I want to see her.”

  He stood and felt an arm on each shoulder, another at his elbow and then someone stood close and wrapped both arms around him.

  “Close your eyes.” Jerome. “Now – look – you can see her smiling. I can see her smiling. Leave her be, Jacques.”

  “The cows...”

  “Done,” said Arbel, gently.

  “She’ll be hungry. She’ll be worried.”

  “She isn’t.” said Simone.

  He looked at her.

  “Shall we – will you – can we go home?”

  “If you wish, yes please.”

  The bar gathered itself to be relieved.

  Hands on hats, glasses on the tables. The Curé pushed through to him.

  “Her work was done, Jacques.” A nod. “Yours isn’t. God still has work for you to do.” A nod. “May He go with you always.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  Chibret took the hand the Curé dropped. “For the best, Jacques. For the best.”

  “For the best?”

  “You know...” His eyes tried to lift Jacques’, fixed on his waistcoat.

  “All for the best. Really and truly. Anything you need – now – ask.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he lurched into the fresh wet air Duthileul appeared. “I’ll drive you back.”

  “No. I’ll walk.”

  “He needs the air,” said Simone, “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be drowned.”

  “No-o.” Jacques looked at him, “We’ll be wet.”

  The café waited a whole three minutes before a game of belotte began.

  They passed the cemetery.

  “Mine. Mine.”

  Simone waited.

  He stopped walking – there was nowhere in this wet world to go without knowing.

  “Will you stay?”

  She stood, drenched, in the lane. “If I may.”

  Snot and joy and remorse exploded into his mouth, his nose, and his stomach heaved alcohol past his clenched teeth and he fell over his locked knees, her hand on his back till it was done.

  “More?”

  “No.” He wiped the yard of spittle away. “No, done.” He straightened.

  Rain.

  What had she said? Had she said?

  “You’ll stay?”

  She smiled, yes.

  Jacques Vermande laughed.

  Duthileul had to brake hard to avoid hitting the bereaved son, laughing. His mother in the back was thrown to the floor.

  Jacques laughed.

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Yes.”

  They took their first steps homeward. “But…”

  “Fuck what is thought, Jacques. Life’s too short and definitely getting shorter.” She seemed like a rock of certainty. “You know that.”

  “I don’t know what I know.”

  “No. So, let’s go home and light a fire.”

  They came up the steps, the dog barking welcome home. As he opened the door to a home without his mother he let her misery and grief and pain pass him and out of the door and into the rain to be washed into his earth; he had grieved enough for her when she was alive. Simone moved to the fire and he watched the back of her, bending.

  “Jacques, take those clothes off – get us some blankets, something. Where are the matches?”

  They began this new dance – this pas de deux.
>
  He lay awake much of that night feeling his guilty way around his excitement. Simone wondered how long this next life could last.

  “You bastard! Oh, you big-boned Bolshevik bastard!”

  “Fine, Sara, you’re doing fine.” Chayriguet smiled at her mother, all pursed lips and concentration. “Really, all you need in this game is patience. A cup of coffee, madam?”

  She bustled around Jerome, banished in the kitchen, listening.

  “Ohh, here he comes again – ohhh you big shit, you fat shit, ohh, get out of me!”

  “Fine, that’s good.”

  Eight hours later Sara’s obscenities climaxed into purple and bloodied perfection – their daughter. Jerome was allowed in now to wonder at the wonder and heard himself think, “I’ve made something.”

  And he thought of his mother and how she would have preferred child and Sara to have died.

  No.

  No. I don’t know that...

  In bed that night, their child in the crook of Sara’s arm, Jerome Lacaze stared at the knots in the ceiling oak as though the answers of the centuries might unfurl from there and wisdom and peace, fulfillment and eternity would be visited on him.

  On them.

  St. Cirgues tutted.

  Simone hadn’t left. Shameless. She’ll be next with calf – in a month – good luck to them.

  No one would have wanted to believe the truth.

  That she waited for him to speak, and he waited for the courage to speak.

  Finally, after three days... “Speak.”

  “I’m ashamed.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted this. Her dead. And – just you and me.”

  “She did too.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “What sort of man wants his mother dead?”

  I can’t answer that, she thought. Not out loud.

  “I wanted this. You. And me. I wished for this.”

  “Yes. You said.” She waited. “And..?”

  “I’m glad.”

  He’d said it.

  And she smiled. “Good for you, Jacques. Good for saying.”

  The church, bare for Denise’s funeral, was packed for the christening. There were true stories that Sara had said the child was to be called Hazel and both the Curé and her mother had refused to allow the child to be named after “a bloody nut” and so Sara had had her way – the babe was baptised Zoe. She carried the child from the font to Madame Lacaze who kissed the crying life and almost smiled at Sara but forced her eyes back to the altar. Jerome stiffened and Arbel punched his arm.

  “Grow up, you prat,” he whispered in God’s hearing.

  “Red hair, red heart!” Jerome was tanked.

  “Red arse!”

  The men guffawed with Valet.

  “Like father like daughter – full of red shit! Laval’s got a Christmas present for you, Lacaze. A christening present, sorry.”

  The men cackled.

  “S.T.O.”

  Service Travail Obligatoire.

  Ardelle’s heart quailed. This time Arbel would go. Obligatoire.

  “De Gaulle’s got something for you...”

  “De Gaulle! The runaway?”

  “That pompous streak of piss?”

  “What’s he got? Apart from an English microphone?”

  “He’s got the soul of France –and you are the arse-holes of France.”

  “Hark at the atheist –in church one week to be married, another for a christening! Your beliefs are hard to believe Lacaze!” More cackling.

  “Husband – shut your mouth, please.” Sara jiggled the swaddled life. “And drink to our child.”

  “Or?” Jerome blustered. “Or what?”

  “We’ll take you for more of a fool,” said Arbel, “than we usually do.”

  “Coming from you...” Jerome turned to launch into Arbel.

  “Shut up, Jerome.”

  “Ahh, the noble Vermande.”

  His attention swung to Jacques.

  “I’m a father, Jacques. Me! This idiot.”

  “We all pity her her father; but like you – she’s got Sara.”

  “Not for long now. No, sir. S.T.O. Eh? Monsieur Valet?”

  “Best thing for you!”

  “You’d go, wouldn’t you? You’d serve The Reich, right?”

  “I would. And you will too, come January.”

  “I will not!”

  “Please?” Sara said, “One day’s rest?”

  Jerome was silenced by her reproach. For a second. “You love-sick mush, Vermande.”

  “What?”

  “Jacques, you’re the cat. Simone’s the cream. It’s a dream. When you wake it’ll be this S.T.O., this war, that knocks you up.”

  As Jacques’ face fell so a childish venom entered Jerome.

  “Meanwhile –how is paradise?”

  “Don’t you know?” said Ardelle, “You bloody ought to.” And she toasted the new life.

  Their wee table stilled.

  The old men sank back into the polished chairs.

  Jacques walked down to his beech copse. To think.

  S.T.O. Working for Germany in Germany. Guns in the barn. Talk of Germans in Figeac, in St .Céré, approaching their valleys. War coming up the hills. Gestapo in Souceyrac they said.

  Pity Mignon.

  Pity the German Youth freezing in their ice-grave tanks outside Stalingrad.

  Pity the children coming to sleep in the barn. He looked look back at his house.

  His to share with Simone. Theirs.

  Till? Till the war separated them. January? This obligatory work? I won’t go. I don’t know what I will do but I won’t leave her to go there!

  He laughed out loud.

  I feel better than everyone else in this war at this moment. Someone must feel best; it must have been Hitler once, well, now it’s me. It didn’t last for him and it won’t last for me. It can’t, can it? But I am happier than I have ever been before in the whole of my life. God! It is Christmas.

  She looked at him over their slow fire. His eyes had cleared.

  I can hardly look at him so happy.

  Jerome is right, I’m a living dream. I fell from The War and now we’re almost man and wife. And he won’t hurt me –not if we were here forever.

  And we haven’t got forever.

  Ardelle clung to the bones of her man, her stomach and chest pressed into his sleeping back. How does he do that? How does he just sleep? Why can’t I? I don’t want to be alone. Be left alone. I can’t.

  She punched hard on his shoulder and he grunted and flattened onto his front. She wanted to pummel at him –beat him incapable of leaving –tether him like a goat in a shed –till this S.T.O. passed. “I’m helpless,” she cried, turning away from him. She rolled straight back and thumped again and again into his shoulder blades.

  “What –what? Ow!” He turned to see her.

  “I hate you.”

  “Oh. Ohh.” His eyes closed and he lay flat with the thought.

  “Right.”

  The sad shops set up their thin spruces, decorated them with paper presents and offered their customers a plate of cheap boiled sweets.

  He moved down from the grenier to his mother’s bed. Only the thin wall his grandfather had built against his wife’s reproaches between them now.

  New Year’s Eve dawned cold and they rose and she dusted the whole house, opening all the windows, hanging the bedclothes to freshen in the winter air. He watched.

  “Staring?”

  “Staring.”

  Phillipe could smell something in the cut of the German Officers’ steps as they strolled around Cahors. They walked tighter. And now they looked around. Nervous, then.

  He and Marco Garceau talked in the room behind Marco’s bar. “Virginie?”

  “She’s fine –your mother?”

  “O.K.”

  “Your thoughts?” Garceau lowered his urgent voice.

  “The Ratier Factory i
n Figeac is making Focke-Wolf parts. Yours?”

  “The garrison here?”

  Phillipe grinned.

  “Good to know we’re both mad, then. We need to be an army for that. We’re groups.”

  “Unite us.”

  “I’m planning to.”

  “Good. Target practice on collaborators?” Phillipe nodded. “For now...”

  Garceau lowered his voice further. “How? The Ratier –how?”

  “Dynamite.”

  “Dynamite?”

  “That’s why I’m here Marco.”

  “Take me three months, at least.”

  “And enough so when we start we can sustain it.”

  “And ride the reprisals?”

  Phillipe nodded. “And till then?”

  “Train. Train them hard for what’s to come.”

  “They’ll need some theatre, too.”

  “Theatre?”

  “Ah oui, theatre.”

  Marco raised an eyebrow. Phillipe raised one in return. Garceau said, “I’m finding the RAF. Slowly.”

  “Drops?”

  “When we’re organised. Only then. The English and Americans are scared shitless we’re all communists.”

  “Don’t tell them we are then.”

  “I won’t.”

  New Year’s night.

  Arbel and Ardelle came with a bottle. They drank and listened for the church clock. Ardelle looked from Simone and Jacques and her blurring gaze settled on her husband.

  “When it comes...” Ardelle began.

  “If...”

  “No, Arbel, when,” she was drunk enough to insist, “you’ll go, won’t you?”

  “Yes! Drink, woman, drink. This is none of their business.” Ardelle looked at her man. “Ohh. I see...” she said, nodding her head.

  “You see what?” Arbel almost snarled.

  “That you drink to get to where you can’t think.”

  Arbel said nothing.

  “And I,” she said, “drink so I can say things I’m too afraid to think sober...”

  She nodded her frightened head at this truth. “And there’s another difference between us.”