Suite Francaise Part 24

They were rehearsing the music in the village square. Next to the circle formed by the drums, the trumpets and the fifes, another circle formed round the regimental postmaster. The Frenchmen noted the open mouths and eyes bright with hope, and nodded politely, thinking sadly, We know what it's like . . . when you're waiting for news from another country. We've all done that . . . Meanwhile, an enormous young German with huge thighs and a fat bottom that threatened to split his tight riding breeches entered the Hotel des Voyageurs and, for the third time, asked to look at the barometer. It was still set at fair. The German, beaming with delight, said, "Nothing to worry about. No storm tonight. Gott mit uns Gott mit uns."

"Yes, yes." The waitress nodded in agreement.

This innocent delight spread to the customers and the owner himself (who supported the British); everyone stood up and went over to the barometer: "Nothing to worry about! Nothing! Is good . . . nice party," they said, deliberately speaking in pidgin French so he'd understand them better.

And the German slapped everyone on the back with a wide grin while repeating, "Gott mit uns."

"Sure, sure, Got meedns Got meedns. He's drunk, that Fritz," they whispered behind his back rather sympathetically. "We know what it's like. He's been celebrating since yesterday . . . He's a big lad . . . Well, so what! Why shouldn't they have fun? They're men after all."

Having created a sympathetic atmosphere with his words and appearance, and after downing three bottles of beer one after the other, the German, beaming, finally left. As the day progressed, all the local people began to feel happy and light-headed, as if they too would be going to the ball. In the kitchens, the young girls listlessly rinsed the gla.s.ses and every few minutes leaned out of the window to watch the groups of Germans going up to the chateau.

"Did you see the Second Lieutenant who lives at the church house? Isn't he handsome with his smooth skin. There's the Commandant's new interpreter. How old is he, do you think? I'd say he couldn't be more than twenty, that boy. They're all so young. Oh, there's the Angelliers' Lieutenant. He'd drive me wild, he would. You can tell he's a gentleman. What a beautiful horse! They really do have beautiful horses, by G.o.d." The young girls sighed.

Then the bitter voice of some old man dozing by the stove called out, "Sure they do, they're our our horses!" horses!"

The old man spat into the fire, muttering curses that the young girls didn't hear. They were only interested in one thing: to hurry and finish the dishes so they could go and watch the Germans at the chateau. Running alongside the grounds was a path lined with acacias, lime trees and beautiful aspens with leaves that incessantly trembled, incessantly rustled in the wind. Between the branches it was possible to see the lake and the lawns where the tables had been set up and, on the hill, the chateau, its doors and windows wide open, where the regimental orchestra would play. By eight o'clock, everyone in the village was there; the young girls had dragged their parents along; children that the young women hadn't wanted to leave at home were sleeping in their mothers' arms, or running about shouting and playing with the pebbles; some pushed aside the soft branches of the acacia trees and watched the scene with curiosity: the musicians on the terrace, the German officers lying on the gra.s.s or slowly strolling through the trees, the tables covered with dazzling linen, the silver reflecting the last rays of the sun and, behind each chair, a soldier standing as still as if he were at inspection-the orderlies who would act as waiters. The orchestra played a particularly lively, cheerful song; the officers took their places. Before sitting down, the head of the table ("the place of honour . . . a general," whispered the French) and all the other officers stood at attention, raised their gla.s.ses and shouted, "Heil Hitler!" "Heil Hitler!" It took a long time for the roar to subside; it reverberated through the air with a pure, fierce, metallic echo. Then they could hear the hubbub of conversations, the clinking of cutlery and the sound of the night birds singing. It took a long time for the roar to subside; it reverberated through the air with a pure, fierce, metallic echo. Then they could hear the hubbub of conversations, the clinking of cutlery and the sound of the night birds singing.

The Frenchmen strained to see if they could recognise people they knew. Next to the General with the white hair, delicate features and long hooked nose, were the officers from Headquarters.

"That one, over there on the left, look, he's the one who took my car, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d! The little blond one with the rosy complexion next to him, he's nice, he talks good French. Where's the Angelliers' German? He's called Bruno . . . pretty name . . . It's a shame it'll be dark soon; we won't be able to see anything then . . . The shoemaker's Fritz told me they were going to light torches. Oh, Mummy, that will be so pretty! Let's stay 'til then. What will the owners of the chateau be saying about all this? They won't be able to sleep tonight. Who's going to eat the leftovers? Who, Mummy? The Mayor?"

"Oh, be quiet, you silly thing, there won't be any leftovers, they've got hearty appet.i.tes."

Little by little, darkness spread across the lawns; they could still make out the gold decorations on the uniforms, the Germans' blond hair, the musicians' bra.s.s instruments on the terrace, but they had lost their glow. All the light of the day, fleeing the earth, seemed for one brief moment to take refuge in the sky; pink clouds spiralled round the full moon that was as green as pistachio sorbet and as clear as gla.s.s; it was reflected in the lake. Exquisite perfumes filled the air: gra.s.s, fresh hay, wild strawberries. The music kept playing. Suddenly, the torches were lit; as the soldiers carried them along, they cast their light over the messy tables, the empty gla.s.ses, for the officers were now gathered around the lake, singing and laughing. There was the lively, happy sound of champagne corks popping.

"Oh, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! And to think it's our wine they're drinking," the Frenchmen said, but without real bitterness, because all happiness is contagious and disarms the spirit of hatred.

And of course, the Germans seemed to like the champagne so much (and had paid so much for it!) that the Frenchmen were vaguely flattered by their good taste.

"They're having a good time. Thank goodness it's not all war . . . Don't worry, they'll be fighting again . . . They say it will be over this year. Sure it would be bad if they won, but what can you do, it's got to end . . . Everyone's so miserable in the cities . . . and we want our prisoners back."

All along the road, the young girls held one another by the waist and danced to the soft lively music. The drums and bra.s.s instruments gave the waltzes and tunes from operettas a bright tone that was victorious, happy, heroic and joyous, that made their hearts beat faster; sometimes a low, prolonged, powerful note rose above the lively arpeggios like the echo of a distant storm.

When it was completely dark they started singing. Groups of soldiers sang to one another from the terrace and the park, from the banks of the lake and the lake itself, where boats decorated with flowers drifted past. The Frenchmen listened, delighted, in spite of themselves. It was nearly midnight, but no one would have dreamed of leaving their spot in the tall gra.s.s or between the branches.

Only the burning torches and sparklers lit up the trees. Wonderful voices filled the night. Suddenly, there was a long silence. They could see the Germans running like shadows against a background of green flame and moonlight.

"They're going to light the fireworks!" shouted a little boy. "They're definitely having fireworks. I know. The Fritz told me."

His shrill voice could be heard down by the lake.

His mother scolded him: "Be quiet. You're not allowed to call them Fritz or Boches. Not ever. They don't like it. Just be quiet and watch."

But they couldn't see anything now except the shadows of men scurrying about. From the terrace someone shouted something they couldn't make out; it provoked a long, low commotion, like rumbling thunder.

"What are they shouting about? Could you hear? It must be 'Heil Hitler, Heil Goering! Heil the Third Reich!' 'Heil Hitler, Heil Goering! Heil the Third Reich!' or something like that. We can't hear a thing now. They're not talking any more. Look, the musicians are leaving. Do you think they've had some news? Do you think they've invaded England? Well, I think they just got cold outside and they're moving the party inside the chateau," said the pharmacist pointedly; he was worried about the night dampness because of his rheumatism. or something like that. We can't hear a thing now. They're not talking any more. Look, the musicians are leaving. Do you think they've had some news? Do you think they've invaded England? Well, I think they just got cold outside and they're moving the party inside the chateau," said the pharmacist pointedly; he was worried about the night dampness because of his rheumatism.

He took his young wife's arm. "Why don't we go home too, Linette?"

But she wouldn't hear of it. "Oh! Let's stay, just a little longer. They're going to sing again, it was so nice."

The French waited but there was no more singing. Soldiers carrying torches were running between the chateau and the grounds as if they were conveying orders. There was even some shouting. Beneath the moonlight, empty boats drifted on the lake; all the officers had jumped out on to the bank. They were walking along, talking to each other quickly in loud voices. Although the French could hear them, no one could understand what they were saying. One by one, the sparklers went out. The spectators began yawning. "It's late. Let's go home. The party's definitely over."

They made their way in little groups back to the village: the young girls, arm in arm, walking in front of their parents; the sleepy children dragging their feet.

When they got to the first house, they saw an old man sitting on a straw chair, smoking his pipe. "Well," he said. "Is the party over, then?"

"Yes. Oh, they had such a good time!"

"Well, they won't be having a good time for long," the old man said calmly. "I've just heard on the radio that they're at war with Russia." He knocked his pipe against his chair several times to get rid of the ashes, then looked at the sky. "It'll be dry again tomorrow . . . Not good for the gardens, this weather."

22.

They're going!

For several days they had been waiting for the Germans to leave. The soldiers themselves had announced it: they were being sent to Russia. When the French heard the news, they looked at them with curiosity ("Are they happy? Worried? Will they win or lose?"). As for the Germans, they tried to work out what the French were thinking: Were they happy to see them go? Did they secretly wish they'd all get killed? Did anyone feel sorry for them? Would they miss them? Of course they wouldn't be missed as Germans, as conquerors (they weren't naive enough to think that), but would the French miss these Pauls, Siegfrieds, Oswalds who had lived under their roofs for three months, showed them pictures of their wives and mothers, shared more than one bottle of wine with them? But both the French and the Germans remained inscrutable; they were polite, careful of what they said-"Well, that's war . . . We can't do anything about it . . . right? It won't last long, at least we hope not!" They said goodbye to one another like pa.s.sengers on a ship who have reached their final port of call. They would write to each other. They would see each other again some day. They would always remember the happy weeks they'd spent together. More than one soldier whispered to a pensive young girl, "When the war is over I'll come back." When the war is over . . . How far away that was!

They were leaving today, 1 July 1941. The French were concerned primarily with the question of whether the village would be occupied by other soldiers; because if so, they thought bitterly, well, it wasn't worth going to the trouble of changing them. They were used to this lot. Maybe the new ones would be worse . . .

Lucile slipped into Madame Angellier's room to tell her that it was definite, they'd received their orders, the Germans were leaving that very night. They could reasonably hope for at least a few hours' grace before any new soldiers arrived and they should take advantage of this to help Benoit escape. It was impossible to hide him until the end of the war, equally impossible to send him home as long as the area remained occupied. There was only one hope: to get him across the demarcation line. However, the line was closely guarded and would be even more so during the evacuation of the troops.

"It's dangerous," said Lucile, "very dangerous." She looked pale and tired: for several nights she had hardly slept. She looked at Benoit, standing opposite her. Her feelings towards him were an odd combination of fear, incomprehension and envy: his calm, severe, almost brutal expression intimidated her. He was a big, muscular man, with a ruddy complexion; beneath thick eyebrows, his pale eyes were sometimes unbearable to look at. His tanned, lined hands were the hands of a labourer and a soldier, thought Lucile: earth or blood, it was the same to him. Neither remorse nor sorrow troubled his sleep, of that she was sure; everything was simple to this man.

"I've thought about it a lot, Madame Lucile," he said quietly.

Despite the fortress-like walls and closed doors, whenever all three of them were together, they felt they were being watched and said what they needed to very quickly and almost in a whisper.

"No one will be able to get me across the line. It's too risky. I know I have to leave, but I want to go to Paris."

"To Paris?"

"While I was with the regiment I had some friends . . ."

He hesitated.

"We were taken prisoner together. We escaped together. They work in Paris. If I can find them they'll help me. One of them wouldn't be alive now if . . ."

He looked at his hands and fell silent.

"What I need is to get to Paris without getting arrested on the way and to find someone I can trust to put me up for a day or two until I find my friends."

"I don't know anyone in Paris," murmured Lucile. "But in any case, you'll need ident.i.ty papers."

"As soon as I find my friends, Madame Lucile, I'll be able to get hold of some papers."

"But how? What do your friends do?"

"They're in politics," Benoit said curtly.

"Communists . . ." murmured Lucile, recalling certain rumours she'd heard about Benoit's ideas and activities. "The Communists will be hunted down now. You're risking your life."

"It won't be the first time, Madame Lucile, or the last," said Benoit. "You get used to it."

"And how will you get to Paris? You can't take the train; your description is posted everywhere."

"On foot. By bicycle. When I escaped I was on foot. It don't scare me."

"But the police . . ."

"The people who put me up two years ago will remember me and won't shop me to the police. It's safer than here where plenty of people hate me. It'll be easier."

"Such a long journey, on foot, alone . . ."

Madame Angellier, who hadn't said a word until now, was standing next to the window, her pale eyes watching the Germans come and go across the village square; she raised her hand to warn them. "Someone's coming."

All three of them fell silent. Lucile's heart was pounding so violently, so quickly that she was ashamed; the others could surely hear it, she thought. The old woman and the farmer remained impa.s.sive. They could hear Bruno's voice downstairs; he was looking for Lucile; he opened several doors.

"Do you know where Madame Lucile is?" he asked the cook.

"She's gone out," Marthe replied.

Lucile sighed with relief. "I'd better go down," she said. "He's looking for me to say goodbye."

"Take advantage of it," Madame Angellier suddenly said, "to ask him for a petrol coupon and a travel pa.s.s. You can take the old car: the one that wasn't requisitioned. You can tell the German you have to drive one of our tenant farmers to town because he's ill. With a pa.s.s from German Headquarters you won't be stopped and you could make it safely to Paris."

"But to lie like that . . ." said Lucile in disgust.

"What else have you been doing for the past ten days?"

"And once we get to Paris? Where will he hide until he finds his friends? Where will we find anyone courageous enough, committed enough, unless . . ."

She was remembering something.

"Yes," she said suddenly. "It's possible . . . Anyway, it's a chance we'll have to take. Do you remember the refugees from Paris we helped in June 1940? They worked in a bank, quite an old couple, but full of spirit and courage. They wrote to me recently: I have their address. They're called Michaud. Yes, that's it, Jeanne and Maurice Michaud. They might do it . . . Of course they'll do it . . . but we'd have to write and ask and wait for their reply, or just take our chances and hope for the best. I don't know . . ."

"Ask for the pa.s.s in any case," said Madame Angellier. "It shouldn't be difficult," she added with a faint, bitter smile.

"I'll try," said Lucile.

She was dreading the moment she would be alone with Bruno. Nevertheless, she hurried down the stairs. Best to get it over with. What if he suspects something? Oh, so what! It was war. She would submit to the rules of war. She was afraid of nothing. Her empty, weary soul was almost eager to run some great risk.

She knocked at the German's door. She went in and was surprised to find he was not alone. With him were the Commandant's new interpreter, a thin red-headed boy with a hard, angular face and blond eyelashes, and another very young officer who was short and chubby, with a rosy complexion and a childlike expression and smile. All three of them were writing letters and packing up: they were sending home all those little knick-knacks soldiers buy when they are in the same place for a while, to create the illusion they live there, but which are burdensome during a campaign: ashtrays, little clocks, prints and, especially, books. Lucile wanted to go but he asked her to stay. She sat down in an armchair Bruno brought out for her and she watched the three Germans who, after apologising, continued working. "We want to get all this in the post by five o'clock," they said.

She saw a violin, a small lamp, a FrenchGerman dictionary, books in French, German and English, and a beautiful romantic print of a sailing boat at sea.

"I found it in Autun at a bric-a-brac shop," said Bruno.

He hesitated.

"Actually, better not . . . I won't post it . . . I don't have the right box for it. It will get damaged. It would make me so very happy, Madame, if you would keep it. It will brighten up this rather dark room. The subject is appropriate. Look. Dark, threatening skies, a ship setting sail . . . and far in the distance, a hint of brightness on the horizon . . . a vague, very faint glimmer of hope. Do accept it as a memento of a soldier who is leaving and who will never see you again."

"I will, mein Herr, mein Herr," Lucile said quietly, "because of this hint of brightness on the horizon."

He bowed and continued packing. A candle was lit on the table; he held the sealing wax over its flame, placed a seal on the finished package, took his ring off his hand and pressed it into the hot wax. Lucile watched him, remembering the day he had played the piano for her and how she had held the ring, still warm from his hand.

"Yes," he said, suddenly looking up at her. "The happy times are over."

"Do you think this new war will last long?" she said, immediately regretting having asked. It was like asking someone if he thought he would live long. What did this new war mean? What was going to happen? A series of thundering victories or defeat, a long struggle? Who could really know? Who dared predict the future? Although that's all people did . . . and always in vain . . .

He seemed to read her thoughts. "In any case," he said, "there will surely be much suffering, much heartache and much bloodshed."

He and his two comrades were getting everything organised. The short officer was carefully wrapping up a tennis racket and the interpreter some large, beautiful books bound in tan leather. "Gardening books," he explained to Lucile, "because in civilian life," he added in a slightly pompous tone of voice, "I design gardens in the Cla.s.sical style of Louis XIV."

How many Germans in the village-in cafes, in the comfortable houses they had occupied-were now writing to their wives, their fiancees, leaving behind their worldly possessions, as if they were about to die? Lucile felt deeply sorry for them. Outside in the street there were horses coming back from the blacksmith and saddle maker, all ready to leave, no doubt. It seemed strange to think about these horses pulled away from their work in France to be sent to the other end of the world. The interpreter, who had been watching them go by, said seriously, "Where we're going is a really wonderful place for horses . . ."

The short lieutenant made a face. "Not so wonderful for men . . ."

The idea of this new war seemed to fill them with sadness, Lucile thought, but she didn't allow herself to dwell too deeply on their feelings: she feared to find, in the place of emotion, some spark of their so-called "warrior mentality." It was almost like spying; she would have been ashamed to do it. And anyway, she knew them well enough by now to know they would put up a good fight. What's more, she said to herself, there's a world of difference between the young man I'm looking at now and the warrior of tomorrow. It's a truism that people are complicated, multifaceted, contradictory, surprising, but it takes the advent of war or other momentous events to be able to see it. It is the most fascinating and the most dreadful of spectacles, she continued thinking, the most dreadful because it's so real; you can never pride yourself on truly knowing the sea unless you've seen it both calm and in a storm. Only the person who has observed men and women at times like this, she thought, can be said to know them. And to know themselves. She would never have believed herself capable of saying to Bruno in such ingenuous and sincere tones, I've come to ask you a great favour.

"Tell me, Madame, how can I be of service to you?"

"Could you recommend me to someone at Headquarters who could get me a travel pa.s.s and petrol coupon as a matter of urgency? I have to drive to Paris . . ."

As she was speaking she was thinking, "If I tell him about some sick tenant farmer he'll be suspicious: there are good hospitals in the area, in Creusot, Paray, or Autun . . ."

"I have to drive one of my farmers to Paris. His daughter works there; she's seriously ill and is asking for him. The poor man would lose too much time if he went by train. You know it's the harvest. If you could grant me permission, we could do the entire journey there and back in a day."

"You don't need to go to Headquarters, Madame Angellier," the short officer said quickly; he'd been shyly glancing at her from a distance, lost in admiration. "I have full powers to grant you your request. When would you like to go?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh, good," murmured Bruno. "Tomorrow . . . so you'll be here when we leave."

"When are you leaving?"

"At eleven o'clock tonight. We're travelling at night because of the air raids. It seems a bit ridiculous since the moon is so bright it's almost like daytime. But the army works on tradition."

"I'll be going now," said Lucile, after taking the two pieces of paper the short officer had written out: two pieces of paper that symbolised a man's life and liberty. She calmly folded them up and slipped them under her waistband without allowing the slightest sense of urgency to betray her nervousness.

"I'll be here when you go."

Bruno looked at her and she understood his silent plea.