The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  “Eh?”

  “Oh yes, Vermande.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “We live in the consequences of years ago.”

  “That sounds like Jerome.”

  “Does it?”

  When they drove into the village Jacques asked her to stop. “I need this walk.”

  “Don’t brood, Vermande. What you did was right.”

  “Thank you. Goodnight, Madame.”

  “Till the next.”

  “Yes.”

  And she was gone.

  The night and the walk he’d walked these last two years with her. The stag-beetle rising and frightening her, the night she took his arm and then his hand in the pitch, them sitting on the bench when Jerome said they should fuck, his mother’s funeral, her saying she’d stay, their returning home – all that glorious Time spent here together; he came out of the woods and ahead, moonlit, his empty home.

  Where was she now? In a lorry heading to Spain? Where was he – walking into the echoes of love. To do what?

  In Tulle the Germans hung a hundred and thirty men in groups of ten, on the stroke of the hours. Making a priest choose which ten, each hour, from the hundred and fifty they’d rounded up. All day barbarity – nothing quenching the Commandant’s glee at watching people hope and watching people’s hopes dashed. The priest prayed God for His forgiveness and asked for mercy on the soul of the Commandant, and as the hours passed begged forgiveness for the hate welling in his being. It seemed God was deaf, all day, but He is such that when the last twenty men were spared all the left-living believed in Him again.

  The Das Reich division moved on to Oradour where it sated itself. The whole village, four hundred and more, locked in the church and the building burned.

  The Allies invaded.

  11

  He closed the door lest their smell escape.

  No noise if he made none.

  Simone.

  No candle. A man in a moonlit room.

  The dog.

  But, neither of them. Gone – to Spain and life.

  I sent them away.

  I hurt.

  She was raped. She’s going to where she can’t be hurt. I hurt instead.

  Day-light.

  He opened the barn. He scraped out the dead flies from yesterday. These flies saw Simone. Smelt Jacques.

  I’m milking cows I’ve sold to send my family away. ‘It was the right thing.’

  Whose is this milk?

  “When it’s over,” Duthileul had said. It is over.

  These beasts are his.

  He left the herd, went and lay in their bed.

  You live and you have him and that’s right but ohh Simone Simone...

  He beat so hard at the bed-head his hand bruised and then split. Bled.

  It scabbed, he barely noticed, a day later. Will I?

  The house was cold. Alone is cold.

  Ardelle looked across that evening. No-one. All day. No light at night?

  She’d call in the morning.

  She went back inside her own empty house, lit a candle, raked a fire, boiled water, took the tisane and the candle, went to her own cold empty bed, pressed the tiny pile of Arbel’s letters to her chest and prayed.

  When he noticed he was hungry he shared ham, cheese and water with the dog but didn’t even hear the cows. He sat on Arbel’s bench. Two-day dead ash at his feet. Rolled a cigarette.

  “I don’t,” she’d said.

  A heart-attack of ache. A lead anchor of pain.

  The dog looked at him, lay down a metre from him.

  No one released the herd next morning Duthileul noticed; but he watched Ardelle walk round and knock.

  The dog barked. Slow footsteps.

  From behind the door a wet, soaked, voice. “Who is it?”

  “Me, Ardelle.”

  “I’m fine...” The voice walked away. A door closed inside.

  Ardelle milked Jacques’ grateful herd and Duthileul watched her take them to pasture. She brought them back at dusk, milked them, fed the chickens and did the same for four more days. He must let the dog out at night, she thought.

  On the fourth evening she knocked again. The dog barked. Good.

  Footsteps, shuffling. “Who is it?”

  “Ardelle, Jacques.”

  A silence.

  “I’m fine...”

  “You’re not. You’re dead inside. Your life has gone and I know and talk to me, Jacques. I’m at my empty home.”

  And she went home.

  Jacques milked his herd for the first time in a week.

  Ardelle watched the bearding husk stumble home with the beasts for three nights and then went into the village with her coupons and came round with a bottle she left on the doorstep as the dog barked.

  I was wrong. You can stop Time.

  Time doesn’t exist where there is pig-iron pain.

  I hate you Simone love for not staying for not insisting for not telling me I was wrong you just went you took my life you selfish selfish cow you should have gone and left my son I hate him too for being born to bring me heart-ache break me into this and most of all I hate the memory of the Loving that made him I hate the Germans and I would kill those who hurt you with my bare hands I’d rip them with my teeth – but I didn’t when I should have. No.

  I lay on my yellow gut praying. I hate you God you fucker for letting this all happen. I hate Duthileul and his damned money. Hate Jerome for living – Sara and Ardelle for living – Arbel if he is – I hate everyone who was ever happy. Especially me.

  I’m not worthy of my skin.

  He took the wine back to Ardelle and sat in her empty silence. A first shard of comfort, shared despair.

  “Do you want a glass?” she asked him.

  “I don’t want to drink, Ardelle.” he mumbled.

  “Where are they?”

  “Gone.”

  Silence began.

  “I’ll go home Ardelle...”

  “Why? You can weep here – it’s all I do.”

  “You hope too, don’t you?”

  “I’ve had no letter for months.”

  “They can’t kill Arbel...”

  “Jacques – please...”

  Another quiet fell.

  “I can’t comfort you Ardelle.”

  And he left before she could dare to begin to describe her loss.

  Time slid under him.

  This is what my mother did. Oh, I envy her her peace.

  Did she love my father as I love Simone? She must have. Ohh Mamman, your poor sad soul.

  Oh, Simone, ohh, son.

  He finished the last of his tobacco.

  The idea of going to the village, of stepping into the Tabac, was macabre. The thought of seeing everyone; anyone, their rancid tittle-tattle or their damned questions, their lying sympathy. Or worse, ‘You did the good thing...’

  No! Never.

  I won’t ever look at those grotesques again. They never liked her. Never loved her.

  Don’t need tobacco.

  He washed a filthy cup and stood an hour by the bucket remembering the back of her calves, red with sun. Her bony neck. Beautiful.

  Mine.

  He stood by the bucket and brayed his defeat. “Simoooone.” I never shout. “SIMONNNE.”

  “Simooooaaan.”

  He killed a chicken, lit a fire, boiled it and shared it with the dog. Made soup with the stock.

  No bread.

  He took kindling, beech clippings and oak from his caves and lit them in the stone-dome oven his grandfather had fashioned – the fournil. Went up to the attic to fetch flour, salt, water – got no yeast so it’ll be hard, good – good for soup and his hands heeled away and his shoulders caught the rhythm and at least, at last, he was working. And in the movement and the pressure of his hands in the dough, he forgot.

  Till he remembered. Found himself frozen again.

  Loaded the tray and fed it into the glowing mouth. A cig now. “I don’t.” Her vo
ice clear as a winter nightingale.

  Jag. Heart-jag.

  Echoes of anguish and echoes in anguish. Water the tomatoes. Weed. Work...

  The bread’ll be like rock. Good. I should go and see Ardelle but I can’t face talking. Everyone knew now.

  He’d sold something – everything – to send her and the bastard away. That was good. But then? Nothing. It’s genetic. Addicted to grief, like his mother and her fool father. What’s he doing? Nothing. Killing chickens.

  Time’ll rot him.

  “You gave me so much, so much Time in Love – tell me what to do with Time with No Love. Please. Humbly.”

  His house silent as a midnight church.

  The dog barked. Hell-fire and damnation! People. Who?

  Sara pushed the door open, Jacques looked up from the fireplace seat, and Zoe’s nose crinkled with acid distaste.

  “You’re right,” said Sara, “It stinks.” The child pointed at Jacques.

  “Yes, and he stinks worse, probably.”

  She looked at him, at the dead room. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t include washing? Shaving?”

  “No.”

  “What are you eating?”

  “Food. What do you want? Why have you come?”

  Sara left the door open, took the child’s hand and taking a couple of steps into the space, put her basket on the table.

  “I’m your friend, Jacques. I don’t want anything. I came to see you. Now I’m here I’d be glad if you had a wash.”

  His head swam a little. Different thoughts. Damn. Damn them to hell.

  “Sit down.”

  “Sit down, Zoe?”

  The child stared at Jacques. I must make an effort.

  He slowly knelt till he and the child were at eye-level. “She’s lovely, Sara– “

  Tears dismantled him.

  The child’s face mirrored his, crumpled into floods and Sara picked her up and walked her, raising small clouds of dust, calming her. But the child was now full of his anguish without the reason. Sara took her out of that house and to the garden where her sobs were softer on Jacques’ ears. He could hear his own better. He left Sara’s basket on the step, shut the door, lay down on their bed and howled.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Sara. Two days later. No Zoe. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Every second of this – talking – hurts.”

  “They’re only words.”

  “Go away, Sara. I can’t speak.”

  “Don’t. I’ll talk. I have no-one to talk to – it’ll be perfect. I haven’t seen Jerome for six weeks. Zoe is growing into a world of women and it’s unbalanced.”

  A beat.

  “They’ll tell me if he’s killed. So, I hope and I pray too. Do you? Ardelle doesn’t. Not in church, anyway. Have you seen her? You should. She’s broken, Jacques – we must hold her together till Arbel comes home. If he comes home. If any of them do.”

  “Simone won’t.”

  “None of them might. Then we’ll know what your Mother felt. Less, forever.”

  She knew he did not want to hear this, but she spoke anyway. “You did the right thing. And I’m proud to know you.”

  “I can’t speak.” A pause.

  “You should be sad. You did the hardest thing. It must be awful. What can I say? My blessings on you.”

  Two people crying in a sunlit room.

  The cows festered when he left them in the field all night and the following day until Dominique Duthileul came and led them back on the second evening.

  Jacques heard him milking them. Heard him take the milk across the road. Good. That went on for three days.

  Then, Duthileul Pére came across the lane and knocked at the door.

  The dog barked. “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  “Yes?”

  “We must talk.”

  “Talk.”

  Duthileul looked at the door. “Work your land.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t work your land and mine.” He was talking to a door. “It’s not mine. It’s yours.”

  There was a pause.

  “I said we’d talk when it’s over.”

  “It is over.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “I shook your hand.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  Jacques laughed for the first time since Souceyrac. “No.”

  “I won’t give it back.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Vermande. Jacques,” the voice gathered some passion, “it will rot – it’s ridiculous.”

  “I spent the money. It’s over.”

  “The land! The animals.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Duthileul jiggled at the latch. You had to jiggle it just so. The dog growled.

  “Let me in.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to see reason.”

  “I have no reason to see.”

  “Someone must work that land!”

  “Hire someone, then. Pay.”

  There was a pause and even through the door Jacques could tell Duthileul was going to say something he’d already considered. “I’ll pay you.”

  “No, you won’t. Your money’s misery.”

  “You’ll regret this.”

  “I do.”

  “Please.”

  Silence.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said please.”

  Jacques opened the door. The stench passed Duthileul.

  “Good God, man.” Duthileul felt the chill foolish wind of compassion ruffle his state of mind.

  “’Please?’”

  “Look at you.”

  “‘Please?’”

  “Jacques. You must work. Look at you. Work the land and when it’s all over, when there’s peace, then we’ll talk again. Eh?”

  “About what?”

  Jacques watched, fascinated for a second, as avarice squirmed. “The animals will rot, Jacques. The land will die.”

  “And so, what will we talk about Jean-Louis? May I call you Jean Louis? Jean-Louis, if you gave me the land back I wouldn’t work it.”

  Silence.

  “What when you’ve killed all the poultry – what then?”

  “I’ll eat grass.”

  “Are you mad? My God, Vermande. For a woman?”

  “Yes. My heart is in lineage, too.”

  And he closed the door.

  I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong. I did the wrong thing.

  Jerome came for ten minutes – no surrender, nowhere, never. Not now!

  “Capitulation is for Italians!”

  “France capitulated.”

  “Vichy capitulated.”

  Jacques sunk back into the fireside, tired with the conversation already.

  “What do you think about, tramp?”

  “I don’t want to think.”

  “Mm, but it’s not that easy, is it? What do you think about?”

  Silence.

  “You did the right thing.”

  “No. The Germans haven’t come back yet.”

  “What?”

  “When they come back and kill me it will be right.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The truth.”

  “Godsake man! You did the right thing. She’s alive!”

  “You didn’t get Sara and Zoe out. Send them away.”

  “I’m not you. You did the right thing for you.”

  “Oh, Jerome – bollocks! Obviously – I didn’t.”

  “Well, no. You did the right thing for them.” Jacques was silent.

  “Tell me about the baby... Tell me about your son.”

  “Please...”

  “He’s – alive? Gorgeous?”

  “Gone.”

  A beat.

  “If The Germans had killed her, Jacques, and killed him while you shivered in that copse – i
f you’d come back and found them dead – would that have been better?”

  Jacques considered that for the first time.

  “I’d have buried them.”

  “And would you rather have done that?”

  And only now did his eyes meet Jerome’s.

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “Vermande – you’re a coward. All these years – waiting for you to grow – and you’re a thief, a miser.” He stood, dust following him, “You’d rather you knew where they were? Than their lives?” He kicked wildly at Jacques’ legs, missed. “I’m ashamed of you.”

  “The truth changes, Jerome. Yours has. You have. I’ve told you what I feel today.”

  “And I’m telling you I’m disgusted.”

  “Then fuck off and leave me to it. Get back to your murder.” Jerome rattled. “It’s a purge.”

  “Is it? Good. Do it.”

  Silence.

  “De Gaulle’s to land in France. He’ll be on our soil.”

  “I couldn’t give a fig, Jerome, I really couldn’t. I’m glad for you. But please don’t tell me I’m going to be free.”

  “You did the right thing. Stand up and be proud. I’m doing the right thing and when my right and De Gaulle’s and the Allies meet and the war is really over she will be free – to come back.” Jerome walked to the door. “She’ll be impressed with this.”

  He left the words behind.

  Jacques opened the door to shoo them out into the garden. And saw her bending at weeds, saw his mother working, saw himself working in a June field two years ago, then saw Simone stopping her work to wave. He closed the door, went back to Arbel’s bench and reached for his tobacco. He hadn’t any.

  I will not be my mother.

  I will not grieve to the grave.

  I will work.

  What work?

  In fields that aren’t mine? Beasts that aren’t mine? “That is the price you paid.”

  The dog looked up, startled by his voice. And when the bastard takes my land?

  “I’ll have the chickens the garden and this morgue for a home.” The dog’s head tilted, puzzled.

  Only work can help you forget.

  “But do you want to forget? Should you?”

  Stop asking questions with no answers.

  Work. Just work.