Lies Told In Silence (28 page)

Chapter 40

November 1918

Honfleur was quiet in early November, a welcome quiet after the emotional events of October, and as she moved about their small cottage, dusting its few ornaments, putting away the biscuits she had made for breakfast, removing the vase of flowers Francois had arranged for their wedding night, Helene’s feelings were mixed. Relief dominated as the unbearable dilemma of losing her child, or raising what society would deem a bastard, had disappeared. Beyond relief, she felt a sense of calm, contemplating the birth of Edward’s child, and acceptance of life’s unexpected ruptures was also beginning to take hold. But beyond those emotions, a thick layer of sorrow loomed. Every day something reminded her of Edward, and every day she struggled to keep her misery hidden from Francois.

When her grandmother had spoken about marrying without love, she had said one could grow to love that person, and now Helene clung to that notion even as she worried whether she had made a mistake. And yet her husband had been nothing but kind. He seemed to take pleasure in doing small things for her, from fetching her slippers to placing a shawl around her shoulders when the chill gathered at night. Not that he doted on her every minute, for he followed a daily regimen of exercise and letter writing and had taken up sailing as a diversion, which called for regular lessons with an ill-natured man named Stephan who was missing an arm.

“We suit one another,” Francois had said when she asked him how he put up with Stephan’s surliness, and Helene wondered whether her husband was referring to their wounds or their moods.

After the doctor announced that the baby could come any day, every time Helene moved, Francois asked whether she was all right. Had it been Edward, such concern would have been understandable, but for some reason, Francois’s solicitousness was irritating, and she had been happy he had surrendered to her insistence that he go sailing that morning.

After her chores were finished, Helene planned to write a letter to Marie, a task that gave her much pleasure, even though she now had to take care when writing about Francois for fear of raising any concerns. Helene reached up to place a bowl on the second shelf and felt a sharp twinge of pain in her lower back. Before she had time to contemplate the source of pain,
a church bell began ringing and a horn honked, and then shouting erupted outside the cottage. Suddenly, the front door opened and Francois called out.

“Helene! The war is over. It’s over. Come and look,” he said.

Hurrying from the kitchen into the front room as quickly as her heavy figure would allow, Helene saw the look of relief mingled with astonishment on her husband’s face. His energetic demeanour reminded her of the Francois of long ago.

“Is it really over?”

“Yes, yes. Everyone’s gathering at the square. Can you walk that far? Or should you rest here, and I’ll bring back the news?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

Mentioning the pain in her back would only make him anxious, and she wanted them both to experience the joy that the end to war would bring.
Peace at last
, she thought. Rumours had circulated for weeks, and now here it was. Peace would not remove Francois’s limp or his scars nor would it bring Edward back, but it would allow them and the whole country to begin anew.

Helene and Francois joined the swelling crowd following the road into the centre of town. Everywhere men and women carried
the tricolour, hosting it high each time the crowd shouted, “
Vive la France
!” Holding hands children skipped along in ever-increasing numbers, a horse-drawn cart passed by, the laughing driver holding the reins in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Doors opened, families tumbled out, dogs barked, the noise of the crowd rose and rose, interspersed with the sounds of “The Marseillaise”. Helene clung to Francois, tears running freely down her cheeks.

Four years
, she thought.
Never would I have imagined this day under these circumstances.

* * *

A few days after Germany surrendered, Lise travelled once more to Honfleur, this time for the baby’s birth. She smiled at the euphoria of passengers and those greeting the train, the excitement and energy filling the air, the flags and bunting decorating streets and houses. At each stop, the train’s whistle tooted in short, happy bursts.

Henri had known for weeks that the end was imminent and had broken his vow of secrecy to let her know their son would soon return. As the train jerked and clattered, she remembered how Paris had looked on that final day of war; the people cheering, crying, laughing. With Jean and Lucy, she had joined the crowds, watching young women kiss the soldiers as they passed by, traffic stalled as impromptu parades begun in different parts of the city came together into one big swell of bobbing heads. She watched their joyful tears and heard the sound of singing. “We are free!” many shouted, waving the flags of France and the Allies, their dark world suddenly light.

Francois met her at the station, his stiff formality at odds with the fact that she had known him all his life.
He doesn’t know how to treat me as a mother-in-law
, she thought as she searched his face for evidence of her daughter’s impact. She imagined that his shoulders were less stiff and his face more at ease.

“I’m so happy to see you, Francois,” she said, hoping that a warm smile and her hand resting lightly on his arm would signal
family and friendship. “Your Maman sends her love.”

“We had a letter from her yesterday. Sounds like Paris is celebrating.”

“It’s wonderful to see.” Lise’s feelings were so close to the surface that if she said much more she would be in tears. War’s end had released four years of pent-up emotions, and they spilled of their own accord. “Is Helene all right?”

“She’s very uncomfortable,” he said, his voice tight, “and has regular pains, especially at night.”

“That’s quite normal.” Lise felt he needed reassuring just like Henri had when Guy was born. “Don’t worry. She’s a strong woman.”

Francois ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve been so concerned about her I have hardly paid attention to the news. What are Parisians saying?”

“Everyone talks about the war to end all wars. Henri says Woodrow Wilson has prepared a peace proposal.”

“Peace. After so long, it’s hard to believe.” Francois held her arm as they crossed the road. “I’m glad you’re here. Helene is worried. She’s heard too many stories about labour pain and babies in difficult positions. I don’t understand why women delight in telling these tales.”

* * *

In the early hours of November 18, Helene shook Francois’s shoulder.

“I think it’s time.”

Francois propped himself on one arm, squeezing his eyes shut then opening them wide. He touched her ch
eek and smiled his reassurance.

“I’ll get your mother.”

She heard him pad barefoot down the hallway and knock on her mother’s bedroom door.

“Maman Noisette! Can you come? Helene needs you.” Francois did not wait for her answer before returning to Helene’s side.

“I’m going to fetch the midwife.”

He dressed quickly in trousers and sweater, pulled on thick socks and shoved his feet into a pair of old shoes. She heard him thump down the stairs and the front door slam shut.

When her mother entered the bedroom, Helene’s smile turned into a grimace as a brief thud of pressure signalled the beginning of another contraction. Pain billowed to a peak, holding its intensity for a moment or two before easing. Beads of sweat formed on her brow.

“Painful?” Helene nodded as her mother wiped her brow with a cool, damp cloth. “How many minutes apart?”

“About ten, I think.” The pain was intense. She was losing track of time.

“Just take them one by one,” her mother said, “otherwise it feels overwhelming. Panting helps.” Helene watched her mother demonstrate.

Helene nodded then felt a warm gush of fluid between her legs. “Maman?”

“That’s normal. The fluid has to release so the baby can come.”

She eased Helene into a chair and quickly changed the sheets and helped her into a fresh nightgown. Helene felt another thud of pain as she crawled back in bed and tensed in anticipation.

“Relax and breathe,” her mother whispered.

The same pattern of pain spread through her body, a rapid ramp of intensity, holding steady at that pain level then a gradual subsiding. “Where’s Francois?”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you, Maman, for coming.” Helene wondered how she would have coped without her mother’s calm certainty. Maman squeezed her hand and wiped her brow again. After several more contractions, they heard Francois’s uneven footsteps on the stairs.

“Madame Fleury is at another delivery.” He announced in a flat tone as he shrugged off his coat. “She’ll be with us as soon as possible.”

Feeling another thud of pain, Helene concentrated on a brightly coloured painting of a fishing boat on the wall opposite their bed.

“Can you hold Helene’s hand while I get some fresh water?”

Francois sat on a wooden chair next to the bed. “You look a little tired,” he said.

“You were gone so long I was worried.”

She squeezed his hand as the next contraction announced its arrival, and he held tight, whispering encouraging words to keep her focused. She was pale when it ended, though she made no sound.

Time lost significance. Helene was only aware of contractions and brief interludes without pain. Her body became a separate being, operating outside her permission. Francois remained at her side, his warm hand offering strength while his calm eyes steadied her. As daylight emerged in pale shadows outside the window, the midwife arrived. By then, Helene’s labour pains were coming almost one on top of the other, and she was beginning to panic.

“Please leave the room, Monsieur, so I can examine Madame.”

“No! My husband stays. I can’t do this without him.” Helene crie
d out with another contraction.

Between contractions, Madame Fleury examined her cervix. “It will come very soon,” she said, her nose pinched in disapproval.

As if waiting for the midwife’s permission, Helene moaned, “I have to push.”

The midwife crouched into position. Shortly, the baby’s head emerged then, with a slow, determined push, the shoulders and body followed. Madame Fleury wiped the baby gently with a white flannel cloth befo
re placing it in Helene’s arms.

“It’s a girl,” she
said as Helene burst into tears.

Part
III

Chapter 41

April 1936

“Everyone working hard?” Francois asked when Helene returned to the kitchen.

Most nights after dinner, Francois helped clear the table, rinsing and neatly stacking the dishes to the right of the sink while Helene nudged their children towards homework. She thought of managing the house as her job while his was to run the business, so she insisted he relax with the newspaper while she cleaned everything away. Spending long hours at his office entitled him to unwind. But he always read in the kitchen, and somehow this made Helene feel that they were communing, even if conversation was limited to random comments on an editorial or a brief interchange about the day’s events.

“Well, Claire and Juliette are studying. Daniel seems to be daydreaming.”

“Just like his father,” said Francois, turning a page of the newspaper.

“You don’t daydream. You’re one of the most practical men I know.”

Helene turned to look at
her husband fondly. His scars had faded over the years, though the one on his cheek was still puckered and red, a prominent reminder of war. Nevertheless, he was a handsome man, and she enjoyed the envious looks that women often gave them.

“That makes me sound boring. How have you put up with me for so long?”

She flapped her dishtowel at him in a playful manner and turned back to the sink. After almost eighteen years of marriage, they lived comfortably in the seventh arrondissement. Contentment had settled into their lives after the wonder of Claire’s birth and a reality that was far too demanding for thoughts of what might have been. Then Juliette and Daniel had come along, each born two years apart, and for many years, Helene was so exhausted she fell asleep most evenings reading the newspaper while Francois worked relentlessly to establish his manufacturing business. Now their children were older, and she had time for a few social activities and twice weekly tennis games.

“Maman called to ask us for dinner this Sunday.

“That’s nice.” Francois barely lifted his head from the newspaper.

“She asked Guy and Jean as well but they aren’t able to join us. Jean’s twins are down with the measles and Guy has to travel t
o Zurich for a Monday meeting.”

“Guy is always travelling. Renault must be expanding again. Did you see this article?” Francois said. “Let me read part of it to you.” He folded the paper into quarters and began to read. “While the Rhineland has been a demilitarized zone since the end of the Great War, Germany’s recent reoccupation of that territory gives them full control of the stretch of land that has acted as a buffer between France and Germany. Hitler took a huge gamble in March, a gamble at the expense of France. Had we shown our willingness to take a stand, many of our military leaders believe Hitler would have backed down. We did not. And now over thirty-two thousand soldiers and armed policemen occupy the Rhineland.

“Have we been sleeping while this restless giant on our eastern front continues to strengthen his hand? Have we forgotten what horror that nation wreaked on the world twenty years ago? With our inaction, Herr Hitler has learned that he can gamble on France doing nothing to stop him. In the opinion of this journalist, Hitler will now turn his attentions to the east of Europe in territories where France and Great Britain are even less likely to involve themselves. This is a sorry turn of events for our country. And a sorry turn of events for the world.”

“What do you think he means by ‘a sorry turn of events for the world’?” Helene asked, half turning to look at her husband.

Francois set the paper aside and got up from the table. He stood behind Helene and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I think he means war.”

“But we won’t let that happen. France and Britain and the United States and others won’t let Hitler do that. Surely you don’t think that’s likely, do you?”

“I’m beginning to think Herr Hitler has ambitions far beyond Germany. And he seems like a fanatic. I’ll ask your father what he thinks when we see him on Sunday.”

* * *

Lise and Helene remained at the dining room table while Francois and Henri adjourned to the male sanctuary of the library. Lise watched her husband put an arm around their son-in-law’s shoulder.

“He’s very fond of Francois,”
she said.

“I know, Maman. It makes me happy to see them together.” Helene sipped her wine.

“He admires his business sense, you know. These days he grumbles about being in government. It’s become so political. I think he wishes he could run a business like Francois. And . . .”

“And what?”

“He’s worried about Hitler. I can’t bear to think what another war might do to your father, or our country, for that matter.”

“Surely it won’t come to that.”

“That’s what people said the last time.”

After a moment or two of silence, Lise picked up a plate of fruit and offered it to her daughter.

“You seem distracted,” she said. Helene shrugged her shoulders. “Is it Francois?” Helene shook her head. “The children?” Another shake.

Lise cut a pear into small slices, schooling herself to be patient. Helene would tell her in her own way. They were close, closer than most mothers and daughters, a closeness brought about by war and maintained by careful nurturing. Helene shared many thoughts with her mother, the ups and downs of marriage, the trials of young children, the financial strain she and Francois had exper
ienced in the early years of getting a business going. Lise knew Francois adored his wife and loved his children, even the child who looked so much like her real father.

I wonder how Helene feels looking at Claire everyday?
Lise had never dared to ask this question.
Would he have been the right man for her?
She remembered the look of love between Edward and Helene when he came to dinner so many years ago and her daughter’s agonizing despair when his letters stopped coming.

Helene smoothed the folds of her skirt and set her cup down. “I read an article about a memorial the Canadians have built to honour the battle at Vimy Ridge.” Lise nodded. “There’s a dedication ceremony in July. It made me think.”

“Think about what?” Lise asked. “About the years we spent there?”

“No. About Edward. And whatever happened to him.”

“Oh, I see. You don’t really want to stir up those memories, do you?”

Helene slumped in her chair and sighed. “I suppose not.”

“Darling, you and Francois are happy. You have three beautiful children. Old memories can sting, you know. Did you tell him about the memorial?”

“No. I thought I would wait until I made a decision.”

“And you don’t think Francois should be part of that decision?”

“I suppose you’re right. He deserves to know.” Helene took another slice of pear. “I’ve never forgotten, you know.”

“Of course not.”

Lise wondered how she could help. An unspoken pact had evolved between mother and daughter; they never mentioned
Edward and never acknowledged in any way, publicly or privately, that Francois was not Claire’s father. But Lise knew with great certainty that going to Beaufort would be a mistake.

* * *

Helene and Francois walked along Boulevard Saint-Germaine, enjoying the sweet smells of freshly turned earth in nearby gardens, trees sprouting leaves and blossoms, the perfume of sun-drenched flowers. The evening was warm; light lingered as the sun dipped lower and lower.

“You’re distracted,” Francois said.

Helene tilted her head and glanced at him then looked away. “I guess I am.”

“Want to tell me?”

She had asked herself that very question on several occasions and had almost mentioned her thoughts once or twice. Vimy and Beaufort. Would her husband understand? Surely talk of an old lover would not bother him after so many years. When she had first seen the announcement concerning the dedication ceremony, the word
Vimy
had leapt off the page, whirling inside her head, stirring memories and deeply hidden emotions.

That’s all behind me
, she thought.
I have three children and a husband who loves me. We’re content, pleasantly married, and financially secure. I’ve made him happy. He doesn’t regret his decision, I’m sure he doesn’t. So why can’t I let this go?

Seeing Edward’s features reflected in Claire’s face every day had always been difficult. When she was little,
the resemblance to her father was minimal, but now that she was seventeen, her face had lengthened, her hair darkened and her physique slimmed so that Helene saw him in the set of Claire’s shoulders and the line of her chin and the lift of her eyebrows. In a hundred different ways.

It was all so long ago. Her parents often stayed in Beaufort, but Helene rarely did. When she was there, buried memories and disciplined thoughts unravelled, threatening to break her composed life into fragments. Eventually, Francois stopped pressing her to go. Instead, her parents took the children to Beaufort for holidays
under the pretence that Helene and Francois needed time on their own. Maman understood.

Helene held Francois’s hand.
“There’s a dedication ceremony taking place near Beaufort. A war memorial to commemorate the battle at Vimy Ridge. I’m thinking of going.” The shock on Francois’s face should have warned her to say nothing more, and yet she stumbled on. “It feels like a chance for closure.”

“Closure? I was unaware that you needed any closure. I thought you were happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Then . . .”

“I think it’s something I just have to do.”

Francois
shook his hand loose. His nostrils flared as he sucked in his breath. “Do you think you’ll see him?”

She heard the harshness. “I don’t think so. I assume he’s dead. You and I have never talked about him. I always thought I shouldn’t bring up his name unless you did. But I think about him.”

Memories of Edward were an invisible cloak, warm and soothing when she needed comfort, calming her soul when life was difficult. She had never admitted out loud her assumption that he had died in the war. She shivered.

“I thought you put it behind you.”

“That’s not the same as forgetting.”

“What have I done, Helene? I’ve been a good father to Claire. I love her as much as I love Daniel and Juliette. I’ve loved you. Every day of our marriage. Why are you doing this?”

“It’s like a wound that hasn’t healed. I need to go.” Her voice tapered to a thin whisper. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I need to.” She could no more resist the visit to Vimy than she could stop breathing.

“A wound that hasn’t healed. You make me feel as though I mean nothing to you. As though I’m merely a convenience. The man who gave your bastard child a name.”

“Francois, how can you speak of Claire like that?”

“How can you do this to me? He’s gone, Helene.” Francois’s
voice was raised in anger.

“Shhh. People are staring at us,” Helene said.

“He’s gone. He’s either dead or living in Canada. He never came back, never once tried to find you. Can’t you be happy loving me? You do love me, don’t you? Or is that something else you need to tell me?”

“I do love you. You have to believe me.”

“But you’re going to go even if it makes me unhappy? Even if I can’t bear the idea of you keeping him in your thoughts all these years? Be careful what you set in motion, Helene. Be very careful.”

For the next while, Francois stayed
late at work, giving Helene no chance to soothe his feelings. Every night, he crept home after midnight and slipped into bed without a word. At breakfast, he focused on the newspaper and avoided Helene’s gaze. He spoke to her brusquely, if at all, refusing to hear anything more about an eighteen-year-old ghost.

“Tell me,” he said one night in bed. “I think I can listen now.”

Helene spooned against him, grateful that Francois had come home to her. She had missed him, the comfort of him, the way he knew her moods, the way he stroked her body, his knowing glance.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You already have. But maybe it’s time for both of us to understand.”

Helene breathed slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, just as she had during childbirth. Telling Francois of her feelings for Edward felt like she was betraying not one but two men.

“We met after the Canadians took Vimy Ridge. The mayor had given a party at a nearby farm and urged everyone in Beaufort to attend. Edward asked me to dance, and after that, we saw each other whenever he could get away. At first, I was flattered to have a soldier pay attention to me, but it quickly moved on to something more serious. We could talk about anything. He told me about the war and what it did to men, like the letters you wrote to me.

“We fell in love. He became part of me. I don’t understand it,
but I felt like half of me was gone if he wasn’t there. And when he didn’t come back, that part of me vanished with him. He said he wanted to marry me. That’s why I couldn’t give the baby away. I couldn’t imagine telling him if he ever did return. I don’t know what I would have done if you . . .”