فصل 23

23

1917

The cattle truck whined and jolted its way along roads pocked with holes, occasionally veering on to the grassy verges to avoid those that were too large to cross. A fine rain muffled sound, making the wheels spin in the loose earth, the engine roaring its protest and sending up clods of mud as the wheels struggled for purchase.

After two years in the quiet confines of our little town, I was shocked to see what life – and destruction – lay beyond it. Just a few miles from St Péronne, whole villages and towns were unrecognizable, shelled into oblivion, the shops and houses just piles of grey stone and rubble. Great craters sat in their midst, filled with water, their green algae and plant life hinting at their long standing, the townspeople mute as they watched us pass. I went through three towns without being able to identify where we were, and slowly I grasped the scale of what had been taking place around us.

I stared out through the swaying tarpaulin flap, watching the columns of mounted soldiers pass on skeletal horses, the grey-faced men hauling stretchers, their uniforms dark and wet, the swaying trucks from which wary faces looked out, with blank, fathomless stares. Occasionally the driver stopped the truck and exchanged a few words with another driver, and I wished I knew some German so that I might have some idea of where I was going. The shadows were faint, given the rain, but we seemed to be moving south-east. The direction of Ardennes, I told myself, struggling to keep my breathing under control. I had decided the only way to control the visceral fear that kept threatening to choke me was to reassure myself I was heading towards Édouard.

In truth, I felt numb. Those first few hours in the back of the truck I could not have formed a sentence if you had asked me. I sat, the harsh voices of my townspeople still ringing in my ears, my brothers expression of disgust in my mind, and my mouth dried to dust with the truth of what had just taken place. I saw my sister, her face contorted with grief, felt the fierce grip of Édiths little arms as she attempted to hang on to me. My fear in those moments was so intense that I thought I might disgrace myself. It came in waves, making my legs shake, my teeth chatter. And then, staring out at the ruined towns, I saw that for many the worst had already happened, and I told myself to be calm this was merely a necessary stage in my return to Édouard. This was what I had asked for. I had to believe that.

As the fear crept up on me again, like some predatory beast, I closed my eyes, pressed my hands together on my bag, and thought of my husband …

Édouard was chuckling to himself.

What? I entwined my arms around his neck, letting his words fall softly against my skin.

I am thinking of you last night, chasing Monsieur Farage around his own counter.

Our debts had grown too great. I had dragged Édouard round the bars of Pigalle, demanding money from those who owed him, refusing to leave until we were paid. Farage had refused and then insulted me, so Édouard, usually slow to anger, had shot out a huge fist and hit him. We had left the bar in uproar, tables overturned, glasses flying about our ears. I had refused to run, but picked up my skirt and walked out in an orderly fashion, pausing to take the exact amount Édouard was owed from the till.

You are fearless, little wife.

I must have dozed off, and woke as the truck jolted to a halt, my head smacking against the roof brace. I peered out, rubbing my head, stretching my cold, stiff limbs. We were in a town, but the railway station had a new German name that was unrecognizable to me. The tarpaulin lifted, and a German soldiers face appeared. He seemed surprised to find only me inside. He shouted, and gestured that I should get out. When I didnt move swiftly enough, he hauled at my arm so that I stumbled, my bag falling to the wet ground.

It had been two years since I had seen so many people in one place. The station, which comprised two platforms, was a teeming mass, mostly soldiers and prisoners as far as I could see. Their armbands and striped, grubby clothing marked out the prisoners. They kept their heads down. I found myself scanning their faces, as I was thrust through them, looking for Édouard, but I was pushed too quickly and they became a blur.

Hier! Hier! A door slid sideways and I was shoved into a freight carriage, its boarded sides revealing a shadowy mass of bodies inside. I fought to keep hold of my bag and heard the door slam behind me as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Inside there were two narrow wooden benches along each side, nearly every inch covered with bodies. More occupied the floor. At the edges some lay, their heads resting on small bundles of what might have been clothing. Everything was so filthy it was hard to tell. The air was thick with the foul smells of those who had not been able to wash, or worse, for some time.

Français? I said, into the silence. Several faces looked blankly at me. I tried again.

Ici, said a voice near the back. I began to make my way carefully down the length of the carriage, trying not to disturb those who were sleeping. I heard a voice that might have been Russian. I trod on someones hair, and was cursed. Finally I reached the rear of the carriage. A shaven-headed man was looking at me. His face was scarred, as if with some recent pox, and his cheekbones jutted from his face like those of a skull.

Français? he said.

Yes, I replied. What is this? Where are we going?

Where are we going? He regarded me with astonishment, and then, when he grasped that my question was serious, laughed mirthlessly.

Tours, Amiens, Lille. How would I know? They keep us on some endless cross-country chase so that none of us knows where we are.

I was about to speak again when I saw the shape on the floor. A black coat so familiar that at first I dared not look closer. I stepped forward, past the man, and knelt down. Liliane? I could see her face, still bruised, under what remained of her hair. She opened one eye, as if she did not trust her ears. Liliane! Its Sophie.

She gazed at me. Sophie, she whispered. Then she lifted a hand and touched mine. Édith? Even in her frail state I could hear the fear in her voice.

She is with Hélène. She is safe.

The eye closed.

Are you sick? It was then I saw the blood, dried, around her skirt. Her deathly pallor.

Has she been like this for long?

The Frenchman shrugged, as if he had seen too many bodies like Lilianes to feel anything as distinct as compassion now. She was here some hours ago when we came aboard.

Her lips were chapped, her eyes sunken. Does anyone have water? I called. A few faces turned to me.

The Frenchman said pityingly, You think this is a buffet car?

I tried again, my voice lifting. Does anyone have a sip of water? I could see faces turning to each other.

This woman risked her life to bring information to our town. If anyone has water, please, just a few drops. A murmur went through the carriage. Please! For the love of God! And then, astonishingly, minutes later, an enamel bowl was passed along. It had a half-inch of what might have been rainwater in the bottom. I called out my thanks and lifted Lilianes head gently, tipping the precious drops into her mouth.

The Frenchman seemed briefly animated. We should hold cups, bowls, anything out of the carriage if possible, while it rains. We do not know when we will next receive food or water.

Liliane swallowed painfully. I positioned myself on the floor so that she could rest against me. With a squeal and the harsh grinding of metal on rails, the train moved off into the countryside.

I could not tell you how long we stayed on that train. It moved slowly, stopping frequently and without obvious reason. I stared out through the gap in the splintered boards, watching the endless movement of troops, prisoners and civilians through my battered country, holding the dozing Liliane in my arms. The rain grew heavier, and there were murmurs of satisfaction as the occupants passed round water they had gleaned. I was cold, but glad of the rain and the low temperature I could not imagine how hellish this carriage might become in the heat when the odours would worsen.

As the hours stretched, the Frenchman and I talked. I asked about the number-plate on his cap, the red stripe on his jacket, and he told me he had come from the ZAB – the Zivilarbeiter Battalione, prisoners who were used for the very worst of jobs, shipped to the front, exposed to Allied fire. He told me of the trains he saw each week, packed with boys, women and young girls, criss-crossing the country to the Somme, to Escaut and Ardennes, to work as slave labour for the Germans. Tonight, he said, we would lodge in ruined barracks, factories or schools in evacuated villages. He did not know whether we would be taken to a prison camp or a work battalion.

They keep us weak through lack of food, so that we will not try to escape. Most are now grateful merely to stay alive. He asked if I had food in my bag and was disappointed when I had to say no. I gave him a handkerchief that Hélène had packed, feeling obliged to give him something. He looked at its laundered cotton freshness as if he were holding spun silk. Then he handed it back. Keep it, he said, and his face closed. Use it for your friend. What did she do?

When I told him of her bravery, the lifeline of information she had brought to our town, he looked at her anew, as if he were no longer seeing a body but a human being. I told him I was seeking news of my husband, and that he had been sent to Ardennes. The Frenchmans face was grave. I spent several weeks there. You know that there has been typhoid? I will pray for you that your husband has survived. I swallowed back a lump of fear.

Where are the rest of your battalion? I asked him, trying to change the subject. The train slowed and we passed another column of trudging prisoners. Not a man looked up at the passing train, as if they were each too ashamed of their enforced slavery. I scanned the face of each one, fearful that Édouard might be among them.

It was a moment before he spoke. I am the only one left.

Several hours after dark we drew into a siding. The doors slid open noisily and German voices yelled at us to get out. Bodies unfolded themselves wearily from the floor, clutching enamel bowls, and made their way along a disused track. Our path was lined with German infantry, prodding us into line with their guns. I felt like an animal to be herded so, as if I were no longer human. I recalled the desperate escape of the young prisoner in St Péronne, and suddenly had an inkling of what had made him run, despite the knowledge that he was almost certain to fail.

I held Liliane close to me, supporting her under the arms. She walked slowly, too slowly. A German stepped behind us and kicked at her.

Leave her! I protested, and his rifle butt shot out and cracked my head so that I stumbled briefly to the ground. I felt hands pulling me up, and then I was moving forward again, dazed, my sight blurred. When I put my hand to my temple, it came away sticky with blood.

We were shepherded into a huge, empty factory. The floor crunched with broken glass, and a stiff night breeze whistled through the windows. In the distance, we could hear the boom of the big guns, even see the odd flash of an explosion. I peered out, wondering where we were, but our surroundings were blanketed in the black of night.

Here, a voice said, and the Frenchman was between us, supporting us, moving us towards a corner. Look, there is food.

Soup, served by other prisoners from a long table with two huge urns. I had not eaten since early that morning. It was watery, filled with indistinct shapes, but my stomach constricted with anticipation. The Frenchman filled his enamel bowl, and a cup that Hélène had put into my bag, and with three pieces of black bread, we sat in a corner and ate, giving sips to Liliane the fingers of one hand were broken so she could not use them, wiping the bowl with our fingers to retrieve every last trace.

There is not always food. Perhaps our luck is changing, the Frenchman said, but without conviction. He disappeared towards the table with the urns where a crowd was already congregating in the hope of more, and I cursed myself for not being swift enough to go. I was afraid to leave Liliane, even for a moment. Minutes later he returned, the bowl filled. He stood beside us, then handed it to me and pointed at Liliane. Here, he said. She needs strength.

Liliane lifted her head. She looked at him as if she could not remember what it was to be treated with kindness, and my eyes filled with tears. The Frenchman nodded at us, as if we were in another world and he was courteously bidding us good night, then withdrew to where the men slept. I sat and I fed Liliane Béthune, sip by sip, as I would have done a child. When she had consumed the second bowl, she gave a shaky sigh, rested her head against me and fell asleep. I sat there in the dark, surrounded by quietly moving bodies, some coughing, some weeping, hearing the accents of lost Russians, Englishmen and Poles. Through the floor I felt the occasional vibration as some distant shell hit home, a vibration that nobody else seemed to find remarkable. I listened to the distant guns, and the murmuring of the other prisoners, and as the temperature dropped I began to shiver. I pictured my home, Hélène sleeping beside me, little Édith, her hands wound into my hair. And I wept silently in the darkness, until finally, overcome by exhaustion, I, too, fell asleep.

I woke, and for several seconds I did not know where I was. Édouards arm was around me, his weight against me. There was a tiny crack in time, through which relief flooded – he was here! – before I realized that it was not my husband pressing against me. A mans hand, furtive and insistent, was snaking its way inside my skirt, shielded by the dark, perhaps by his belief in my fear and exhaustion. I lay rigid, my mind turning to cold, hard fury as I understood what this intruder felt he could take from me. Should I scream? Would anyone care if I did? Would the Germans take it as another excuse to punish me? As I moved my arm slowly from its position half underneath me, my hand brushed against a shard of glass, cold and sharp, where it had been blasted from the windows. I closed my fingers around it and then, almost before I could consider what I was doing, I had spun on to my side and had its jagged edge pressed against the throat of my unknown assailant.

Touch me again and I will run this through you, I whispered. I could smell his stale breath and feel his shock. He had not expected resistance. I was not even sure he understood my words. But he understood that sharp edge. He lifted his hands, a gesture of surrender, perhaps of apology. I kept the glass pressed where it was for a moment longer, a message of my intent. In the near pitch dark my gaze briefly met his and I saw that he was afraid. He, too, had found himself in a world where there were no rules, no order. If it was a world where he might assault a stranger, it was also a world where she might slit his throat. The moment I released the pressure he scrambled to his feet. I could just make out his shape as it stumbled across the sleeping bodies to the other side of the factory.

I tucked the glass fragment into my skirt pocket, sat upright, my arms shielding Lilianes sleeping form, and waited.

It seemed I had been asleep a matter of minutes when we were woken by shouting. German guards were moving through the middle of the room, hitting sleepers with the butts of their rifles to rouse them, kicking with their boots. I pushed myself upright. Pain shot through my head, and I stifled a cry. Through blurred vision I saw the soldiers moving towards us and pulled at Liliane, trying to get her upright before they could hit us.

In the harsh blue light of dawn, I could see our surroundings clearly. The factory was enormous and semi-derelict, a gaping, splintered hole at the centre of the roof, beams and windows scattered across the floor. At the far end the trestle tables were serving something that might have been coffee, and a hunk of black bread. I lifted Liliane – I had to get her across that vast space before the food ran out. Where are we? she said, peering out of the shattered window. A distant boom told us we must be near the Front.

I have no idea, I said, filled with relief that she felt well enough to engage in some small conversation with me.

We got the cup filled with coffee, and some in the Frenchmans bowl. I looked for him, anxious that we might be depriving him, but a German officer was already dividing the men into groups, and some of them were filing away from the factory. Liliane and I were ordered into a separate group of mainly women, and directed towards a communal water closet. In daylight, I could see the dirt ingrained in the other womens skin, the grey lice that crawled freely upon their heads. I itched, and looked down to see one on my skirt. I brushed it off with a sense of futility. I would not escape them, I knew. It was impossible to spend so much time in close contact with others and avoid them.

There must have been three hundred women trying to wash and use the lavatory in a space designed for twelve people. By the time I could get Liliane anywhere close to the cubicles, we both retched at what we found. We cleaned ourselves at the cold-water pump as best we could, following the lead of the other women they barely removed their clothes to wash, and glanced about warily, as if waiting for some subterfuge by the Germans. Sometimes they burst in, Liliane said. It is easier – and safer – to stay clothed.

While the Germans were busy with the men, I scouted around outside in the rubble for twigs and pieces of string, then sat with Liliane. In the watery sunlight, I bound the broken fingers of her left hand to splints. She was so brave, barely wincing even when I knew I must be hurting her. She had stopped bleeding, but still walked gingerly, as if she were in pain. I dared not ask what had happened to her.

It is good to see you, Sophie, she said, examining her hand.

Somewhere in there, I thought, there might still be a shadow of the woman I knew in St Péronne. I never was so glad to see another human being, I said, wiping her face with my clean handkerchief, and I meant it.

The men were sent on a work task. We could see them in the distance, queuing for shovels and pickaxes, formed into columns to march towards the infernal noise on the horizon. I said a silent prayer that our charitable Frenchman would stay safe, then offered up another, as I always did, for Édouard. The women, meanwhile, were directed towards a railway carriage. My heart sank at the thought of the next lengthy, stinking journey, but then I scolded myself. I may be only hours from Édouard, I thought. This may be the train that takes me to him.

I climbed aboard without complaint. This carriage was smaller, yet they seemed to expect all three hundred women to get into it. There was some swearing and a few muffled arguments as we attempted to sit. Liliane and I found a small space on the bench, me sitting at her feet, and I stuffed my bag underneath it, jamming it in. I regarded that bag with jealous propriety, as if it were a baby. Someone yelped as a shell burst close enough to make the train rattle.

Tell me about Édith, she said, as the train pulled off.

Shes in good spirits. I put as much reassurance into my voice as possible. She eats well, sleeps peacefully, and she and Mimi are now inseparable. She adores the baby, and he adores her too. As I talked, painting a picture of her daughters life in St Péronne, her eyes closed. I could not tell if it was with relief or grief.

Is she happy?

I answered carefully She is a child. She wants her maman. But she knows she is safe at Le Coq Rouge. I could not tell her more, but that seemed to be enough. I did not tell her about Édiths nightmares, about the nights she had sobbed for her mother. Liliane was not stupid I suspected she knew those things in her heart already. When I had finished, she stared out of the window for a long time, lost in thought.

And, Sophie, what brought you to this? she asked, eventually turning back to me.

There was probably nobody else in the world who would understand better than Liliane. I searched her face, fearful even now. But the prospect of being able to share my burden with another human being was too great a lure.

I told her. I told her about the Kommandant, the night I had gone to his barracks, and the deal I had offered him. She looked at me for a long time. She didnt tell me I was a fool, or that I should not have believed him, or that my failure to do as the Kommandant had wished had been likely to bring about my death, if not that of those I loved.

She didnt say anything at all.

I do believe he will keep his side of things. I do believe he will bring me to Édouard, I said, with as much conviction as I could muster. She reached out her good hand and squeezed mine.

At dusk, in a small forest, the train ground to a juddering halt. We waited for it to move off again, but this time the sliding doors opened at the rear, and the occupants, many of whom had only just fallen asleep, muttered complaints. I was half dozing and woke to Lilianes voice in my ear. Sophie. Wake up. Wake up.

A German guard stood in the doorway. It took me a moment to realize he was calling my name. I jumped up, remembering to grab my bag, and motioned for Liliane to come with me.

Karten, he demanded. Liliane and I presented our identity cards. He checked our names on a list, and pointed towards a truck. We heard the disappointed hiss of the other women as the doors slammed behind us.

Liliane and I were pushed towards the truck. I felt her lag a little. What? I said. Her expression was clouded with distrust.

I dont like this, she said, glancing behind her, as the train began to move away.

Its good, I insisted. I think this means we are being singled out. I think this is the Kommandants doing.

That is what I dont like, she said.

Also – listen – I cannot hear the guns. We must be moving away from the Front. This is good, surely?

We limped to the back of the truck, and I helped her aboard, scratching the back of my neck. I had begun to itch. Have faith, I said, and squeezed her arm. If nothing else we have room to move our legs at last.

A young guard climbed in at the back, and glared at us. I tried to smile, to reassure him that I was unlikely to attempt to escape, but he looked at me with disgust, and placed his rifle between us like a warning. I realized then that I, too, probably smelt unwashed, that forced into such close proximity my own hair might soon be crawling with insects, and I busied myself with searching my clothing and picking out those I found.

The truck pulled away and Liliane winced at every jolt. Within a few miles she had fallen asleep again, exhausted by pain. My own head throbbed, and I was grateful that the guns seemed to have stopped. Have faith, I willed us both silently.

We were almost an hour on the open road, the winter sun slowly dipping behind the distant mountains, the verges glinting with ice crystals, when the tarpaulin flipped up, revealing a flash of road sign. I must have been mistaken, I thought. I leaned forward, lifting the edge of the flap so that I might not miss the next, squinting against the light. And there it was.

Mannheim.

The world seemed to stop around me.

Liliane? I whispered, and shook her awake. Liliane. Look out. What do you see? The truck had slowed to make its way around some craters, so as she peered out I knew she must see it.

We are meant to be going south, I said. South to Ardennes. Now I could see that the shadows were behind us. We were driving east, and had been for some time. But Édouard is in Ardennes. I couldnt keep the panic from my voice. I had word that he was there. We were meant to be going south to Ardennes. South.

Liliane let the flap drop. When she spoke, she didnt look at me. Her face had leached of the little colour it had had left. Sophie, we can no longer hear the guns because we have crossed the Front, she said dully. We are going into Germany.