The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  I can’t ever look at his face without I’ll see me and her in sweat and disgrace and – we didn’t kiss – we did not kiss – and – I didn’t come – not in her.

  But we did what we did with no thought of him. For him. Or her.

  Bound for America.

  He no longer saw the ceiling.

  Ardelle worked. Tidied. He was coming home. The card was stamped in Germany – where? – a week – a month from the border?

  And the bombers? Enough. He was alive and he was coming. Home.

  And he would understand.

  When I tell him. Why. Tell him why. And if he says ‘was it good?’ I’ll lie. Or tell the truth. If I tell him. If he asks.

  What was it?

  It was an event and it had passed. It had gone. But it was here.

  In his home. He would see it. And if he didn’t? Then it didn’t exist – it never happened.

  Or – it would be a stone secret between us. If I don’t tell him. Yesterday I was surer.

  A week ago there was just the Spanish border between us – now we’re an ocean apart.

  Why doesn’t Jacques call? I can’t go round there. He might think – anything.

  It was near noon when he moved and worked his baffled herd and felt Ardelle’s eyes on him.

  He’s ashamed. Oh no no no.

  The day passed, the earth turned, the night came and the sky turned. They lay in their beds at Puech – apart and widening. Silence eats.

  I’ve betrayed everything.

  My son? He almost laughed.

  What would your mother feel if she knew I’d sucked Ardelle as you suckle her?

  What exactly am I?

  Well, I’m bereft of prayer. I’m a sinner.

  Against Arbel.

  Would I blame Arbel if he’d been with a girl? No.

  Do I blame Ardelle? No.

  Do I blame me? Yes.

  For what? Wanting? Needing? Yes.

  Didn’t you try and kill yourself? Yes.

  Were you rational?

  No.

  And so, tell me, what’s so wrong with wanting? What’s wrong with need?

  Something.

  Ardelle said ‘neither of them would judge us badly.’

  If Simone does with some American – will I judge her badly? Yes! Would she judge me badly? No.

  What does that make me? Meaner.

  I said it. I said, ‘Come and sleep.’ It’s rotten in two days.

  Poisoned. Why? By what? How? Why?

  It was warm. It was warmth. It was good.

  And if it was goodness in Sin – then – it must be the goodness that makes us sin. And that must be the sin. There’s the cruelty in breaking His laws, then. It’s good. It feels good.

  I bet it felt good to steal from Germans. I bet it felt good to kill Germans.

  ‘I’m here for you,’ she said. I wish we hadn’t.

  But it was Good. It was.

  What is he thinking? To himself? Why doesn’t he talk? It was I who said it, yes, but it was we in the bed.

  Madame Valet asked Jerome whether he hadn’t gone too far.

  “Do you mean, ‘why’?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t say ‘I don’t know’ in matters of the heart. It’s evasion.”

  “I have no heart.”

  Madame Valet looked at the slouching wine-soaked youth who had murdered her husband.

  “Jerome. Gaston drank – as you know. And the more he drank the further from his heart he drifted. And from me.”

  Jerome looked at her.

  “I never loved Sara. Did I? I always only hated my mother. Didn’t I? What’s real now? When I was fighting…” he stalled but she nodded him onward, “I knew. I knew everything. Now I can’t grasp my mind.”

  “We’re all in shock, Jerome. For one reason or another.” A silence.

  “We’ve all been through a shocking experience...”

  “I can’t listen to my heart, Madame. It appals me.”

  “Drowning it won’t work. Courage, man. Here comes the hardest part. The hardest thing, for all of us. Re-building.”

  Arbel and the men walked into Sindelfinger. It had a railway station. The station master put them in the waiting room, lit a fire, found them all blankets. Blankets in a railway station? Don’t ask. Be thankful.

  “The time-table”, he told them over coffee, over fresh coffee, “is fiction. But any train that stops or slows enough will take you to the French border and Strasbourg.”

  No-one needed any persuading not to walk on and for four days, in return for the station-master’s wife’s soup, Jean-Luc tidied and weeded the flower beds, Figeac serviced the man’s car, Claude the Boulanger learnt strudel and taught croissant, and Arbel and Yannick whitened the platform edge and painted the station roof. On the fourth day a goods train roared through, ignoring the station-master’s flags.

  “I’ll cut the signal cord,” he offered, simply. “I’ll deal with the driver.”

  Two nights later – at four in a freezing morning the five Frenchmen shook the German’s hand and clambered into an empty cattle truck.

  “A day to the border,” he said, closing the sliding door. “Bonne route, eh?”

  The people you meet. The train pulled Westwards.

  He slept in slabs of darkness. He woke frequently, hideously alone; with Arbel in his black vision sometimes even before Simone and his son.

  I cannot face Arbel’s eyes. I cannot face his forgiveness.

  I must leave. I’ve poisoned this land. His land. He’s coming home to a plague.

  The dog barked him upright. “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  Ardelle.

  He pulled his trousers on, shushed the dog, came out of his room, her room, their room, and opened the front door. Morning.

  Ardelle offered a wire pannier with a handful of green beans in it.

  “Come in...” he mouthed.

  Ardelle put the pannier on the table and sat where Simone last sat, at her last meal, that last evening of that last night.

  “There’s no fire – I’m sorry...” he muttered.

  Why hadn’t Jerome bought tobacco – I’d kill for a fag.

  “Why have I had to come here?”

  “I was – afraid...”

  She waited.

  “I thought we might... Again... I was resisting temptation.”

  “I don’t believe you. But thank you for saying – something. You wish it had never happened.”

  Yes.

  “You wish it away and I remind you of it.”

  Yes.

  “You’ve even wished Arbel won’t come back..?”

  “And so did you?”

  “Yes,” she conceded heavily. She looked up at him, said, “We did something – for each other.”

  “Yes.” Their eyes met.

  “And now we wish we hadn’t.”

  Silence agreed.

  He managed, “I didn’t know what to think.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I betrayed Arbel.” Ardelle nodded.

  “We betrayed him,” she said. Their eyes met.

  “Jacques, how can good become bad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m ignorant.”

  “No – why has good become bad?”

  “Because…” again the eyes met, “of vows.”

  She nodded again. Damn him. He was right.

  “Do you blame me? Your silence did.”

  “No! I—” he blushed, “I dread looking in his face, Ardelle. I was a friend.”

  She said, “I’m a friend. I was a friend.”

  Jacques sat.

  “Oh, God, Ardelle. I know nothing. Except, I’m not a friend. Obviously.”

  “You were three days ago. A week ago. All our lives. What are you saying?”

  “A friend doesn’t – do that...”

  “Two friends d
id.”

  The dog lay down, re-assured by the quietness of their talk.

  “You were going to kill yourself. There’s a war. He’s walking home through it and he might still be killed – please God he won’t…”

  “Simone’s sailing away...”

  “Yes, with little Jacques – and – these are our lives.”

  Ardelle struggled.

  She’d never thought such things in her existence.

  “This is our life. I – bring you beans – and we did – something – because...” she dared herself to think and say, “...it was right. Forgive us, Jacques.”

  “And it was wrong.”

  “It can’t be both.”

  “It isn’t. It’s wrong.”

  Silence.

  “We’ve abused his faith. In you. And me. We’ve been unfaithful to him.”

  Silence.

  “It’s sin.”

  Ardelle aged. She’d been young again so very briefly.

  “And I will leave. I can’t stay here.”

  Ardelle looked up. His eyes were hard. Faraway.

  “I couldn’t bear to shit on your joy – and I already have.”

  “You leaving would change nothing.”

  Ardelle stood. Left him. She stood in his garden.

  O, Holiest of Merciful Fathers don’t let him be right. That can’t be your will. No. Christians forgive. She turned and strode back up his steps.

  “You’re making it bad.”

  “It is bad.”

  “It wasn’t! Till you – couldn’t speak. What part of it was bad? Why?”

  “I don’t know...”

  “You’re making it bad. You. Why?” He was silent.

  “Because she’s gone to America? Are you taking that out on me?”

  “No. Ardelle, no.”

  She managed the smallest nod.

  “But now you’re afraid to face him?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t. And I wasn’t guilty. But I am now. Aren’t I?”

  “So am I,” he said.

  Ardelle’s eyes ravaged the room. Stone walls and oak. This peasant man, the dog, up now, staring at her. “No! No. I don’t accept. It must not be. No.”

  She stood and stumbled to the door, eyes running. “You were going to die,” she reminded him.

  “Don’t you wish I had?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I do.”

  She couldn’t imagine any more words.

  The garden grass where she had pulled him back to life was freshly frosted beneath her feet, the air late December, the light pale grey, the future -

  Sara came with the child.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He’s done what? The world moved off its axis.

  In the silence Zoe said to Jacques, “You’ve stopped crying.”

  “Will you go and see him?”

  “No.”

  “For me?”

  “What could he tell me that you don’t know?”

  A short sad quiet.

  “Nothing.”

  Sara looked at him, placed her thick hand on his. “I’m going to see Ardelle. Do you want to come, Zoe?”

  “No. She’s sad.”

  “No, no. She’ll be very happy this time, won’t she, Jacques? Arbel’s coming home. Will you come, Jacques?”

  “You two go.”

  If Sara knew about Arbel coming home – then the whole commune knew Simone was bound for America. Galtier would have told the gleeful ghouls. Damn their wagging tongues. Damn their gossip soaked ears and souls. Damn their lives and damn them to death that they should know of his grief. No wonder my Mother withdrew. Damn them! I will not look at any of them ever again. And bless Sara for saying nothing.

  Zoe found Ardelle very far from happy. Her mother and this woman sat and her mother said, “What is it?” about a hundred and fifty-five times and the sad woman shook her head and said “Nothing.” And it wasn’t true.

  He bought the herd in. There was nowhere for his eyes to rest that didn’t wound, no thought that didn’t chill, no respite. Blackness on darkness. Echoes of anguish and echoes in anguish.

  I can’t live here. This isn’t life. Where is it, my life?

  He sat to milk.

  The post-card news reached Jerome in his seat inside the café. “Arbel’s walking home? He fucking would!”

  But Jacques will be desolate. The tobacco!

  “And two bottles, Janon.” Because old Ardelle’ll want to celebrate.

  Jacques rolled the cigarette. Reverently. “Have you heard about me?”

  Jacques nodded, licking at the paper. Rolled it. Twice. And heard himself say, “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I do not know.” Jacques lit the cigarette. Pulled hard.

  His chest swam, his neck heated, his head rocked and the tiniest perspiration bibbled on his brow.

  “Good?”

  “Horrible.” He hauled again. Everything turned back, dropped inside him, settled. His humming hand rested, fag nestled in the knuckles, on his knee. That. Looked. Better. Another drag. Hand on the knee. “Mm.”

  He looked up. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I wished I did – but I don’t...”

  Jacques leaned his back into the cold firewall and said, “What about Zoe?”

  “I see her. I’m her father.”

  A beat.

  “And you’re sleeping at your mother’s?”

  “Living there. If you can call it that.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jerome!”

  “We don’t speak. We’ll start that when I’ve drunk everything.”

  A beat.

  “What’s happened to us?”

  “War?”

  Silence.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Drink. Hope Arbel gets here. You?”

  “Move.”

  Jerome stood and looked at his friend.

  “Jacques..?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Go to America.”

  He stood there with a grin and the bottle as Ardelle opened the door, eyes red-veined and sodden. When he left an hour later, the bottle still unopened in his pocket, not a word the wiser, he walked the late evening lane straight to Sara and told her she must go and see them both.

  “I went, this morning.”

  “Well, whatever it was, it’s worse now. Go, now. Please.”

  “I’m bathing Zoe.”

  “I’ll do that. You go.”

  “Now? No. Still want to bath her?”

  “Of course. Here,” he put the bottle on the table, “get that open. Let’s celebrate something. Zoë’s bath, we’re alive – any damned thing.” Zoë’s parents sat at the table and drank the bottle.

  Neither spoke, nor did they make much eye-contact. When the bottle was done he stood.

  “You’ll go tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  He went home, to the bar.

  Another evening fell on shattered St. Cirgues.

  Sara washed the glasses away. He has no notion of my feelings. And neither have I. It’s like I haven’t got any. And it’s as if that’s what we both think. And now he has none of his own. For himself. He’s not – himself. And what am I, then? Now? And when will I weep?

  Baden-Baden. The train was not going any further. They had 30 kilometres to the border.

  The advancing Allied armies were bringing another kind of winter to the people of Germany.

  The Third Army crossed the German border.

  In the Café Tabac Duthileul sat like an owl, everyone within his sight. Busted Janon shuffling. Galtier and Chibret’s circular conversation arrested as ever by the eau-de-vie round. And Lacaze nursing yet another dying bottle. He’ll drink her money away if his liver holds out. Now that would be a waste...

  I’ve spoken to everyone, Jerome thought. Madame Valet, Madame Mignon, Madame Herrisson. I’ve not said anything. I’
ve nothing to say. But I’ve spoken. Registered my life, my survival, publicly, against their losses. So. I’ve earned my place as the drunken village hero.

  He took a mouthful. Duthileul troubles me.

  Hasn’t changed. Just waited out the whole storm. Learned nothing. Not like me – I’ve learned less!

  And still I hate him.

  And I’ve left my family – to go home! I’m regressing.

  Least I don’t go to Church yet.

  He snorted. I’m not that drunk. Wonder if I ever will be? My friends are in ribbons. Jacques and Ardelle. Ribbons. So.

  “We won nothing.”

  The few in the gloom looked up. He was at it again. The talking.

  Everyone wondering why it’s like this. I don’t. People have so much to forget. I don’t. I’ve nothing I should forget. Or if I did, he laughed aloud, startling them, “I’ve forgotten what it is!” Was. Wasn’t. “Don’t know. Which. Do I?”

  And everyone wants something – their men back, their dead sons restored, a family. The impossible. “Or the highly unlikely.”

  And, I don’t want anything.

  He said quietly, “Love you Zoë – but oh dear – Papa’s pissed.” Hope Sara sorts Ardelle. If she can’t no-one can.

  Can’t be right. That I don’t want anything...

  “Closing soon...” he heard Janon say.

  Ohhh. The walk. Back there. Noo... No!

  Take Jacques a drink..! Yes – the brain works yet! “Two more, Janon. Unopened.”

  “Do you want a lift?” Duthileul asked.

  “From a cheat? No.” Jerome lurched into the night. It was cold, sharp and dry.

  “Drink?” Jerome felt sobered by the walk.

  “You’re pissed. It’s midnight.”

  “Am I? Are you sure? I was. Anyway you’re not in bed.”

  “No.”

  “Not sleeping are you?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. So?” He waved the bottle.

  Two friends at a midnight stone doorway.

  “I’m – I was… ” Jerome steadied himself, “… concerned.”

  “Balls. Go home.”

  “Er – no.”