Land of Hope

by Paul C R Monk

  The lamb bleats grew louder as they approached the riverbank, and Jeanne could easily make out orders from the camp yonder in French.

  ‘We do not contest your right to navigate, boater,’ said the soldier who had initially called out. ‘We have diverted you to warn you that you had better moor at the next landing stage downstream, or it will be at your own risk and peril if you continue on your journey this day.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the boater politely. ‘But I not have far to go. Only to Worms, Sir, so with respect, I take that risk.’

  ‘Your cargo can surely wait, can it not?’ persisted the soldier.

  ‘I . . . I rather continue,’ returned the boater, ‘but thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Please yourself!’ said the soldier, who was not a sergeant but a corporal, which of course the boater knew full well.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the boater. ‘Good day to you, Sirs!’

  Jeanne could hardly believe her ears. She glanced inquisitively at her son, who just shrugged. Had she understood rightly? Were they letting them pass so easily? She placed a finger on her lips to keep Paul from speaking in case, in his enthusiasm, he wanted to explain. Peering through the knothole, she saw the soldiers bring their reins over to steer their mounts away. But then, amid blowing snorts from the horses, she thought she heard a mocking laugh, followed by an ironic comment from the other cavalier, a comment which gave her cause for concern, if not alarm.

  ‘Did he say “enjoy the fireworks”?’ she asked Paul.

  ‘I didn’t hear,’ said the boy.

  ‘I could swear that is what he said . . .’

  *

  The mention of the comment gave rise to debate, haste, and much concern—concern suddenly amplified when, an hour later, they were navigating towards the city of Speyer.

  Built around a magnificent cathedral, the thousand-year-old city was set back from the Rhine by a floodplain and wooded meadowland that rose up gently to the city walls, or rather, what was left of them. Across the field, where squadrons of French soldiers were coming and going, Jeanne could clearly see beyond the tumbledown ramparts straight into the township, which before January would have been screened by stone.

  ‘They wanted to torch the whole city,’ said Fandrich as they came level to an inlet used as a river port, ‘but the burghers managed to persuade them to limit the demolition to only the fortifications. See?’

  ‘At least people’s homes were saved . . .’

  ‘Aye, my fear is they’ll try to do the same to Worms—’

  Before Fandrich could finish his sentence, Frantz, standing at the prow, let out an exclamation in German.

  ‘God, no!’ said Herr Fandrich, twisting his torso to face the east city gate.

  Jeanne followed the direction of the young man’s index finger with her eyes and instantly saw the reason for their interjections. On the grassy space between the port inlet and the river, horse-drawn cannons were being manoeuvred to line up their barrels towards the city.

  ‘They’ve come back to finish what they started!’ said Georg at the rudder, holding his forehead.

  At the same time, Jeanne saw a cluster of men, women, and children near the river’s edge, being shoved back from the landing stage.

  ‘They’re stopping people from crossing!’ said Fandrich. ‘Take the boy and crouch down inside the cabin in case they let loose a shot, Madame!’ Then, turning to his crew, in the vernacular he said: ‘Keep right of midstream, boys!’

  They swiftly glided along, keeping their heads down as close to the gunwale as possible. They did not stop at the barks from soldiers who, busy with containing groups of pleading townsfolk, soon gave up trying to hail the boat down. Their ensuing warning shots only served to scatter the townsfolk as the boat continued its course on the far side of the river.

  By late morning, they reached the sacked and plundered city of Mannheim, reduced to ruins and rubble. This was the demolished city Herr Fandrich had spoken about, and the reason for his voyage to fetch his cargo of wheat.

  If ever Jeanne had felt self-pity during her ordeal, it was now banished from her heart as she envisioned generations of memories blasted out of existence. No longer did she feel that underlying pride on seeing the regiment at their camp in Philipsburg. It was shame and hatred she felt now for her people, so easily subjugated by one king, one law, one religion. She, Paul, and the crew alike stared wordlessly at the sight of total destruction and desolation in the sunny May late morning, now filled with flying insects and tweeting birds. The men had removed their jackets as the boat floated with the current, oars raised out of the water, past the ruins where women were bent over in search of odd pickings of what was left of their homes.

  As the men rolled up their sleeves and began to dig into the water again, there came a distant, gut-wrenching, thunderous boom.

  ‘Dear God, they’re bombarding Speyer!’ said Fandrich, looking southward. It was not long before his supposition was manifested by clouds of black smoke bellowing upward on the horizon behind them. ‘I think that fireworks is indeed what you heard, Madame Delpech!’

  ‘Alas!’ said Jeanne as other sickening blasts followed.

  They all agreed to refrain from halting for lunch and for the men to keep rowing until they reached Worms. While Jeanne cut the oarsmen’s bread, cheese, and dried sausage, Paul handed them beakers of beer from a cask. They advanced fast and wordlessly. Could their hometown be on the list too? To be bombed like Speyer or torched like Mannheim? And if it was, what could three unarmed men do to prevent the attack of a whole army bent on methodical destruction? But no one brought that question up. The men only knew they had to get there as quickly as they could to be with their family in their ancestral hometown.

  TEN

  When Jeanne had found out that Herr Fandrich’s barque would be travelling to Worms, she could not help feeling that God had meant her to purchase her fare for that boat, rather than a later one.

  Worms: the city of the diet where Luther reaffirmed his theses and maintained that salvation was by faith alone; the place where the first Bible was printed in the tongue of the common people. She had imagined herself spending a couple of days strolling with Paul through its lanes and worshipping freely in its churches, savouring the moments to carry with her in her memory. The very mention of the ancient city had given her new encouragement and the assurance that her onward journey would take her to a good place, a land of hope where she could rebuild her life. But her memory of Worms would turn out to be quite different.

  It was reassuring to note that, as they approached the great city, there was no trace in the late-afternoon sky of smoke behind the screen of newly leafed trees. But as they emerged from the gentle bend in the river, Jeanne could not help raising her hand to her mouth in horror.

  As in Speyer, demolition work had begun on the fortifications that had been blasted or pulled down. Great breaches in the city wall revealed half-timbered dwellings, cobbled streets, and recalcitrant city dwellers who had refused to leave their homes and their possessions unguarded. Troops were assembled at various points: before the east gates between the river and the port inlet, and around the various towers and bridged entries. They were manoeuvring horse-drawn cannons and other machines of destruction.

  ‘Dear God! They are going to torch the whole city!’ said Herr Fandrich incredulously. He pointed to the firebombs stacked in a cart, close to the main Rhine entrance where soldiers were preparing their incendiary devices.

  As they came broadside to the riverbank, a short distance from the port inlet, winding the rope around the temporary mooring post, Herr Fandrich said: ‘Georg, Frantz, take the wheat downstream. We will be needing it now more than ever!’ Then, turning to Jeanne, who stood at the cabin door, he said: ‘Madame Delpech, once further downstream, you must make for the hills with the boy and join a caravan. The whole stretch of the Rhineland Palatinate will be plagued by the scoundrels! I fear you will have to continue your journey over land.’


  ‘I thank you for getting us this far, Herr Fandrich. I am only sorry we have arrived to such a demonstration of brutality and—’ There came an earth-trembling boom that resonated from the north gate. It was immediately followed by a loud, gut-churning chorus of human cries as the tower crumbled to the ground.

  ‘My God! Father, you cannot enter the city now!’ said Frantz, whose gestures were eloquent enough for Jeanne to understand his outburst in the vernacular.

  ‘Would you have me leave your grandmother to be buried alive?’ said Herr Fandrich, jumping ashore.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘You know your grandmother, Frantz. She said she would not leave her home if the soldiers came, and you know how mulish she can be.’

  ‘Mother would have persuaded her . . .’

  ‘I hope so, my boy. But I need to be sure! Besides, there is something else I must recover, without which we are unlikely to recover from this tragedy. Now be off,’ said Herr Fandrich, releasing the mooring rope from the post. In French, he said: ‘Godspeed to you, Madame Delpech . . .’

  Just as Fandrich was passing the mooring rope to Georg at the stern, a mounted officer, directing operations forty yards away, turned in his saddle and hailed Fandrich with the only phrase he knew in German: ‘Halt! You!’ Then, changing to French, he hollered: ‘Halt the boat!’ He shortened his reins and pulled back, and the horse set forth at a fair canter to the temporary mooring bay.

  Realising the boat would never be able to cast off far enough to be out of gunshot, the boater told his crew to hold it and looped the rope back over the mooring post.

  ‘You cannot enter the city,’ said the officer, regardless of whether the men aboard could speak French or not.

  ‘Sir, I return just, and I fear my mother still be in there,’ said Herr Fandrich.

  ‘Your mother will have been given ample notice, boater. The town is empty, I am telling you, and dangerous . . .’

  Neither Jeanne, silently waiting in the cabin with Paul, nor Fandrich was duped. For the city of sixty thousand souls was located sufficiently close to the river for them to have previously seen through the breach in the wall civilians carrying sacks and carting belongings.

  The officer persisted: ‘And if anyone by obstinacy has remained despite our repeated warnings, then that is down to them, and may they commit their souls to God!’ He flicked his eyes over the cargo. ‘That wheat you are carrying?’ he intoned on his high horse.

  ‘It be that, Sir,’ said the boater, despite his son’s frown. But Herr Fandrich was also a seasoned trader and knew in his bones there was no point in trying to deny it. His idea from the moment the officer hailed him was to retain as much of it as he could and cast away as quickly as possible.

  ‘For my soldiers?’ said the officer.

  ‘To feed the people, Sir,’ said Fandrich without irony. There was no point in rubbing the Frenchman the wrong way. ‘I . . . I have an authorisation.’ Fandrich brought out a paper from his inner pouch and handed it to the officer. He knew the officer would not read it, it being in German, and if he could, he would see that he was reading nothing more than the boater’s licence to navigate. ‘But please allow me to offer you a couple of barrels. My men will unload them for you here and now, then depart.’

  ‘One-half of what you have!’ said the mounted officer.

  ‘This is a town of sixty thousand souls, Sir, but I will give you a quarter.’

  ‘One-third,’ insisted the officer, who knew full well he could confiscate all the barrels, but which would also mean making out a report.

  ‘One-third it is, but I will ask you to let me enter the city.’

  The officer did not give the second clause much thought. ‘Very well,’ he said, apparently amused, ‘but on your head be it. And bear in mind that the fires will begin shortly. You will have to be quick!’

  Fandrich gave instructions to Frantz and Georg to unload and then to continue downstream and keep the cargo hidden at his brother’s until the way was clear to Osthofen. Of course, he could not know at this time that the small town had also been sacked. He then stepped to the boat cabin, swiped the drape to one side, and said boldly in German: ‘Wife, make haste with the boy. We go now!’

  The officer raised an eyebrow on seeing the woman and the boy appear on the open deck and climb out of the barque, but he nonchalantly turned a blind eye. There was nothing to be gained by needlessly bringing complications and other officers into the deal, and the wheat would make a tidy sum for such little fuss.

  *

  Half turning to Jeanne, Herr Fandrich said: ‘I am sorry it turned out this way, Madame Delpech, but I did not think it wise to leave you in the company of soldiers.’

  They were passing at a brisk step through the lesser of the northeast gates, unguarded and a stone’s throw away from where Frantz and Georg had begun unloading barrels onto the wharfside.

  ‘You need not apologize, Herr Fandrich,’ said Jeanne, with her sack strapped to her back, one hand clutching her skirts and the other clasping her son’s hand. ‘It is rather I who am indebted to you,’ she said, while dodging horse muck and a gentleman pushing a handcart.

  ‘Once through the west gate, you must take to the forest, where you’ll find others,’ continued Fandrich without slowing. ‘I will take you across the city. My house is on the way to the gate. But we must hurry!’

  Unable to talk for want of controlled breath, Jeanne gave a nod, and, lifting her skirts further, she ran harder behind the boater, with Paul at her side. They hurried down the main thoroughfare of half-timbered houses, past a tavern and shops where shutters had been forced open, windows smashed, and interiors looted. It was surprisingly busy for a town that was supposed to be evacuated, she thought.

  They passed countless city-dwellers of every social condition, and even entire families, scurrying towards the west gate, babes in arms and children in tow, belongings stacked and strapped onto handcarts. These were the recalcitrant few, those who had refused to leave their homes. Those who had been hiding in hopes that the soldiers would leave them in peace as they had done back in January, who had refused to believe that their thousand-year-old city would be razed to the ground in a single afternoon, as if its existence had no meaning. Seeing them scuttling through the streets brought back to Jeanne a childhood memory of when, as the River Tarn broke its banks, she saw tens of hundreds of moles scampering from their burrows in the grounds of her father’s country house. Of course, it was not fear of water that had brought these people out of their hiding places. It was fear of fire.

  Another loud, crashing sound blasted her eardrums from the north wall as another defence tower came down, and a new smell accompanied it. ‘Smoke!’ cried Paul. ‘Look! There!’ He pointed with his free hand in the direction of the appalling noise, at flames searing up above the rooftops a few streets away.

  ‘Looks like they’ve started to torch Jew Lane!’ said Fandrich. ‘We must hurry!’

  They crossed a square where a fountain idly spurted water into a basin. They rounded the church and slowed their pace at a crossroads in the thoroughfare, with the west gate barely a hundred yards in front.

  The boater pointed to a street corner, at an abandoned cart that had a broken wheel. ‘Wait here,’ he said once they had reached it. ‘You cannot come any further. My house is too close to the wall they are cannoning. My mother is practically deaf, and if she is inside, she will not have heard the extent of the destruction. If anything happens, you must run straight to the west gate, then to the forest. And stay clear of soldiers!’

  In reality, Herr Fandrich suspected his mother would have at least felt the vibrations of the crashing towers, and that she had probably fled. But he had something else to recover, something he kept in a secret place that even his wife knew nothing about. It was his hard-earned savings and the gold florins from another age that his father had passed down to him before he died. He kept it all under a floorboard, just like his father had done before him. It was a nest egg for
the family, should hard times fall upon them.

  Jeanne gave a nod, then placed both hands on the cartwheel to recover her breath. She watched the boater run fifty yards down to the far end of the lane, where he entered a small house that stood in the shadow of a lookout tower.

  A dubious place indeed, thought Herr Fandrich, as he entered his home for the last time.

  Fanned by the gentle spring breeze, fire was raging higher and faster in the Jewish district and smoke could now be seen rising up in sectors to the south. Jeanne waited with Paul behind the broken-down cart in front of a bakery for what seemed an interminable length of time. Another great belly-churning boom resounded from the north wall while she anxiously watched the last few city dwellers in the thoroughfare running towards the west gate.

  But in reality, it must have been no more than a few minutes before Herr Fandrich re-emerged into the narrow street, slinging the strap of a leather pouch over his shoulder. His mother was not with him. Jeanne could have screamed out to him to quicken his step. But to her utter dismay, after a pat to his head and realising he had forgotten his hat, he about-turned and doubled back to his house. ‘Now what’s he doing?’ said Jeanne in exasperation.

  He re-emerged thirty seconds later, this time to find a pair of troopers with torches exiting an alleyway a few houses up from Fandrich’s. They sauntered cockily towards him.

  Jeanne stepped back into the recessed doorway of the bakery, pulling Paul by the collar so he flattened himself likewise against the boarded-up door. Peeping around the edge of the alcove, she saw a quick verbal exchange between Fandrich and one of the soldiers. She could barely hear the sound of their voices in the background of explosions and falling bricks and mortar. But she understood by Herr Fandrich’s gesturing that he showed neither anger not exasperation as one of the soldiers passed his torch to his mate.