Lies Told In Silence (11 page)

Part II

Chapter 14

August 1916

After close to two years, Helene was used to the presence of war. Casualties in the thousands had become so routine she barely flinched any more. Hardly a week went by without the sound of explosions and news of some further hardship. Hardly a week went by without anxieties bubbling over into brusque words or hidden tears. Each day they hoped for letters from her father and Guy; anticipation rewarded or dashed by a trip to the post office. Each day they lived with uncertainty.

Although the French government had returned to Paris after less than two months in Bordeaux and her father along with it, Helene remained in Beaufort with her mother, grandmother and younger brother. When Papa had visited for Christmas 1914, she had overheard her mother and father arguing as she climbed the stairs for bed and had paused on the landing outside their bedroom door to listen, an action she would never have taken in the past but one that seemed excusable under the circumstances. Maman’s voice had been anxious, bordering on shrill.

“Why can’t we return to Paris? You’re there. Germany did not overrun the city. Many of our friends have returned. Tell me, Henri. Why?”

“Not yet, Lise . . . Germany still threatens . . . Verdun might
not . . . stay in Beaufort a little longer.”

Helene had been unable to hear every word of her father’s reply, but the message had been clear. He still believed Germany threatened Paris. Expecting further protest from Maman, she had waited without moving, her head tilted towards the door.

“Don’t cry, darling . . . just a little longer.”

A little longer had become two years, and at every juncture her father had a reason for them to wait: food shortages, deserted and dangerous streets, battles in northern France which made it unsafe for them to travel, battles east of Paris which increased the threat to the capital, impossible road conditions, restrictions on civilian train travel. Papa was working furiously at the War Ministry, sometimes in Paris but often in places where the fighting was fiercest and where he sought intelligence on German troop dispositions and other matters that might inform war strategy. He said little about these matters, but gradually Helene had concluded that her father’s efforts were of great importance.

Grandmere’s hair had turned completely white, the corners of her mouth now etched with deep wrinkles. Although she retained command of the kitchen, her shoulders were stooped and her movements slow. She still tended her herb garden and pruned her roses and gathered plums and apricots to put up pots of jam. In the evening, Grandmere read the communiqués, sighing over disasters, smiling over successes and, if there was no news to read, she knitted endless pairs of socks. But Grandmere no longer dug in the garden or did any heavy work.

Helene’s mother bore the marks of worry in her gaunt physique and wary eyes, in forced smiles and endless hours of letter writing. To conquer their isolation, Helene
or her mother made the journey into Beaufort most days except when winter snows and fierce winds made the walk impossible. Beyond those trips, Maman volunteered twice a week in the hospital’s administrative office, handling correspondence with military units responsible for supplies and with other groups like the Red Cross. According to Madame Lalonde, Helene’s mother had a way with words.

They lived simply, for food was restricted and other goods often
unavailable. Monsieur Doucet and Monsieur Garnier brought gifts from time to time, extra eggs or a scrawny chicken, a slab of bacon or jug of cider. Her mother and grandmother could do wonders with a needle and thread, refashioning old clothes left from Tante Camille’s time into a new skirt or warm jacket. Sheets and towels were threadbare from use, but no one complained or thought to waste precious funds on something new.

Jean had continued to attend school during the week unless the shelling sounded too close for their mother’s comfort, and when he returned home, he went next door to help on the Doucet farm, heavy work that broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms and legs. Helene thought he looked more and more like Papa.

When it became clear that Maman and Grandmere needed more of her help, Helene stopped going to school so the family could be self-sufficient. Papa had been upset, but Helene had written to him that she had only a few months left and at eighteen was old enough to know her own mind. She missed the challenge of learning and the camaraderie of friends, especially Germaine, but in truth, Madame Rosnet had taught her all she could. Instead, Helene practiced her English through letters to Marie and read everything she could find, all the classics which had occupied her mother when they first came to Beaufort, books she borrowed and books she implored her father to send. Most recently she had obtained a copy of Madame Bovary and was both shocked and intrigued at Flaubert’s tale of a woman who lived beyond her means and committed adultery in order to escape the emptiness of provincial life.

All vestiges of girlhood were gone. She no longer dawdled along the road or sighed over fashion magazines or complained about her lot in life. She read the newspaper with care and wrote articulate letters to her father and brother. She learned the difference between German, French and British planes so she could recognize any that flew near the house, knew how to bottle and pickle, when to prune their vegetables and how to repair the outside pump. At the end of July, she had advised her mother that Gaston would teach her how to drive as soon as he could secure some gasoline.

Every Thursday, Helene rode her bicycle into Beaufort for an afternoon visit with Germaine. Two years together at school had brought them close, and she thought of these visits as her moment of indulgence in a week of chores and responsibilities. Beyond those somewhat carefree Thursday afternoons, Helene was busy all day and wore a look of quiet authority and purpose. A look her father would not have recognized.

War cultivated a flame of dedication which Helene noticed each time she went into Beaufort—Madame Larouche measured with more accuracy and carried sensible fabrics in dull colours; Dr. Valdane questioned the villagers more carefully before dispensing dwindling supplies and no longer sold goods smacking of luxury; Father Marcel, the priest in charge of St. Jerome’s, grasped each parishioner’s hand with a kindly eye while offering warm words of encouragement; the butcher sold tougher cuts of meat, and the florist was now a shop full of second hand clothes. Front steps were swept each day, fires lit only sparingly, meat reserved for special occasions, leftovers carefully saved. She knew at least three families who had taken in Belgian refugees fleeing the Germans, feeding and clothing them, helping them deal with French bureaucracy and find temporary homes. Those men who remained—mainly old men and a few with physical limitations—walked with upright posture and braced shoulders and participated in the Beaufort Brigade, which the deputy mayor had organized for local defence.

At the post office, rules governing everyday life were pinned conspicuously to a large billboard so the citizens of Beaufort would have no reason to ignore restrictions their government felt necessary for victory. Everyone strived to do their part, and Helene accepted her responsibilities with a sense of duty and sacrifice.

From time to time soldiers came and went. The first time a group of soldiers passed by the house, she had been weeding in the front garden when a
thump-thump-thump
sounded in the distance. A few minutes later, the noise became much more insistent, and fear had taken hold—a fear that eased a fraction as men dressed in French blue rounded the curve in the road. Leaning on the garden hoe, she had watched them pass by in silence. Where were these men going? Did their presence signify battles moving closer to Beaufort? Would German troops soon follow? Although her questions were never answered, soldiers marching past the house no longer prompted more than vague apprehension.

In 1915, her mother had closed many rooms in Tante Camille’s house to conserve heat in the winter and to devote their time and energy to more important matters than cleaning unused rooms. Reluctantly, Helene had moved from her attic oasis to a small room on the main floor, where she could easily light the morning fire and put on the kettle before anyone else got out of bed.

On a Saturday in early August, Jean agreed to fetch the mail while Helene and her mother were occupied with the dirty, time-consuming task of cleaning both stove and hearth. As he rambled out of the house, he muttered something unintelligible.

“He’s so restless.” Helene’s mother dipped a blackened cloth into a bucket of sudsy water.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Grandmere shook her head. “I remember Henri at that age. Always getting into trouble. I think he picked fights just to prove he was strong.”

“That doesn’t sound like Henri.”

“Well, he wouldn’t let you see that side when he was courting you. But you didn’t know him when he was fifteen or sixteen. Even seventeen. I remember he came home with a broken nose one night after boxing against some ruffian. There were bets on the outcome.”

“Who won?” Helene said, kneeling on the floor so she could reach into the oven and scrub its interior. Though her knees and back ached, she had
refused her mother’s offer to change places.

“Your Papa, of course.”

Listening to her grandmother chuckle, Helene mused at the friendship that had evolved amongst three generations brought together by war. After so many months at Tante Camille’s, they mixed easily over shared concerns, ignoring the traditional hierarchy and social courtesies of grandmother, mother and daughter. Though every day brought further worries, at least they had one another.

Helene watched her grandmother rise from her chair, rubbing her back to ease a pain that worsened as the months passed. Nothing Doctor Valdane suggested made a difference. With a bad back and summer heat, her grandmother rarely went into Beaufort anymore. Even on Sundays, she remained at home, declaring that the walk exhausted her and she had heard enough sermons to last a lifetime. It occurred to Helene that her grandmother secretly relished a quiet time without the clatter and bang of household chores or Jean’s muted mutterings.

While changing out of dirty clothes, Helene watched the wind blow, fierce gusts that rattled the loose window in her bedroom and made the trees sway. Perhaps a storm was brewing. She saw a rabbit poised on hind legs twitch his nose and scamper into a thick hedge near the vegetable garden. Somewhere in the house, a door banged and Jean shouted, “Letter from Papa.”

Helene hurried into fresh clothes. Letters from her father kept them informed and often contained news of Guy. Though they rarely knew Guy’s exact whereabouts, Papa’s hints allowed them to speculate. Concern for her brother hung over each day like a brooding bank of clouds, and each night she prayed for his safety.

“What’s the matter, Maman?”

Her mother held the letter against her lips, a look of confused shock on her face.

“Maman!” Helene raised her voice, but still her mother said nothing. Gently she extracted the letter from her hand and began to read.

My dearest Lise,

I am writing in all haste with difficult news. Guy has been wounded. His leg, I believe. He’s in a field hospital not far from Verdun, in a small village called Clermont-en-Argonne. He and his men helped repulse a German attack but were caught by intense shelling when the Germans retaliated the following day.

I urge you to go to the hospital. I would go, but my responsibilities are overwhelming right now and I am soon to leave on a lengthy journey.  Although our doctors and nurses do their best, men whose families help have the best chance of quick recovery. Take the travel pass I’ve included with you, otherwise it will be impossible to book tickets and pass the sentries. Even so, travel will be difficult. Make your way to Clermont-en-Argonne and ask for Captain St. Laurent. He will know where they’ve taken Guy. Send me news as soon as you see him.

Maman will look after Helene and Jean.

My love to you all,

Henri

“Jean, stop thumping about,” said Helene. “Please get a glass of water
for Maman. And find Grandmere.”

Being forced to take charge dampened Helene’s shock at the news they had feared for so long. For once, Jean did as she asked without question. Helene held her mother’s cold, lifeless hands.

“Maman, look at me. We only know that he’s wounded. Nothing else. Speed and calm are important if you’re going to help him. Not hysterics. You can do this. Papa is counting on you.”

Jean returned from the kitchen and offered a glass to his mot
her, who took it without speaking, her hand trembling so much that water spilled onto her skirt.

“What is it, Helene?” he asked.

“Guy has been wounded. Papa is asking Maman to go to the hospital.” Helene kept her voice even.

Jean stilled, like a deer hearing a sudden rustle. “Is it serious?”

“We shall pray to God that it’s not.”

While Helene helped her mother pack
and Grandmere prepared dinner, Jean took a message to Gaston, returning with a promise to arrive early next morning for the trip to Amiens. From there, a train would take their mother close to Verdun.

Verdun. Every French citizen knew it was the last fortress to fall in the Franco-Prussian war and hence symbolized the strength of France. But now it was an ominous place. Since April, news had been dominated by German bombardment of the city and French resistance—a David-and-Goliath battle with almost a million German troops arrayed against a few hundred thousand French.
Helene pushed away the thought of both her mother and brother so close to danger and continued to fold the blouses Maman had laid out on her bed. Her mother did not need to be reminded of the difficulties facing their soldiers at Verdun.