فصل 03

3

You should have said no. Madame Durant poked a bony finger into my shoulder. I jumped. She wore a white frilled bonnet, and a faded blue crocheted cape was pinned around her shoulders. Those who complained about lack of news now that we were not allowed newspapers had evidently never crossed my neighbours path.

What?

Feeding the Germans. You should have said no.

It was a freezing morning, and I had wrapped my scarf high around my face. I tugged it down to respond to her. I should have said no? And you will say no, when they decide to occupy your house, will you, Madame?

You and your sister are younger than I am. You have the strength to fight them.

Unfortunately I lack the firearms of a battalion. What do you suggest I do? Barricade us all in? Throw cups and saucers at them?

She continued to berate me as I opened the door for her. The bakery no longer smelt like a bakery. It was still warm inside, but the scent of baguettes and croissants had long since disappeared. This small fact made me sad every time I crossed the threshold.

I swear I do not know what this country is coming to. If your father could have seen Germans in his hotel … Madame Louvier had evidently been well briefed. She shook her head in disapproval as I approached the counter.

He would have done exactly the same thing.

Monsieur Armand, the baker, shushed them. You cannot criticize Madame Lefèvre! We are all their puppets now. Madame Durant, do you criticize me for baking their bread?

I just think its unpatriotic to do their bidding.

Easy to say when youre not the one facing a bullet.

So, more of them are coming here? More of them pushing their way into our storerooms, eating our food, stealing our animals. I swear I do not know how we will survive this winter.

As we always have, Madame Durant. With stoicism and good humour, praying that Our Lord, if not our brave boys, will give the Boche a royal kick up their backsides. Monsieur Armand winked at me. Now, ladies, what would you like? We have week-old black bread, five-day-old black bread, and some black bread of indeterminate age, guaranteed free of weevils.

There are days I would consider a weevil a welcome hors doeuvre, Madame Louvier said mournfully.

Then I will save a jam jar full for you, my dear Madame. Believe me, there are many days in which we receive generous helpings in our flour. Weevil cake, weevil pie, weevil profiteroles thanks to German generosity, we can supply them all. We laughed. It was impossible not to. Monsieur Armand managed to raise a smile even on the direst of days.

Madame Louvier took her bread and put it into her basket with distaste. Monsieur Armand took no offence he saw that expression a hundred times a day. The bread was black, square and sticky. It gave off a musty smell, as if it were mouldering from the moment it left the oven. It was so solid that the older women frequently had to request the help of the young simply to cut it.

For a moment we did not notice the door open. But then the shop fell abruptly silent. I turned to see Liliane Béthune walk in, her head up, but failing to meet a single persons eye. Her face was fuller than most, her clear skin rouged and powdered. She uttered a general Bonjour, and reached into her bag. Two loaves, please.

She smelt of expensive scent, and her hair was swept up in curls. In a town where most women were too exhausted or too empty-handed to do anything but the minimum of personal grooming, she stood out like a glittering jewel. But it was her coat that drew my eye. I could not stop staring at it. It was jet black, made of the finest astrakhan lambskin and as thick as a fur rug. It had the soft sheen of something new and expensive, and the collar rose around her face as if her long neck were emerging from black treacle. I saw the older women register it, their expressions hardening as their gaze travelled down its length.

One for you, one for your German? Madame Durant muttered.

I said two loaves, please. She turned to Madame Durant. One for me. One for my daughter.

For once, Monsieur Armand did not smile. He reached under the counter, his eyes never leaving her face, and with his two meaty fists he slammed two loaves on to its surface. He did not wrap them.

Liliane held out a note, but he didnt take it from her hand. He waited the few seconds it took her to place it on the counter, and then he picked it up gingerly, as if it might infect him. He reached into his till and threw two coins down in change, even as she held out her hand.

She looked at him, and then at the counter where the coins lay. Keep them, she said. And, with a furious glance at us, she snatched up the bread, and swept out of the shop.

How she has the nerve … Madame Durant was never happier than when she was outraged by somebody elses behaviour.

I suppose she has to eat, like everyone else, I said.

Every night she goes to the Fourrier farm. Every night. You see her cross the town, scuttling like a thief.

She has two new coats, Madame Louvier said. The other one is green. A brand new green wool coat. From Paris.

And shoes. Of kid leather. Of course she dare not wear them out in the day. She knows she would get lynched.

She wont, that one. Not with the Germans looking out for her.

Still, when they leave, itll be another story, eh?

I wouldnt want to be in her shoes, kid leather or not.

I do hate to see her strutting about, rubbing her good fortune in everybodys faces. Who does she think she is?

Monsieur Armand watched the young woman crossing the square. Suddenly he smiled. I wouldnt worry, ladies. Not everything goes her way.

We looked at him.

Can you keep a secret?

I dont know why he bothered asking. Those two old women could barely stay silent for ten seconds at a time.

What?

Lets just say some of us make sure Miss Fancy Pants gets special treatment she wasnt expecting.

I dont understand.

Her loaves live under the counter by themselves. They contain some special ingredients. Ingredients that I promise you go into none of my other loaves.

The old womens eyes widened. I dared not ask what the baker meant, but the glint in his eye suggested several possibilities, none of which I wanted to dwell upon.

Non!

Monsieur Armand! They were scandalized, but they began to cackle.

I felt sick then. I didnt like Liliane Béthune, or what she was doing, but this revolted me. Ive – Ive got to go. Hélène needs … I reached for my bread. Their laughter still ringing in my ears, I ran for the relative safety of the hotel.

The food came the following Friday. First the eggs, two dozen, delivered by a young German corporal, who brought them in covered with a white sheet, as if he were delivering contraband. Then bread, white and fresh, in three baskets. I had gone off bread a little since that day in the boulangerie, but to hold fresh loaves, crusty and warm, left me almost drunk with desire. I had to send Aurélien upstairs, I was so afraid he would be unable to resist the temptation to break off a mouthful.

Next, six hens, their feathers still on, and a crate containing cabbage, onions, carrots and wild garlic. After this came jars of preserved tomatoes, rice and apples. Milk, coffee, three fat pats of butter, flour, sugar. Bottles and bottles of wine from the south. Hélène and I accepted each delivery in silence. The Germans handed us forms, upon which each amount had been carefully noted. There would be no easy stealing a form requested that we note the exact amounts used for each recipe. They also asked that we place any scraps in a pail for collection to feed livestock. When I saw that I wanted to spit.

We are doing this for tonight? I asked the last corporal.

He shrugged. I pointed at the clock. Today? I gestured at the food. Kuchen?

Ja, he said, nodding enthusiastically. Sie kommen. Acht Uhr.

Eight oclock, Hélène said, from behind me. They want to eat at eight oclock.

Our own supper had been a slice of black bread, spread thinly with jam and accompanied by some boiled beetroot. To have to roast chickens, to fill our kitchen with the scents of garlic and tomato, with apple tart, felt like a form of torture. I was afraid, that first evening, even to lick my fingers, although the sight of them, dripping with tomato juice or sticky with apple, was sorely tempting. There were several times, as I rolled pastry, or peeled apples, that I almost fainted with longing. We had to shoo Mimi, Aurélien and little Jean upstairs, from where we heard occasional howls of protest.

I did not want to cook the Germans a fine meal. But I was too afraid not to. At some point, I told myself, as I pulled the roasting chickens from the oven, basting them with sizzling juice, perhaps I might enjoy the sight of this food. Perhaps I might relish the chance to see it again, to smell it. But that night I could not. By the time the doorbell rang, notifying us of the officers arrival, my stomach clawed and my skin sweated with hunger. I hated the Germans with an intensity I have never felt before or since.

Madame. The Kommandant was the first to enter. He removed his rain-spattered cap and motioned to his officers to do the same.

I stood, wiping my hands on my apron, unsure how to react. Herr Kommandant. My face was expressionless.

The room was warm the Germans had sent three baskets of logs so that we might make up a fire. The men were divesting themselves of scarves and hats, sniffing the air, already grinning with anticipation. The scent of the chicken, roasted in a garlic and tomato sauce, had thoroughly infused the air. I think we will eat immediately, he said, glancing towards the kitchen.

As you wish, I said. I will fetch the wine.

Aurélien had opened several bottles in the kitchen. He came out scowling now, two in his hands. The torture this evening had inflicted on us had upset him in particular. I was afraid, given the recent beating, his youth and impulsive nature, that he would get himself into trouble. I swept the bottles from his hands. Go and tell Hélène she must serve the dinner.

But –

Go! I scolded him. I walked around the bar, pouring wine. I did not look at any of them as I placed the glasses on the tables, even though I felt their eyes on me. Yes, look at me, I told them silently. Another scrawny Frenchwoman, starved into submission by you. I hope my appearance rots your appetites.

My sister brought out the first plates to murmurs of appreciation. Within minutes the men were tucking in, their cutlery clattering against the china, exclaiming in their own language. I walked backwards and forwards with loaded plates, trying not to breathe in the delicious scents, trying not to look at the roasted meat, glistening besides the bright vegetables.

At last, they were all served. Hélène and I stood together behind the bar, as the Kommandant made some lengthy toast in German. I cannot tell you how it felt then to hear those voices in our home to see them eating the food we had so carefully prepared, relaxing and laughing and drinking. I am strengthening these men, I thought miserably, while my beloved Édouard may be weak with hunger. And this thought, perhaps with my own hunger and exhaustion, made me feel a brief despair. A small sob escaped my throat. Hélènes hand reached for mine. She squeezed it. Go to the kitchen, she murmured.

I –

Go to the kitchen. I will join you when I have refilled their glasses.

Just this once, I did as my sister said.

They ate for an hour. She and I sat in silence in the kitchen, lost in exhaustion and the confusion of our thoughts. Every time we heard a swell of laughter or a hearty exclamation, we looked up. It was so hard to know what any of it meant.

Mesdames. The Kommandant appeared at the kitchen door. We scrambled to our feet. The meal was excellent. I hope you can maintain this standard.

I looked at the floor.

Madame Lefèvre.

Reluctantly, I raised my eyes.

You are pale. Are you ill?

We are quite well. I swallowed. I felt his eyes on me like a burn. Beside me, Hélènes fingers twisted together, reddened from the unaccustomed hot water.

Madame, have you and your sister eaten?

I thought it was a test. I thought he was checking that we had followed those infernal forms to the letter. I thought he might weigh the leftovers, to ensure we had not sneaked a piece of apple peel into our mouths.

We have not touched one grain of rice, Herr Kommandant. I almost spat it at him. Hunger will do that to you.

He blinked. Then you should. You cannot cook well if you do not eat. What is left?

I couldnt move. Hélène motioned to the roasting tray on the stove. There were four quarters of a chicken there, keeping warm in case the men wanted second helpings.

Then sit down. Eat here.

I could not believe this wasnt a trap.

That is an order, he said. He was almost smiling, but I didnt think it was funny. Really. Go on.

Would … would it be possible to feed something to the children? It is a long time since they had any meat.

He frowned a little, as if in incomprehension. I hated him. I hated the sound of my voice, begging a German for scraps of food. Oh, Édouard, I thought silently. If you could hear me now.

Feed your children and yourselves, he said shortly. And he turned and left the room.

We sat there in silence, his words ringing in our ears. Then Hélène grabbed her skirts and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I hadnt seen her move so fast in months.

Seconds later, she reappeared, with Jean in her arms, still in his nightshirt, Aurélien and Mimi before her.

Is it true? Aurélien said. He was staring at the chicken, his mouth hanging open.

I could only nod.

We fell upon that unlucky bird. I wish I could tell you that my sister and I were ladylike, that we picked delicately, as the Parisians do, that we paused to chat and wipe our mouths between bites. But we were like savages. We tore at the flesh, scooped handfuls of rice, ate with our mouths open, picking wildly at the bits that fell on to the table. I no longer cared whether this was some trick on the Kommandants part. I have never tasted anything as good as that chicken. The garlic and tomatoes filled my mouth with long-forgotten pleasure, my nostrils with scents I could have inhaled for ever. We emitted little sounds of delight as we ate, primal and uninhibited, each locked into our own private world of satisfaction. Baby Jean laughed and covered his face with juice. Mimi chewed pieces of chicken skin, sucking the grease from her fingers with noisy relish. Hélène and I ate without speaking, always ensuring the little ones had enough.

When there was nothing left, when every bone had been sucked of its meat, the trays emptied of each last grain of rice, we sat and stared at each other. From the bar, we could hear the chatter of the Germans becoming noisier, as they consumed their wine, and occasional bursts of their laughter. I wiped my mouth with my hands.

We must tell no one, I said, rinsing them. I felt like a drunk who had suddenly become sober. This may never happen again. And we must behave as if it did not happen once. If anyone finds out that we ate the Germans food, we will be considered traitors.

We gazed at Mimi and Aurélien then, trying to impart to them the seriousness of what we were saying. Aurélien nodded. Mimi too. I think they would have agreed to speak German for ever in those moments. Hélène grabbed a dishcloth, wetted it, and set about removing traces of the meal from the faces of the two youngest. Aurélien, she said, take them to bed. We will clear up.

He was not infected by my misgivings. He was smiling. His thin, adolescent shoulders had dropped for the first time in months, and as he picked up Jean, I swear he would have whistled if he could. No one, I warned him.

I know, he said, in the tone of a fourteen-year-old who knows everything. Little Jean was already slumping heavy-lidded on his shoulder, his first full meal in months exhausting him. They disappeared back up the stairs. The sound of their laughter as they reached the top made my heart ache.

It was past eleven oclock when the Germans left. We had been under a curfew for almost a year when the nights drew in, if we had no candles or acetylene lamps, Hélène and I had acquired the habit of going to bed. The bar shut at six, had done since the occupation, and we hadnt been up so late for months. We were exhausted. Our stomachs gurgled with the shock of rich food after months of near-starvation. I saw my sister slump as she scrubbed the roasting pans. I did not feel quite as tired, and my brain flickered with the memory of the chicken it was as if long-dead nerves had been sparked into life. I could still taste and smell it. It burned in my mind like a tiny, glowing treasure.

Some time before the kitchen was clean again I sent Hélène upstairs. She pushed her hair back from her face. She had been so beautiful, my sister. When I looked at how the war had aged her, I thought of my own face, and wondered what my husband would make of me.

I dont like to leave you alone with them, she said.

I shook my head. I wasnt afraid the mood was peaceable. It is hard to rouse men who have eaten well. They had been drinking, but the bottles allowed for maybe three glasses each not enough to provoke them to misbehaviour. My father had given us precious little, God knew, but he had taught us when to be afraid. I could watch a stranger and know from a tightening of their jaw, a faint narrowing of the eyes, the exact point at which internal tension would lead to a flash of violence. Besides, I suspected the Kommandant would not tolerate such.

I stayed in the kitchen, clearing up, until the sound of chairs being pushed back alerted me to the fact that they were leaving. I walked through to the bar.

You may close up now, the Kommandant said. I tried not to bristle visibly. My men wish to convey to you their gratitude for an excellent meal.

I glanced at them. I gave a slight nod. I did not wish to be seen as grateful for the compliments of Germans.

He did not seem to expect a response. He placed his cap on his head, and I reached into my pocket and handed him the chits from the food. He glanced at them and thrust them back at me, a little irritably. I do not handle such things. Give them to the men who deliver the food tomorrow.

Désolée, I said, but I had known this full well. Some mischievous part of me had wished to reduce him, if only briefly, to the status of support corps.

I stood there as they gathered their coats and hats, some of them replacing chairs, with a vestige of gentlemanly behaviour, others careless, as if it were their right to treat any place as if it were their home. So this was it, I thought. We were to spend the rest of the war cooking for Germans.

I wondered briefly if we should have cooked badly, taken less trouble. But Maman had always impressed on us that to cook poorly was a kind of sin in itself. And however immoral we had been, however traitorous, I knew that we would all remember the night of the roasted chicken. The thought that there might be more made me feel a little giddy.

It was then that I realized he was looking at the painting.

I was gripped by a sudden fear, remembering my sisters words. The painting did look subversive, its colours too bright in the faded little bar, the glowing girl wilful in her confidence. She looked, I saw now, almost as if she were mocking them.

He kept staring at it. Behind him, his men had begun to leave, their voices loud and harsh, bouncing across the empty square. I shivered a little every time the door opened.

It looks so like you.

I was shocked that he could see it. I didnt want to agree. It implied a kind of intimacy, that he could see me in the girl. I swallowed. My knuckles were white where my hands pressed together.

Yes. Well, it was a long time ago.

Its a little like … Matisse.

I was so surprised by this that I spoke before I thought. Édouard studied under him, at the Académie Matisse in Paris.

I know of it. Have you come across an artist called Hans Purrmann? I must have started – I saw his gaze flick towards me. I am a great admirer of his work.

Hans Purrmann. The Académie Matisse. To hear these words from the mouth of a German Kommandant made me feel almost dizzy.

I wanted him gone then. I didnt want him to mention those names. Those memories were mine, little gifts that I could bring out to comfort myself on the days when I felt overwhelmed by life as it was I did not want my happiest days polluted by the casual observations of a German.

Herr Kommandant, I must clear up. If you will excuse me. I began stacking plates, collecting the glasses. But he didnt move. I felt his eyes rest on the painting as if they rested on me.

It is a long time since I had any discussion about art. He spoke as if to the painting. Finally he placed his hands behind his back, and turned away from it to me. We will see you tomorrow.

I couldnt look at him as he passed. Herr Kommandant, I said, my hands full.

Good night, Madame.

When I finally made it upstairs, Hélène was asleep face down on top of our coverlet, still wearing the clothes she had cooked in. I loosened her corset, took off her shoes and pulled the covers over her. Then I climbed into bed, my thoughts humming and spinning towards the dawn.