by Sharon Maas
‘We should have changed the name back after the last war, when Alsace became French again. We have been French ever since and we will remain French no matter what our name or how many Germans invade. They can throw us out of our homes but they will never make us German.’
Juliette said: ‘You’re putting on a brave face, Grandma, but you were just as upset as me when they marched in this morning. You cried. Don’t deny it.’
‘Yes, I cried a bit because it’s hard to believe that after the thrashing they got last time the Germans are at it again, that they have not learned their lesson. It was hard for me to understand that they are back. It was a terrible time, Juliette, the Great War. You cannot imagine. And I am desolated that you might have to live through something similar. Let us only hope that it won’t last long. Not like the last time. But whatever happens, we must be calm and strong and not be cowed. I would have preferred to stay in my own home, even if I have to share it with Germans. It seems to me defeatist to run away.’
Juliette squeezed her grandmother’s hand. ‘You are stubborn, and strong, Grandma, but you could not have stayed there alone with them. You must see that.’
Hélène sighed, and returned the hand-squeeze. ‘I do. I suppose I do. It would not have been pleasant. But it feels like a defeat already, running away like this. Like when the Germans marched into Paris and the French government just ran off, tail between the legs. Capitulated. It’s a disgrace.’
‘The most important thing now is for us all to be safe. Even at the cost of our pride. Juliette is right, Hélène. The future for us all is unknown. It’s a new chapter opening on us and nobody knows how it will develop. Perhaps it will all be over in a few months. I am glad you are going to Maxence. He must be worried out of his mind – he will have heard of the invasion over the wireless but I have not been able to drop in to let him know you are coming. He will be so relieved to have you with him. And you, of course, Juliette!’
‘I haven’t been home for ages! I can’t stay long, but it’ll be wonderful to see him.’
‘How are your studies? What’s happening with your university? Max told me you had to evacuate?’
‘Yes – like all of Strasbourg. They’ve relocated the university to Clermont-Ferrand, near Vichy. I’m just on a mid-term break. Luckily I could be here for Grandmère.’
‘Well, I am just happy that I get to see you unexpectedly, even if the circumstances aren’t good. You come so rarely! Victoire will be delighted. You must come to the chateau as soon as possible.’
Juliette smiled. ‘Ah, Victoire! How is she?’
‘She misses you desperately. As you can imagine! She treasures your letters.’
It was a curious thing with Victoire. She was only fifteen, five years younger than Juliette, yet from the beginning Victoire had clung to her, Juliette, with all the devotion and admiration due an older sister. Even though she had an older sister of her own, Marie-Claire: Marie-Claire, who went her own way, and had no time for a little sister always at her heels. So Juliette had grown into that sisterly role.
Now that Victoire was becoming a young woman herself, mature beyond her years, that five-year gap seemed to grow less and less, on the cusp of disappearing altogether. Out of sisterhood genuine friendship was emerging; they would travel the world together, they had decided, visit England and Italy and maybe even Asia one day, and South America. Life had been so full of promise, so full of excitement and romance and adventure. Until now.
Margaux shrugged, pressed the horn sharply to get the car in front to move on. ‘That idiot – is he sleeping at the wheel or what? Look at the gap in front of him! At this rate we’ll be here all night. What were you saying? Ah yes, Victoire. Well, you know her. Restless as usual, following the news as best she can over the wireless, frustrated, anxious, worried.’
‘And the others? Marie-Claire?’
Margaux launched into a tirade about Marie-Claire: ‘That girl lives in the clouds! You know, I got her a job in the Ribeauvillé Mairie last year; better than moping around the house. She actually did quite well, so agreed to take a secretarial course and was promoted to the Colmar Mairie. But she still thinks she’s too good for it. Too good for Colmar. We’re all too provincial for that girl. Wants to run off to Paris to join her father.’
‘Well, why doesn’t she?’
‘Run off to Paris? Are you mad? People are running away from Paris, not to Paris!’
‘But Marie-Claire always dreamed of Paris, even before the war. Why didn’t you let her go?’
Margaux pressed on the horn again, this time letting it blare for a full ten seconds before responding. ‘Imbécile! Sleeping at the wheel! What was that? Ah yes – Marie-Claire. I wouldn’t let her go because that father of hers has no idea what to do with her and I am not letting a daughter of mine run wild in Paris. She has him wrapped around her little finger; he would say yes to anything she wanted, just for an easy life. Papa, can I join the Folies Bergère and do the can-can? Yes of course, my little darling!
‘He spoils her rotten and it is my job as her mother to delay the inevitable until she is of age. She has a few more months to go before she’s twenty-one and then she can run off to Paris – if Paris is still standing in a year, if it has not been flattened by the Germans – and do as she likes. She fell in love with the place when she was thirteen and we spent Christmas there. She thinks all her dreams will come true in Paris. Now it’s all Paris, Paris, Paris. Papa, Papa, Papa. Over my dead body. But she has improved since she got that job and it gets her out of the house, doing something useful. And now they’ve chucked out the Mairie staff, goodness knows what’s next. She’s quite distraught. Even though she thinks it’s all beneath her, she thought she could work her way up to Paris. Work in some grand couture house or something. Why couldn’t she be nice and sensible and responsible and clever like you?’
‘That’s not fair, Tante – don’t compare. Every child is different and everyone has their own weaknesses and strengths.’
‘I haven’t seen your weaknesses yet, nor her strengths.’
‘Well, they exist, I assure you. So, enough of Marie-Claire. I do like her a lot but I know she is a headache for you. What about the boys? Are they back yet?’
Leon and Lucien had run off to fight for France after the invasion; they had been captured and were now prisoners of war somewhere in Germany.
Margaux sighed. ‘No. Goodness knows when Hitler will send them back. It’s all a disaster, from beginning to end.’
‘And Jacques? I haven’t heard from him in ages.’
‘Your brother has absconded. He’s in Strasbourg. Ran off just after the vendange. We haven’t heard from him since.’
‘In Strasbourg? That’s not like Jacques. What’s he doing up there?’
‘I think the less we know about what Jacques is up to, the better. He always had a political bent, and ever since the Nazis took Strasbourg he’s been on a mission.’
‘You don’t mean…?’
‘I said, the less we know, the better. Don’t you get involved.’
‘But I have to go to Strasbourg anyway. I might as well visit him. Do you have an address for him?’
‘He left a telephone number with Maxence. For emergencies. Not for social visits.’
‘But—’
‘He was quite clear about it, Juliette. Only for emergencies. Stay away from Jacques.’
Juliette fell silent. She understood perfectly. She knew her brother well. If he was in Strasbourg, it could only mean one thing.
* * *
Eventually they arrived at La Maison des Collines, Maxence’s home at the end of Chemin des Sources, the winding lane that passed by Château Gauthier. As its name implied, La Maison des Collines nestled between gentle hills, mounds that eventually rolled up to the Vosges mountain range that separated Alsace from Lorraine and the rest of France; softly undulating hills, striped with the inevitable ranks of grapevines characteristic of the region, vines now brown and bare, stripped
of fruit and foliage. Here, nature was so close it wrapped itself around a person, each season coming and going with unmistakeable gestures, familiar signs.
Now dusk was approaching, a grey November dusk with a low-hung sky and a hint of drizzle. As the van drove into the cobbled front yard two dogs leapt forth from behind the house, barking, which turned into yelps of delight as Juliette descended from the van’s cabin. She bent over to fondle their heads, crouched down to accept their excited writhing, stroked their sleek wriggling bodies, laughed at their slobbery kisses.
‘Gigi! Rififi! How I’ve missed you! You lovely, lovely creatures! Calm down, calm down, you will both get your share of hugs! Where is Papa?’
‘Here I am, chérie!’
A man, dressed as a farmer in torn and faded dungarees and a sloppy, over-large gabardine coat and black rubber boots, emerged from the barn-like building adjacent to the house. Dark strands of hair flopped forward over a gnarled, weather-beaten face lit up not only by a broad smile but by eyes that shone with love. Maxence Dolch, tall, gaunt, wiry, strode towards the group of girl and squirming dogs. Juliette abandoned the dogs and leapt towards him, flinging herself into his arms.
‘Papa! Papa, it’s so good to see you!’
‘And you, ma petite! And when will you stop growing? I still cannot believe you are so tall! Let me look at you…’ he held her shoulders and pushed her back, took her in, then drew her back into his embrace. ‘…more beautiful than ever. You look good, my darling, in spite of the terrible news. I heard it on the wireless and I’ve been worried all day. I’ve been trying to get hold of Margaux for news – I knew you’d call her – and went over this afternoon. Victoire told me she’d gone to pick you up, so I’ve been waiting here and worrying. Hello, Margaux. Thank you for bringing them. Maman! So it took a German invasion to drag you back home!’
Max let go of Juliette and stepped forward to embrace both Margaux and Hélène, exchanging cheek kisses, folding his mother into his arms.
‘Maman, you are so thin. You are like a feather. I’m going to have to feed you up.’
‘I’m not staying long, Maxence. Only until that bothersome Boche has retreated out of Colmar so that we can get on with our lives. Hopefully not more than a week or two. At the most, a month.’
‘You haven’t even heard the worst of it, Papa! They requisitioned our house and threw out Grandmère!’
‘What! Really! Hopefully they did not harm you? Come on inside. I have prepared a nice soup for you all.’ Maxence ushered the three women towards the house and in through the front door. The hallway was cold; Maxence hurried them into the large square kitchen, warmed by a pot-bellied cast-iron stove on bowlegs, and gestured for them to be seated around the heavy oak central table.
‘The child exaggerates,’ said Hélène. ‘They did not throw me out. I volunteered to go. Or rather, given the option of staying – which I would have been perfectly happy to do – I decided after all that I prefer your company for a while than to share my home with a bunch of uncouth, uncivilised brutes.’
‘I should think so! Here, sit down, the soup is still warm but I think I’ll heat it up a bit. And there’s some bread to go with it – slightly hard, but the soup will soften it.’
He placed a large and apparently heavy pot onto the range, opened the stove door to feed the smouldering fire, stoked it and shut the door again. The stove gave off a pleasant, cosy warmth and the smell of burning wood lent to the atmosphere a sense of homely comfort; the delicious, distinctive feeling of home wrapped itself around Juliette and she hugged her father once again.
‘It’s so good to be back!’ she said.
‘Well, you know – nobody chased you away. You’re welcome to stay here all the time.’
‘Papa, you know I have to study, get a degree. I can’t do that here.’
‘I don’t see the point of it. Why didn’t you do like Jacques – he didn’t bother with all these nonsensical school qualifications. It just goes to people’s heads, makes them think they’re better than us uneducated morons.’
‘Oh Papa, don’t say that! And don’t compare me with Jacques. Jacques is a born winemaker like you, with an instinct for his work. I can’t very well become a vet just by instinct.’
‘But I miss you. I want you here. I wish you would come more often.’
‘You know how it is, Papa. Grandmère needs me and between her and my studies, well, there’s not much time left. I miss you too. But – here I am!’
‘Well, we need to make the most of it. I would be happy for you both to stay here forever. All of us living here, Jacques too. Families need to stick together. Promise me that if the war comes to Alsace you will move back home, Juliette. The people might have returned to Strasbourg but it’s still dangerous. Your safety is more important than your studies.’
After the declaration of war on 3 September 1939, all 120,000 Strasbourg citizens had been evacuated and relocated to southern France, like other border towns west of the Rhine River separating the two warring nations. For ten months the city had been completely empty except for garrisoned soldiers. At the arrival of the Wehrmacht troops in mid-June 1940 most of the citizens returned – but to a city now occupied by Germans.
‘I won’t. I haven’t told you yet, but – the university is not returning to Strasbourg. It will remain in Clermont-Ferrand. I happened to be in Colmar, with Grandma, only because of a study break.’
‘And the war has already come to Alsace, Maxence. That’s why we’re here now, isn’t it. Nothing will be the same again. But hopefully the British will come in and drive the Boche from our streets.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
For the first time, Margaux spoke, and she and Maxence looked at each other.
‘Non?’ asked Maxence, holding her gaze. ‘You think we are in for another long war, like the last one?’
Margaux nodded. She stood up and stepped over to the stove, opened the lid of the pot, peered in, stirred the soup. ‘I do. My useless husband does have some skills, besides business. He’s kept in touch with the major politicians in Paris. He says that we are in for a long, long war. It will be just as brutal as the last one or even worse.’
‘It can’t be possible!’ Maxence exclaimed. ‘What are our leaders thinking! Haven’t they learned from the last war?’
‘Nobody wants war except that madman Hitler,’ said Margaux. Her voice was calm, as if she didn’t care. She stirred the soup. Around and around and around. ‘He’s the one agitating for bloodshed. He’s the one who wants to expand and expand until the whole world is German.’
And then, without warning, she banged on the edge of the pot with the wooden spoon, and her voice was a cry, a rallying cry. ‘But over my dead body! They’ll have to shoot me and all of my children before we submit! We will never surrender, never!’
‘Shhh, Margaux,’ said Maxence. ‘It’s not going to come to that. Come, the soup’s finished. Bring the pot. We’re all starving.’
Three
Two days she spent at home, one day with at the chateau with Victoire and Margaux. On the fourth day, Juliette managed to tear herself away her father’s overprotective affection, her grandma’s overzealous attentions, her best friend’s over-devoted neediness, excuse herself tactfully and escape back to Colmar, a city now decked in swastikas. As she hurried through the cobbled streets of the old town towards the Pharmacie Blum, her heart began to beat faster, and a dialogue with herself ran through her mind. I hope he’s there. No, I don’t. Let him be there, dear God. Taise-toi! Shut up! But I hope… no, he won’t be…
He – that was Nathan Levi-Blum, the pharmacist’s son, who had graduated just a few months ago and now worked at the pharmacy full-time, alongside his father or alone in the large storeroom behind the shop, filled with countless shelves stocked with bottles containing mysterious substances: liquids, tablets, capsules.
Juliette had known him when they were children; as they both grew older she had seen him from time to ti
me when she went to collect prescriptions for her grandmother. In his final years of secondary school he had worked there after school as an assistant in the shop, greeting customers, supplying them with over-the-counter remedies, taking their prescriptions and passing them through the hatch to whichever pharmacist was on duty, and Juliette had often found herself calculating his work hours so as she could coincide with them on her medicine-collection errands.
Then he had gone off to university, and she had seen him only during the holidays. She had nursed a secret hope that once she, too, became a student they’d meet up at the university; the truth was, she could count on one hand the times she’s seen him at the Strasbourg campus, and then only from a distance. Sometimes, even, she’d wished she’d chosen pharmaceutics instead of veterinary science as her discipline – but no; she invariably dismissed that thought. She’d always known she’d be a vet, and not even the soulful dark eyes of Nathan Levi-Blum could change that.
Nathan, in his final year of studies, had often worked at the pharmacy alone during the vacances. He took on night and weekend shifts, and it was during the weekend daytime shifts that their paths sometimes crossed. Or rather, didn’t cross. They barely spoke. Juliette would ring the bell on the counter that summoned him from the storeroom. He’d come through the door in his white lab coat, like a doctor; her heart would skip a beat, and there was nothing she could do to stop it, or to stop her eyes from seeking his, searching his.
His face! Long, dark, sallow, with an inevitable strand of black hair falling over his forehead: it seemed to contain a sadness, an enigma she longed to solve, and his eyes spoke volumes but in a language she could not understand. She tried to read them, but couldn’t. But the act of trying to read them meant that she’d gaze into them for a moment too long; she knew she shouldn’t but she did it anyway because – well, because his eyes were magnets and she could not look away.
