by Sharon Maas
His eyes, as she entered, or, actually, made an entrance, the one she had planned, were lowered, fixed on Margaux and Victoire. He appeared to be listening to their conversation, as everyone was (and who was that other fellow, vaguely hovering in the background?). She stepped in and, just as she had known they would, all eyes rose to receive her. She posed before the door for a few seconds, all the better to be appreciated, knowing that despite themselves admiration would leap into those eyes – yes, there it was, that little spark of wonder that could never be suppressed, wonder at feminine beauty at its best (best under the circumstances, which were less than best), and on display. Marie-Claire could never understand the female modesty that seemed to inhabit all the women in her family and close acquaintanceship. Her mother, Victoire, Juliette, even Aunt Sophie – they all pretended not to care. But of course they did, deep inside! Surely their indifference was pretence! Yes, deep inside, they envied her.
Now, during that first silent moment, they all drank her in. Frowns (of envy) on the women’s faces, except for Aunt Sophie, who moved her head slowly from side to side as if in disapproval. A grin across Uncle Max’s – he could always be relied upon to show appreciation. Sheer awe on that young stranger’s – who on earth was he? And on Jacques’ – what? She could never read Jacques’ expressions, a thing that had always annoyed her, from childhood – that she could never get Jacques right. That her feminine instincts as to what a man was thinking, how he regarded her, so infallible in other instances, stalled and broke down with Jacques.
Now, he looked straight at her, meeting her gaze with candour, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts. A simple acknowledgement of her presence, a nod of his head, then a smile as she broke the moment of silence with a ‘Good evening, everyone!’ and approached them all, arms held out as if she really, truly, was delighted to see each one. Faces lit up at her approach, as if in relief that the statue of beauty contained an inner soul after all.
Margaux and Victoire stood up to take her hands, as if they had not seen her earlier that day, as if she had metamorphosed into a new human needing a new greeting.
‘Bonsoir, chérie!’ murmured Maman, while Victoire simply said her name, and then added, ‘How elegant you look!’
Marie-Claire nodded and moved on, through Tante Sophie, Tante Hélène, Grandpère, Uncle Max – whose cheek-kisses and praise were particularly exuberant – to the young stranger she’d never seen before.
‘This is Eric!’ said Victoire as she approached him. ‘He’s Jacques’ friend, and we’ve invited him to celebrate Christmas with us. Eric, this is my big sister Marie-Claire.’
She nodded as she greeted Eric, but quickly dropped his hands – they were a mite too warm and sweaty – to turn, last of all, to Jacques, who, in the meantime, had extinguished his cigarette in an ashtray on a narrow ledge halfway up the Kachelowa, and now turned to her, arms open.
She fell into them. ‘Jacques,’ she murmured.
‘Marie-Claire,’ he replied, and, ‘it’s so good to see you. You look splendid.’
Still in his arms, she gazed into his eyes, and gave him a smile she hoped was enigmatic, full of veiled promises, a smile she had practised before the mirror. Something she interpreted as admiration lit up his eyes; certainly, he did not take his gaze from her. She basked in that gaze; she could feel his admiration. Shallow as a crêpe-pan, indeed! This time, this night, she would win him.
‘Jacques,’ was all she said, and then she raised a hand and brushed a lock of hair out of his forehead, a gesture that would give him a good whiff of the L’Heure Bleue secreted in her elbow; Guerlain and the mysterious scent of dusk would, hopefully, destroy his last defences. She would win. She had to.
Part of the art of seduction was not to give in too easily. Men needed the chase; it excited them. Jacques was no exception. His explanation that he regarded her only as a sister was ridiculous. Of course he didn’t – it was just a convenient excuse to suppress his natural instinct and avoid a relationship that might be awkward, considering his involvement in her family. An armour she would break through; a challenge. She too enjoyed the chase. She didn’t like men who fell too easily; she needed to win.
And so it was Marie-Claire, knowing the rules of the game and confident, now, that she would win, who extricated herself from this long embrace, peeled herself from Jacques’ arms and turned round to look for somewhere else to place herself. Uncle Max was accommodating. He drew a leather fauteuil into the circle, gave her an elaborate bow and said, ‘Do sit down, Marie-Claire. We’ve been waiting for you!’
‘Actually, we’ve been waiting for her so we can start dinner,’ said Margaux briskly, already on her way to the door that led directly into the kitchen. ‘Come, Victoire, help me serve.’
Twenty-Seven
Victoire
‘I really miss Juliette this year,’ Victoire remarked later to Jacques. ‘I know it’s all top secret, but – well, I miss her. It’s the first Christmas without her!’ She sat between Jacques and Eric; Jacques was at the head of the table next to Margaux, who, having divided the tarte flambée into equal pieces and served them all, had turned to Tante Hélène, on her left. Next to Tante Hélène came Uncle Max, already engaged in conversation with Marie-Claire on his left. Tante Sophie sat at the end of the table opposite Margaux, and then came Eric, next to Jacques.
Jacques shrugged, and cut off a piece of his tart. ‘It’s not all that secret. She is in France, at her university; she had to see one of her professors about her dissertation and he invited her to stay to celebrate with his family. It would have been too much of a rush to return at this time. She sends her love.’
He winked, grinned and attended to the food on his plate.
Victoire gave a wry chuckle. ‘You can’t fool me, Jacques. I know that Juliette is working with you and has no interest at all in her studies right now.’
‘In that case, Victoire, you will be as discreet as she is and not ask questions.’
‘Huh! Very well, I will only speak when I am spoken to from now on. At least, with you. And never ask another question. Maybe your friend will accept questions.’
She sniffed and turned away in pretended affront, to face Eric.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello,’ he replied.
And then they both just sat there, half turned towards each other; just looking. Eric had the face of a boy on the cusp of manhood. His cheeks and chin had the perfect milky-white complexion of a child, yet his chin was strong and his eyes, a dusky brown, spoke volumes: of things seen that no boy should see, of things beyond the promises of youth. Victoire spoke first.
‘So you are from Lorraine?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. I grew up in Metz. When the Germans came in through Belgium I joined the French army to fight them.’
‘But you were surely much too young?’
‘They needed men – they did not care about age. I am tall and strong enough to pass for eighteen, and inside I am already a man.’
He flexed his arm as he said this, and through Lucien’s best blue sweater Victoire saw the bulge of a bicep. She resisted the urge to touch it, feel it, and only laughed.
‘Your face doesn’t match your body, though!’ Again, she resisted the urge to touch him, stroke her fingers along his jawline. ‘Not a hair!’
‘A beard does not make a man. A man is formed from the inside: from his thoughts, his feelings, his sense of justice, his bravery, his need to protect his family, his friends, his country. These are the things that count, the things that define manly strength, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Indeed,’ she replied. ‘Absolument. And for a woman, it is the same. A girl becomes a woman when she can summon her strength from inside her, from her heart – it might not be physical – I do admit that men have greater bodily strength – but I think our courage and our desire to fight for justice is in every way equal to that of a man. I may look like a girl to you, but—’
‘But inside you are a woman. I kn
ow that, Victoire; I can see that, and also Jacques has told me a lot about you.’
‘Aha – good things, I hope?’
‘Excellent things. He is very proud of you; he thinks of you as a little sister wise beyond her years and with the courage of a lioness.’
‘He said that?’
‘He did. He told me of all the adventures you had when you would all go with him into the mountains, as children – how even your older brothers feared the noises in the night when you all went camping, but you – you were up for anything. And he taught you to use a rifle and you shot your first rabbit when you were just ten, before your brothers. Your aim was perfect, he said.’
‘He told you all that?’
‘Yes. And, Victoire – he said that you are eager to join us, in what we are doing – but the time is not right. It is not because he thinks you are incapable. Quite the opposite.’
‘Well, what is it then? If he approves of underage boys in the Resistance, why not girls?’
‘Perhaps he has a special task for you, which does not need brawn, but brains? Maybe he doesn’t want to risk your life in some kind of primitive act of pure brawn, but is saving you for something more…’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘…sophisticated? More high-level? How would I know? Ask him!’
‘I have, so many times, but he brushes me off. And then I have Maman to contend with, who won’t allow me to join him, with the excuse that she needs me here to feed chickens and bake apple pie! It’s infuriating!’
‘Well, I would curb your impatience, Victoire. I have no doubt at all that one day, your heroism will be tested and there will be no doubt left – I see it written all over you. You are one of us, but in a different category altogether. If I were you, I would trust Jacques, and wait. Your time will come.’
She sighed. ‘You certainly know how to flatter a girl.’
‘I said it earlier, and I will say it again: you are not a girl, you are a woman.’
And once again their eyes locked, and this time, this time, she felt it: a connection, as if an inner fuse had been lit, a spark, leaping from his eyes to hers to light that fuse; an inner glow. And she knew. It was at that moment of her knowing that the kitchen door flew open.
Margaux gave a shout of alarm and leapt to her feet. She had taken the risk of abandoning their ‘alarm system’, since of course Grandpère sat at the table with them all, meaning that Nazis could barge in at any time. But then again, the front door was locked, so how could Nazis get into the house – thoughts that flickered through her mind in the fraction of a second before she recognised the intruder.
Intruders. Plural. Two of them. Two men, in the scruffiest clothes anyone had ever seen. Barging into their feast, with jubilant cries of ‘Joyeux Noёl!’ and arms flung up and out, striding towards the table, arms now wide open, two pairs of arms, two men…
‘Leon! Lucien!’ Margaux’s cries were louder yet than theirs, and she was locked in an embrace that held all three of them, and all three were weeping, babbling half-finished sentences, almost toppling over in their excitement.
And then everyone else was on their feet, everyone was embracing everyone else, and crying out with joy, and tears flowed, and the cork of a precious champagne bottle popped, and chairs were drawn up to the table, and the second tarte flambée produced, and the family, this Christmas, was almost complete, almost, for Juliette was not among them. But Leon and Lucien were back, alive, and unscathed, and it was a time of great rejoicing. And so, this year, they bundled into their warmest jackets at eleven thirty, and jammed themselves into the van, the two older women and Grandpère squeezed in beside Margaux in the cabin and everyone else in the back.
Snow had fallen, and lay in a white layer over the countryside; thankfully, not enough to hinder their progress. But if it had, they would have started earlier, and walked into the village, and taken their place in the family pew for Midnight Mass.
And for half an hour Victoire was removed from the war and the Nazis and terrible fear that had been creeping through her being, slowly and perniciously, erasing all traces of hope and the faith that in the end, all would be well. And as she raised her voice for her favourite carol, ‘Minuit Chrétiens’ (O Holy Night), for a few minutes her spirit soared, and miracle tears poured down her cheeks, and all was well with the world, and she knew, with every fibre of her being, that one day, deliverance would come:
Pour effacer la tache originelle
Et de Son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d'espérance
En cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
* * *
Peuple à genoux, attends ta délivrance.
Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur,
Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur!
* * *
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appear’d and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
* * *
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night Divine.
Twenty-Eight
Marie-Claire
She woke late on Christmas Day, by the chateau’s standards, and would have stayed in bed until early afternoon, but she had to get up; it was already almost ten, said the alarm clock on the bedside table. Jacques was in the house, and with him there was no telling when he would run off again.
There had been no time or opportunity to draw him aside last night, neither at the dinner table nor afterwards, when everyone, including her, was rejoicing at the return of Leon and Lucien, and before and after Mass it just would have been inappropriate; even she recognised that. So it had to be today. This morning. A pity; she would never be able to look her best, as she had last night. But hopefully last night he had taken note; she had made an impression, and today they could take the next obvious step.
She yawned, sat up, stretched, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, wished she could just snuggle back down under the eiderdown, into the warmth, rather than face the bitter cold of her room; but there was nothing for it. She had to get up.
Slipping her feet into her sheepskin slippers, she padded to the window, drew back the curtains. The windowpanes were frosted over, but through the gaps of clear glass she could make out a landscape covered in a blanket of soft white. Marie-Claire had never been the kind of child who would rush out into the snow. She was that child who would seek the delicious warmth of the Kachelowa whenever it was lit – and it always was, on Christmas Day – and play quietly in her pyjamas with the presents she had received the night before, while her brothers and sister, along with Jacques and Juliette, who often celebrated and spent the night with them, rushed out to build snowmen and frolic in the fluffy whiteness. That is, if there was snow.
Today, the adult Marie-Claire suppressed her longing for bed. She opened the window, bracing herself against the slap of cold that greeted her, for a better view. She could see a set of footprints despoiling the pristine purity of the snow, leading away from the house, and they could only be from one person. And she could see that one person, just coming round from the back of the house, carrying a spade. Shovelling the drive would take an hour, so she had a little time. He was still here. She closed the window.
Despite the breath of warm air escaping through the vent – the Kachelowa would have been lit long ago and was happily spreading heated air throughout the house – her bedroom was still icy cold, and so, wrapping her woollen shawl even more tightly around her, carrying a bundle of the clothes she would wear that day, she made her way into the even colder corridor and two doors down, to the bathroom; which, luckily, was cosily warm thanks to a tall black cast-iron stove, lit earlier that morning but with still enough glow to take the chill out of the room. Who had lit the house fires today, seeing as Leah had mysteriously disappeare
d, and Aimee had been given a holiday? Maman or Victoire, most probably.
She emerged half an hour later. Today she wore soft woollen culottes, warm as well as stylish, just a hint of lipstick, and her hair down, curling and bouncing on her shoulders. A satisfying glance in the mirror. She made her way downstairs.
She longed for coffee – or at least tea, considering the sad substitute that passed for coffee these days – but decided against stepping into the kitchen. Maman and Victoire would be there, probably Tante Sophie as well, possibly the boys. Maman had driven Uncle Max and Tante Hélène home last night, after Mass, but the kitchen would be brimming with good cheer and Marie-Claire had more urgent needs than breakfast and festive company. She needed Jacques.
Her sheepskin coat – not elegant at all, but good-quality, and warm – hung in the hall wardrobe, as did a pair of leather sheepskin boots, purchased from their Colmar cobbler years ago, perfectly snug round her chilled feet. A woollen cap and gloves completed the outfit; she stepped out into the whiteness.
Oh, the glory of the Alsace landscape blanketed in snow! Marie-Claire, usually indifferent to the beauties of nature, stopped outside the front door and could not but gasp at the magic of a winter morning: the trees with their white-laden branches silhouetted against the cloudless blue sky, the parallel lines of vines etched in white, undulating to the horizon, the backdrop of purple mountains capped in white. The vivid blueness of the sky, the blinding whiteness of the snow, sunlight glistening like silver stars upon it took even Marie-Claire’s breath away, and she gasped in wonder, her breath escaping in a mist of white and dissolving into the crisp coldness of the atmosphere.
