فصل 07

7

As the temperatures dropped, the Germans tightened their control over St Péronne. The town became uneasy, greater numbers of troops coming through daily the officers conversations in the bar took on a new urgency, so that Hélène and I spent most of our time in the kitchen. The Kommandant barely spoke to me he spent much of his time huddled with a few trusted men. He looked exhausted, and when I heard his voice in the dining room it was often raised in anger.

Several times that January French prisoners of war were marched up the main street and past the hotel, but we were no longer allowed to stand on the pavement to watch them. Food became ever scarcer, our official rations dropped, and I was expected to conjure feasts out of ever shrinking amounts of meat and vegetables. Trouble was edging closer.

The Journal des Occupés, when it came, spoke of villages we knew. At night it was not unusual for the distant boom of the guns to cause faint ripples in the glasses on our tables. It was some days before I realized that the missing sound was that of birdsong. We had received word that all girls from the age of sixteen and all boys from fifteen would now be required to work for the Germans, pulling sugar beet or tending potatoes, or sent further afield to work in factories. With Aurélien only months from his fifteenth birthday, Hélène and I became increasingly tense. Rumours were rife as to what happened to the young, with stories of girls billeted with gangs of criminal men or, worse, instructed to entertain German soldiers. Boys were starved or beaten, moved around constantly so that they remained disoriented and obedient. Despite our ages Hélène and I were exempt, we were informed, because we were considered essential to German welfare at the hotel. That alone would be enough to stir resentment among the rest of our village when it became known.

There was something else. It was a subtle change, but I was conscious of it. Fewer people were coming to Le Coq Rouge in the daytime. From our usual twenty-odd faces, we were down to around eight. At first I thought the cold was keeping people indoors. Then I became worried, and called on old René to see if he was ill. But he met me at the door and said gruffly that he preferred to stay at home. He did not look at me as he spoke. The same happened when I went to call on Madame Foubert and the wife of the mayor. I was left feeling strangely unbalanced. I told myself that it was all in my imagination, but one lunchtime I happened to walk past Le Bar Blanc on my way to the pharmacy, and saw René and Madame Foubert sitting inside at a table, playing draughts. I was convinced my eyes had deceived me. When it became clear that they hadnt, I put my head down and hurried past.

Only Liliane Béthune spared me a friendly smile. I caught her, shortly before dawn one morning, as she slid an envelope under my door. She jumped as I undid the bolts. Oh, mon Dieu – thank heaven its you, she said, her hand at her mouth.

Is this what I think it is? I said, glancing down at the oversized envelope, addressed to nobody.

Who knows? she said, already turning back towards the square. I see nothing there.

But Liliane Béthune was in a minority of one. As the days crept on I noticed other things if I walked into our bar from the kitchen, the conversation would quieten a little, as if whoever was talking were determined that I should not overhear. If I spoke up during a conversation, it was as if I had said nothing. Twice I offered a little jar of stock or soup to the mayors wife, only to be told that they had plenty, thank you. She had developed a peculiar way of talking to me, not unfriendly exactly but as though it were something of a relief when I gave up trying. I would never have admitted it, but it was almost a comfort when night fell and the restaurant was full of voices again, even if they did happen to be German.

It was Aurélien who enlightened me.

Sophie?

Yes? I was making the pastry for a rabbit and vegetable pie. My hands and apron were covered with flour, and I was wondering whether I could safely bake the off-cuts into little biscuits for the children.

Can I ask you something?

Of course. I dusted my hands on my apron. My little brother was looking at me with a peculiar expression, as if he were trying to work something out.

Do you … do you like the Germans?

Do I like them?

Yes.

What a ridiculous question. Of course not. I wish they would all be gone and that we could return to our lives as before.

But you like Herr Kommandant.

I stopped, my hands on my rolling pin and spun round. You know this is dangerous talk, the kind of talk that could get us all into terrible trouble.

It is not my talk that is getting us into trouble.

Outside, in the bar, I could hear the townspeople talking. I walked over and closed the kitchen door, so that it was just the two of us in the kitchen. When I spoke again I kept my voice low and measured. Say what you wish to say, Aurélien.

They say you are no better than Liliane Béthune.

What?

Monsieur Suel saw you dancing with Herr Kommandant on Christmas Eve. Close to him, your eyes shut, your bodies pressed together, as if you loved him.

Shock made me feel almost faint. What?

They say that is the real reason you wanted to be away from le réveillon, to be alone with him. They say that is why we are getting extra supplies. You are the Germans favourite.

Is this why you have been fighting at school? I thought back to his black eye, his sullen refusal to speak when I asked him how he had come to receive it.

Is it true?

No, it is not true. I slammed my rolling pin down on the side. He asked … he asked if we might dance, just once, as it was Christmas, and I thought it better if he were thinking about dancing and being here, rather than risk him wondering what was going on at Madame Poilânes. There was nothing more to it than that – your sister trying to protect you for that one evening. That dance won you a pork supper, Aurélien.

But I have seen him. I have seen the way he admires you.

He admires my portrait. There is a huge difference.

I have heard the way he talks to you.

I frowned at him, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Of course his hours spent peering through the floorboards of Room Three. Aurélien must have heard and seen everything.

You cant deny he likes you. He says tu, not vous when he talks to you, and you let him.

He is a German Kommandant, Aurélien. I dont have much say in how he chooses to address me.

They are all talking about you, Sophie. I sit upstairs and I hear the names they call you and I dont know what to believe. His eyes burned with anger and confusion.

I walked over to him and grasped his shoulders. Then believe this. I have done nothing, nothing, to shame myself or my husband. Every day I seek new ways to keep our family well, to keep our neighbours and friends in food, comfort and hope. I have no feelings for the Kommandant. I try to remember that he is a human being, just as we are. But if you think, Aurélien, that I would ever betray my husband, you are a fool. I love Édouard with every part of me. Every day he is gone I feel his absence as if it were an actual pain. At night I lie awake fearing what might befall him. And now I do not ever want to hear you speak like this again. Do you hear me?

He shook off my hand.

Do you hear me?

He nodded sullenly.

Oh, I added. Perhaps I should not have said it, but my blood was up. And do not be too swift to condemn Liliane Béthune. You may find you owe her more than you think.

My brother glared at me, then stalked out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. I stared at the pastry for several minutes before I remembered I was meant to be making a pie.

Later that morning I took a walk across the square. Normally Hélène fetched the bread – Kriegsbrot – but I needed to clear my head, and the atmosphere in the bar had become oppressive. The air was so cold that January that it hurt my lungs, sheathing the bare twigs of the trees in an icy film, and I pulled my bonnet low over my head, my scarf up around my mouth. There were few people on the streets, but even then only one person, old Madame Bonnard, nodded to me. I told myself this was simply because, under so many layers, it was hard to tell who I was.

I walked to rue des Bastides, which had been renamed Schieler Platz we refused to refer to it as such. The door of the boulangerie was closed and I pushed at it. Inside Madame Louvier and Madame Durant were in animated conversation with Monsieur Armand. They stopped the moment the door closed behind me.

Good morning, I said, adjusting my pannier under my arm.

The two women, muffled under layers of wool, nodded vaguely in my direction. Monsieur Armand simply stood, his hands on the counter in front of him.

I waited, then turned to the old women. Are you well, Madame Louvier? We have not seen you at Le Coq Rouge for several weeks now. I was afraid you had been taken ill. My voice seemed unnaturally loud and high in the little shop.

No, the old woman said. I prefer to stay at home just now. She didnt meet my eye as she spoke.

Did you get the potato I left for you last week?

I did. Her gaze slid sideways at Monsieur Armand. I gave it to Madame Grenouille. She is … less particular about the provenance of her food.

I stood quite still. So this was how it was. The unfairness of it tasted like bitter ashes in my mouth. Then I hope she enjoyed it. Monsieur Armand, I would like some bread, please. My loaf and Hélènes, if you would be so kind. Oh, how I wished for one of his jokes, then. Some bawdy snippet or eye-rolling pun. But the baker just looked at me, his gaze steady and unfriendly. He didnt walk into the back room, as Id expected. In fact, he didnt move. Just as I was about to repeat my request he reached under the counter and placed two loaves of black bread on its surface.

I stared at them.

The temperature in the little boulangerie seemed to drop, but I felt the eyes of the three other people like a burn. The loaves sat on the counter, squat and dark.

I lifted my eyes and swallowed. Actually, I have made a mistake. We are not in need of bread today, I said quietly, and placed my purse back in my basket.

I dont suppose youre in need of much at the moment, Madame Durant muttered.

I turned and we stared at each other, the old woman and I. Then, my head high, I left the shop. The shame of it! The injustice! I saw the mocking looks of those two old ladies and realized I had been a fool. How could it have taken me so long to see what was going on under my nose? I strode back towards the hotel, my cheeks flushed, my mind racing. The ringing in my ears was so loud that I didnt hear the voice at first.

Halt!

I stopped, and glanced around me.

Halt!

A German officer was marching towards me, his hand raised. I waited just under the ruined statue of Monsieur Leclerc, my cheeks still flushed. He walked right up to me. You ignored me!

I apologize, Officer. I did not hear you.

It is an offence to ignore a German officer.

As I said, I did not hear you. My apologies.

I unwound my scarf a little from my face. And then I saw who it was the young officer who had drunkenly grabbed at Hélène in the bar, and whose head had been smashed against the wall for his pains. I saw the little scar on his temple, and I also saw he had recognized me too.

Your identity card.

It was not in my pocket. I had been so preoccupied with Auréliens words that I had left it on the hall table at the hotel.

I have forgotten it.

It is an offence to leave your home without your identity card.

It is just there. I pointed at the hotel. If you walk over with me, I can get it –

Im not going anywhere. What is your business?

I was just … going to the boulangerie.

He peered at my empty basket. To buy invisible bread?

I changed my mind.

You must be eating well at the hotel, these days. Everybody else is keen to get their rations.

I eat no better than anyone else.

Empty your pockets.

What?

He jabbed towards me with his rifle. Empty your pockets. And remove some of those layers so I can see what you are carrying.

It was minus one in the daylight. The icy wind numbed every inch of exposed skin. I put down my pannier and slowly shed the first of my shawls. Drop it. On the ground, he said. And the next one.

I glanced around me. Across the square the customers in Le Coq Rouge would be watching. I slowly shed my second shawl, and then my heavy coat. I felt the blank windows of the square watching me.

Empty the pockets. He jabbed at my coat with his bayonet, so that it rubbed against the ice and mud. Turn them inside out.

I bent down and put my hands into the pockets. I was shivering now, and my fingers, which were mauve, refused to obey me. In several attempts, I pulled from my jacket my ration book, two five-franc notes and a scrap of paper.

He snatched at it. What is this?

Nothing of importance, Officer. Just … just a gift from my husband. Please let me have it.

I heard the panic in my voice, and even as I said the words, I knew it had been a mistake. He opened Édouards little sketch of us he the bear in his uniform, me serious in my starched blue dress. This is confiscated, he said.

What?

You are not entitled to carry likenesses of French Army uniform. I will dispose of it.

But … I was incredulous. Its just a silly sketch of a bear.

A bear in French uniform. It could be a code.

But – but its just a joke … a trifle between me and my husband. Please do not destroy it. I reached out my hand but he batted it away. Please – I have so little to remind me … As I stood, shivering, he looked me in the eye and tore it in two. Then he tore the two pieces into shreds, watching my face as they fell like confetti on to the wet ground.

Next time remember your papers, whore, he said, and walked off to join his comrades.

Hélène met me as I walked through the door, clutching my freezing, sodden shawls to me. I felt the eyes of the customers as I pushed my way inside, but I had nothing to say to them. I walked through the bar and back into the little hallway, struggling with frozen hands to hang my shawls on the wooden pegs.

What happened? My sister was behind me.

I was so upset I could barely speak. The officer who grabbed you that time. He destroyed Édouards sketch. He ripped it into pieces, to get revenge on us after the Kommandant hit him. And there is no bread because Monsieur Armand apparently also thinks I am a whore. My face was numb and I could barely make myself understood, but I was livid and my voice carried.

Ssh!

Why? Why should I be quiet? What have I done wrong? This place is alive with people hissing and whispering and nobody tells the truth. I shook with rage and despair.

Hélène closed the bar door and hauled me up the stairs to the empty bedrooms, one of the few places we might not be heard.

Calm down and talk to me. What happened?

I told her then. I told her what Aurélien had said, and how the ladies in the boulangerie had spoken to me and about Monsieur Armand and his bread, which we could not now risk eating. Hélène listened to all of it, placing her arms around me, resting her head against mine, and making sounds of sympathy as I talked. Until You danced with him?

I wiped my eyes.

Well, yes.

You danced with Herr Kommandant?

Dont you look at me like that. You know what I was doing that night. You know I would have done anything to keep the Germans away from le réveillon. Keeping him here meant that you all enjoyed a proper feast. You told me it was the best day youd had since Jean-Michel left.

She looked at me.

Well, didnt you say that? Didnt you use those exact words?

Still she said nothing.

What? Are you going to call me a whore too?

Hélène looked at her feet. Finally she said, I would not have danced with a German, Sophie.

I let the significance of her words sink in. Then I stood and, without a word, I went back down the stairs. I heard her calling my name, and noted, somewhere deep in a dark place within me, that it came just a little too late.

In contrast to my sisters and my mood, the German soldiers seemed curiously cheerful that evening. Nobody complained about the reduced rations they seemed not to mind about the reduction in wine. The Kommandant alone seemed preoccupied and sombre. He sat alone as the other officers toasted something and all cheered. I wondered whether Aurélien was upstairs listening and whether he understood what they were saying.

Lets not argue, Hélène said, when we crawled into bed later. I do find it exhausting. She reached out a hand for mine, and in the near dark I took it. But we both knew something had changed.

It was Hélène who went to the market the following morning. Only a few stalls were out, these days, some preserved meats, some fearsomely expensive eggs and a few vegetables, and an elderly man from La Vendée who made new undergarments from old fabric. I stayed in the hotel bar, serving the few customers we had left and trying not to mind that I was evidently still the subject of some unfriendly discussion.

At about half past ten we became aware of a commotion outside. I wondered briefly whether it was more prisoners, but Hélène came rushing in, her hair loose and her eyes wide.

Youll never guess, she said. Its Liliane.

My heart began to thump. I dropped the ashtrays I was cleaning and ran for the door, flanked by the other customers who had risen as one from their seats. Up the road came Liliane Béthune. She was wearing her astrakhan coat, but she no longer looked like a Parisian model. She had on nothing else. Her legs were mottled blue with a mixture of cold and bruising. Her feet were bare and bloodied, her left eye half closed with swelling. Her hair lay unpinned around her face and she limped, as if every step were a Sisyphean effort. On each side of her stood two goading German officers, a group of soldiers following close behind. For once, they seemed not to mind when we came out to stare.

That beautiful astrakhan coat was grey with dirt. On the back of it were not just sticky patches of blood but the unmistakable smears of phlegm.

As I stared at it, I heard a sob. Maman! Maman! Behind her, held back by other soldiers, I now saw Édith, Lilianes seven-year-old daughter. She sobbed and writhed, trying to reach past them to her mother, her face contorted. One gripped her arm, not letting her anywhere close. Another smirked, as if it were amusing. Liliane walked on as if oblivious, in a private world of pain, her head lowered. As she came past the hotel a low jeering broke out.

See the proud whore now!

Do you think the Germans will still want you, Liliane?

Theyve tired of her. And good riddance.

I could not believe these were my own countrymen. I gazed around me at the hate-filled faces, the scornful smiles, and when I could bear it no longer, I pushed through them and ran towards Édith. Give me the child, I demanded. I saw now that the whole town seemed to have come to watch this spectacle. They were catcalling at Liliane from upstairs windows, from across the marketplace.

Édith sobbed, her voice pleading. Maman!

Give me the child! I cried. Or are Germans persecuting little children now too?

The officer holding her looked behind him and I saw Herr Kommandant standing by the post office. He said something to the officer beside him, and after a moment the child was released to me. I swept her into my arms. Its all right, Édith. You come with me. She buried her face in my shoulder, crying inconsolably, one arm still reaching vainly in the direction of her mother. I thought I saw Lilianes face turn slightly towards me, but at this distance it was impossible to say.

I carried Édith quickly into the bar, away from the eyes of the town, away from the sound of the jeering as it picked up again, away into the back of the hotel where she would hear nothing. The child was hysterical, and who could blame her? I took her to our bedroom, gave her some water, then held her in my arms and rocked her. I told her again and again that it would be all right, we would make it all right, even though I knew we could do nothing of the sort. She cried until she was exhausted. From her swollen face I guessed she had been crying much of the night. God only knew what she had seen. Finally she became limp in my arms and I laid her carefully in my bed, covering her with blankets. Then I made my way downstairs.

As I walked into the bar, there was silence. Le Coq Rouge was busier than it had been in weeks, Hélène rushing between the tables with a loaded tray. I saw the mayor in the doorway, then stared at the faces before me and realized I no longer knew any of them.

Are you satisfied? I said, my voice breaking as I spoke. A child lies upstairs having watched you spit and jeer at her brutalized mother. People she thought were her friends. Are you proud?

My sisters hand landed on my shoulder. Sophie –

I shrugged her off. Dont Sophie me. You have no idea what you have all done. You think you know everything about Liliane Béthune. Well, you know nothing. NOTHING! I was crying now, tears of rage. You are all so quick to judge, but just as quick to take what she offers when it suits you.

The mayor walked towards me. Sophie, we should talk.

Oh. You will talk to me now! For weeks you have looked at me as if I were a bad smell because Monsieur Suel supposedly believes me to be a traitor and a whore. Me! Who risked everything to bring your daughter food. You would all believe him rather than me! Well, perhaps I do not want to talk to you, Monsieur. Knowing what I know, perhaps I would rather talk to Liliane Béthune!

I was raging now. I felt unhinged, a madwoman, as if I gave off sparks. I looked at their stupid faces, their open mouths, and I shook the restraining hand from my shoulder.

Where do you think the Journal des Occupés came from? Do you think the birds dropped it? Do you think it came by magic carpet?

Hélène began to bundle me out now. I dont care! Who do they think was helping them? Liliane helped you! All of you! Even when you were shitting in her bread, she was helping you!

I was in the hallway. Hélènes face was white, the mayor behind her, pushing me forwards, away from them.

What? I protested. Does the truth make you too uncomfortable? Am I forbidden to speak?

Sit down, Sophie. For Gods sake, just sit down and shut up.

I am very sorry for Madame Béthune, the mayor said quietly. But I am not here to discuss her. I came to talk to you.

I have nothing to say to you, I said, wiping at my face with my palms.

The mayor took a deep breath. Sophie. I have news of your husband.

It took me a moment to register what he had said.

He sat down heavily on the stairs beside me. Hélène still held my hand.

Its not good news, Im afraid. When the last prisoners came through this morning, one dropped a message as he passed the post office. A scrap of paper. My clerk picked it up. It says that Édouard Lefèvre was among five men sent to the reprisal camp at Ardennes last month. Im so sorry, Sophie.