by Sharon Maas
‘Bonjour, Victoire!’ She jumped, and swung round. Eric stood in the doorway. Jacques’ new friend.
‘Bonjour, Eric, and merry Christmas! You’re up early – didn’t you stay up till dawn, with the other men and Maman?’
‘No. Jacques and I went up at about one; I felt that it was more of a family reunion and I didn’t want to intrude. And besides, I was tired, and so was Jacques – we walked all the way from Colmar, yesterday. But after a good night’s sleep, I’m raring to go! Jacques is already up – his bed is empty.’
‘Yes – he’s shovelling snow on the driveway. You can go out and help, if you want. There are spades in the open shed just outside the kitchen. You can wear my coat – it’s an old man’s one, it’ll fit you.’ She pointed to the coat hanging on a hook beside the door.
‘I will,’ said Eric. ‘See you later.’ He grabbed the coat and retreated out the back door. Victoire sighed, and emptied the kettle of hot water into the sink, tested the water to ascertain the temperature and collected several empty wine glasses to start with. But then she looked up: Eric was back.
‘Seems that Jacques has decided to have a playful pause,’ said Eric. ‘He’s having a snow-fight with your sister – Marie-Claire’s her name, right?’
‘Yes. But really? This I have to see. It’s not like Jacques, or Marie-Claire.’
She walked through to the dining room, and looked out the window onto the front drive. Indeed, Eric was right: Marie-Claire and Jacques were zigzagging around the snow-covered front meadow, laughing, dodging each other’s snowballs. Eric came and stood beside her.
‘That looks like a massive flirt to me!’ he said.
‘Flirt? No. No way. They are like brother and sister. We always played together, just like this. Snowballs and snowmen, every winter. There’s nothing behind it, just a bit of harmless fun.’
‘Well, you are very innocent – and not very observant. Marie-Claire is in love with Jacques. It’s obvious – I saw it at once, last night. And I can see it in the way she’s playing with him now. It’s a flirt, all right.’
‘Well, if so, Jacques isn’t interested. I know Jacques. He’d never get involved with Marie-Claire. Like I said, we’re all like brothers and sisters.’
‘But you aren’t, really, are you? You and Jacques, brother and sister?’
‘No. But it feels that way. Anyway, back to work.’ She turned away from the window and walked back to the kitchen, to the sink, pushing her hands into the water to retrieve one of the glasses and a sponge to wipe it with. There was no soap, no suds. Soap was one of the goods it was getting increasingly difficult to get hold of.
Eric looked around, saw a cotton dishcloth hanging from a hook next to the sink. Unhooking it, he stood beside Victoire, waiting. She looked up, and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and handed him the glass. He took it, began wiping it dry and continued.
‘I asked because I noticed last night, at dinner, that you and Jacques are very close,’ he said. ‘And he speaks so lovingly of you. I would have thought that if he’s interested in one of the two sisters, it’s you, not Marie-Claire!’
‘Eric! Really, that’s such nonsense! Jacques really is a brother to me and I won’t have you insinuating otherwise. It’s – well, it’s disgusting!’
‘All right, I’m sorry. So you regard him as just a brother? Even though he’s not?’
‘Of course!’
‘But you already have two brothers… and feelings of love can change and develop over time?’
Victoire snatched the dishcloth and glass away from Eric. She glared at him.
‘Really, Eric, that’s out of order, completely! You don’t know a thing and yet you come here not knowing any of us and making all these wild guesses… Just go away! I can manage the dishes on my own.’
But Eric only grinned, and shrugged sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry, Victoire. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude or intrusive. It’s just that – well, I wanted to know if your feelings are already taken, because, you know, I find you so very pretty and, and absolutely adorable. I guess I just wanted to know if you were free and-and if you like me. Just a little.’
Victoire could only stare, and when she found her voice it came out as a stammer.
‘Me? P-p-pretty? No! Look at me! I’m j-j-just a – well, I’m so ordinary! Marie-Claire is the pretty one!’
Eric threw back his head and laughed. ‘See, that’s exactly what I love about you! You aren’t even aware of how adorable you are! Not in the slightest!’
Victoire did not know how to respond. She just stood there, glass and dishcloth still in her hand. Eric shrugged and turned away, back to the sink.
‘So, you prefer to dry? D’accord. I’ll do the washing-up.’
Thirty
Marie-Claire
She ran and ran, boots pounding into the pristine snow as she careered up the road, in a lumbering, decidedly inelegant gait. The road now wound gently uphill, through the vineyards, around the white mound that now hid the chateau from sight. Into the white void. Day had seriously broken by now, mild sunshine filtering through the naked trees that lined the road. The sky was brilliantly cobalt. It was a glorious silver-gold-blue Christmas morning, but no glory for her, only abject humiliation, complete and final.
She wanted to howl, to scream, but it seemed obscene to shatter the compact silence of early morning and so she just whimpered as she ran, and let out a subdued wail, and sniffled, and snorted and sniffed at the threatening snot. What a good thing she had refrained from wearing make-up this morning – it would have made a mess of her face, and even now, in the disastrous aftermath of the fiasco with Jacques, and even though she was quite alone, Marie-Claire was mostly conscious of how she must look. Thank goodness there was no one to see her. In particular, no man.
A man had done this to her, thrown her into this state of utter wretchedness. A man she loved, had adored for all of her short life, since childhood, fallen in love with when she was fourteen. A man had thrown that helpless adoration back in her face with the most spurious of excuses. I think of you as a sister – that baloney spewed out again, just as he’d done so long ago, when she’d been a drunk teenager with no knowledge of the art of seduction – then, it could have been excused but now, now? No excuse. It was a slap in the face, a stinging slap.
Marie-Claire had always been aware that her power lay in her looks; she had been a beautiful child, and had been accustomed to the adulation that beauty inspired in others; in females as well as males, but in the last few years, particularly in the latter. That adulation had delivered not only confidence, but a certain sense of being exalted enough to keep others at bay. It gave her the power of choice.
‘You could have any man you want!’ She had been told this at least three times by rejected suitors; men turned humble and doting in her presence, and even in the stilted atmosphere of the Mairie she knew that even when they said nothing, her male colleagues and superiors drank her in with their eyes. Except, of course, the Kreisleiter, but he did not count as a man – he was a robot in thrall to Nazi ideology, not really human.
But normal men? They were hers, all hers, and not wanting them was her power. Had been her power. Because, if the one man she did want did not reciprocate, of what value was that power? What was it worth? What was she worth?
Nothing. Nothing at all. She had failed, miserably. She had been flung away as thoughtlessly, as brutally, as a discarded potato skin, something ugly and worthless. What man discarded beauty as recklessly as Jacques had just done? What was she worth?
She slowed to an amble, all the better to think, hands thrust into the pockets of her coat, shoulders hunched. She felt bruised and battered, sawn up and torn apart like a tree that had been axed for firewood. Not physically, of course, but emotional pain could surely match physical pain in intensity. Because that was certainly how it felt. Pulled apart, and how would she ever be put back together again? How would she ever feel normal again, confident
, beautiful? Validated? Only a man could do that, but the only man who had that power was the man who had kicked her into this state. She wallowed in her pain as she walked on, revelling in it almost. Somehow, it felt good to reflect on the deep, deep insult Jacques had dealt her. And the more she reflected on it, the more her pain underwent a sort of transformation; it seemed to be turning into a different thing. A person can wallow in their humiliation only so long; sooner or later, it morphs into anger, and that was what, now, was happening in Marie-Claire’s soul. Anger, directed towards Jacques. And a sense of need for retaliation. Revenge.
She had long stopped whimpering, and now she felt herself taking deep long breaths, as if gathering strength, as if realigning her feelings, rediscovering her confidence. She would not take it; she could not take it.
She had been walking now for twenty minutes. The rows of vines were coming to an end; beyond them lay the cottage where the Dolch family lived. Jacques, and his father Maxence, and occasionally Juliette, and now Hélène. Here, she used to play regularly with her siblings and the Dolch children, climbing trees, camping out in the orchard, playing ball games and with the dogs that Jacques and Juliette always had around them.
She stopped, and stared. Just like his son at the chateau, Max was on the driveway shovelling snow. Jacques, obviously, was not at home – she had left him behind to reflect upon his sins. But Max – she used to call him Uncle Max, but had dropped the Uncle years ago at his own suggestion. Max had always treated her like a lady. Max was the first man who had made her aware of her beauty. Max had an innate charm, some of which his son Jacques had inherited; but unlike Jacques, Max was mature, a real adult, a real man, who knew the art of playful but harmless flirting between the sexes, a game that would never lead to anything, but which both sexes enjoyed and women, especially, needed for their self-esteem.
Max had played that game last night. When Marie-Claire had come downstairs and made her dramatic entry into the salon her eyes had first fallen on Max, because Max had let out a slow, soft whistle, and his eyes had danced and met hers with a complete arsenal of admiration. You are beautiful! those eyes had said. You are desirable!
And now, more than anything else in the world, Marie-Claire needed those eyes. Needed that silent message: you are a desirable woman! I like you! I want you!
That, more than anything else, would heal those inner wounds. Besides, Max was a man, fully matured, a man who had been married and fathered children, unlike Jacques, who had never been known to be romantically associated with a girl or woman. Max’s attention was more valid than Jacques’ inattention.
It was an emotional inner reasoning rather than an intellectual one, but it was enough. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. I can! she told herself firmly, and I will. She ignored a slight twinge of guilt. Max had often played a father’s role in her youth. How could she… but no. That was then. Now, she was an adult and the age difference meant nothing at all, and he wasn’t her father.
She bent down and picked up a handful of snow, spread it over her face, pressed it into her eyes. Wiped it all away. She wished she had a powder compact to check her face. She didn’t want her cheeks to be too red, from crying and from the cold snow, but a fresh rosiness would do. She took several deep breaths and walked on. Reaching the gate, she leaned on it.
She raised her hand and waved.
‘Bonjour Max! Joyeux Noël!’
Thirty-One
Victoire
The kitchen and dining room were pristine, the dishes from last night washed and dried and put away, and they had done it together, chatting away as if they had known each other all their lives, as if Eric had been part of that childhood clan that had wrapped her in companionship and warmth and security. He was like another Jacques, just as passionate about defying the Nazis, but less consumed; most of all, he made her laugh, and Victoire needed laughter. Life had been so grim, these last few years, and finding someone who could still laugh – well, it was a balm.
The kitchen was now deliciously warm, heated not only with its own cast-iron stove but with the back wall of the Kachelowa. The salon, today, would no doubt be in full use, and that too was cosily warm. The others, when they woke up, would come downstairs to a snug and welcoming home.
She had prepared breakfast for them both. Nothing special, because even for Christmas there was just one egg each, and with so many mouths to feed in the house – and now, three unexpected guests, her brothers back from Germany and Eric – one had to economise. They had been saving eggs for days. But the three chickens were as reliable as ever; there were fewer eggs in winter, but still, they delivered. Victoire had found three fresh eggs this morning, and Maman had managed to barter for butter, and so right now two of those eggs sat sizzling in the frying pan.
Eric had already told her his story, about his childhood in Metz and how he had escaped, alone, after his family had been evacuated to Poitiers after the invasion. He had walked all the way from Metz to Strasbourg, crossing the Vosges mountains, foraging for food, sleeping out in the rough. Luckily that had been last summer, before the cold weather set in. And then he had joined the Black Hand, committing small but effective acts of sabotage to disrupt the Nazi machine as much as possible.
‘Jacques said he has a new job for you, here in the Haut-Rhin?’ she said as they sat down to eat. She poured him a cup of ersatz coffee.
‘Yes. It’s because of my experience crossing the Vosges. I’ll – well, I don’t know if he’d want me to talk about it. He’s so secretive.’
‘You can tell me,’ Victoire coaxed. ‘All of Jacques’ secrets are safe with me.’
Their eyes met, and they gazed at each other across the table for a few seconds. Then Eric nodded. ‘D’accord. In fact, you are part of the job so it must be all right to tell you. I just hope Jacques won’t be cross.’
‘He won’t be, I promise.’
Eric nodded. ‘Well, it’s this. Sabotage is only part of our mission. What Jacques also wants to do, and in fact is doing, is helping Jews to escape. He’s already started that, but, he says, there are some Jews hidden right here, in the chateau. A woman and a child.’
Victoire nodded. ‘Leah and Estelle. I look after them.’
‘Jacques is going to help them escape, over the Vosges. He already knows a route. He wants me to go with him when he takes them, teach me the route, so that in future I will be responsible for guiding escaping Jews that way while he concentrates on other tasks.’
Victoire gasped. ‘He’s training you to do that? Why not me? I’ve been begging him for months now to let me do something important, something worthwhile! I would have loved that job!’
Eric shrugged. ‘I guess he thought it was too dangerous for you.’
‘But why? Why is it dangerous for me and not for you? I’m not that much younger than you and perfectly capable! We children were always camping out in the mountains! I know the mountains and forests around here like the back of my hand – he knows that, because he’s the one who taught me! I’ve been that way lots of times with him.’
‘Maybe he feels responsible for you? Because you are so young, and you are a—’
Victoire cried out her reply, her face red with exasperation.
‘A girl! That’s it, isn’t it! It’s because I’m only a girl, and all I’m good for is looking after the house and cooking for everyone! While you and Jacques get to play the hero!’
Eric, visibly uncomfortable, scratched his head. ‘Everyone who works for the Resistance is a hero, Victoire, nobody is more valuable than anyone else. You have been feeding and looking after Leah and her daughter – isn’t that important? Isn’t it risky and dangerous and heroic? If the Nazis caught you, you’d be in enormous trouble, perhaps executed. Why do you think that it would be more heroic to guide them over to Lorraine?’
‘Because – because it’s more adventurous. I’m tired, so tired, of being at home doing the drudge work for everyone!’
‘But without what y
ou are doing, nobody else could do what they are doing. You are basically the backbone of our work. The backbone is invisible, but without it, the body would collapse. Why not see it from that perspective instead of grumbling and thinking your contribution is worthless?’
Victoire had no answer. They ate on with an awkward silence between them. Finally, Victoire looked up at him and said, ‘When?’
Eric shrugged, and replied: ‘I don’t know. Soon. That’s the real reason he brought me here. He said as soon as the weather allows it. He said there’s going to be snow but probably a thaw and then we can go.’
Victoire nodded. ‘Jacques was always good at predicting the weather. So he didn’t even tell me that much, but he told you. But…’ She looked up with a new light of hope in her eyes. ‘But maybe I can come too? Jacques, me and you. Why not?’
‘Well…’
She answered her own question. ‘No, I suppose that would be too many of us. And I’d just be a useless hanger-on.’
‘Look, Victoire, I wish you wouldn’t see yourself like that! What you’re doing is important – really important. It’s no less important than helping them escape. No less dangerous; in fact, more dangerous.’
‘Still. I just wish I could do more. I wish I was a boy. Then he’d have taken me.’
Eric said nothing for a while, and then he said, ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not a boy.’
‘Yes, because you get to have all the adventures.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I…’
But she was already on her feet. ‘Anyway, we can’t sit around arguing all day. I have to look after Leah and Estelle. Take them their breakfast.’
‘Can I come with you? To meet them? And tell Leah?’
She shrugged. ‘If you want to. I suppose you have to meet them if you’re taking them over the mountains.’
