Suite Francaise (45 page)

He looked up at her. “You’re so pale,” he said softly, sounding worried.

“Pale? Not really. It’s just been very hot today.”

“Where is your good mother?” he asked, smiling. “Let’s go for a walk outside. Meet me in the garden.”

A little later, as he was walking slowly down the wide path, between the fruit trees, he saw her. She came towards him, her head lowered. When she was a few steps away, she hesitated. Then, as she always did as soon as they were hidden from sight by the great lime tree, she went up to him and slipped her arm through his. They walked a while in silence.

“They’ve cut the hay in the meadows,” she said finally.

He closed his eyes, breathed in the aroma. The moon was the colour of honey in a milky sky where wispy clouds drifted by. It was still light out.

“It will be nice weather tomorrow, for our celebration.”

“Is it tomorrow? I thought . . .”

She didn’t finish what she was saying.

“Why not?” he said, frowning.

“Nothing, I just thought . . .”

He nervously flicked at the flowers with the riding crop he was holding.

“What are people saying?”

“About what?”

“You know very well. About the crime.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone.”

“And what about you? What do you think?”

“That it’s terrible, of course.”

“Terrible and incomprehensible. After all, what have we, as people, done to them? It’s not our fault if we upset them sometimes, we’re just following orders; we’re soldiers. And I know for a fact that the regiment did everything possible to behave properly, humanely, didn’t they?”

“Certainly.”

“Naturally, I wouldn’t say this to anyone else . . . Among soldiers it’s understood that we don’t show pity towards a comrade who’s been killed. That would go against military thinking, which requires that we consider ourselves solely as part of a whole. Soldiers can die just so long as the regiment lives. That’s why we’re not postponing tomorrow’s celebration,” he continued. “But I can tell you the truth, Lucile. My heart breaks at the thought of this nineteen-year-old boy being murdered. He was a very distant relative of mine. Our families know each other. And then, there’s something else I find stupid and revolting. Why did he have to shoot the dog, our mascot, our poor Bubi? If I ever find that man, I’d happily kill him with my bare hands.”

“I expect that’s what he must have been saying to himself for a long time,” Lucile said softly. “If I ever got my hands on one of those Germans, or even one of their dogs, how happy I’d be!”

They looked at each other, dismayed; the words had slipped through their lips, almost against their will.

“It’s the same old story,” said Bruno, forcing himself to sound light-hearted. “
Es ist die alte Geschichte
. The conquerors don’t understand why people want nothing to do with them. After 1918, you tried in vain to make us believe that we were stubborn because we couldn’t forget our sunken fleet, our lost colonies, our destroyed empire. But how can you compare the resentment of a great nation with one farmer’s blind outburst of hatred?”

Lucile picked a few sprigs of mignonette, smelled them, crushed them in her hands. “Has he been caught?” she asked.

“No. Oh, he’ll be long gone by now. None of these good people would dare hide him. They know only too well they’d be risking their own lives and they’re fond of their lives, aren’t they? Almost as fond of their lives as their money . . .”

Smiling slightly, he looked around at all the low, squat, secret houses slumbering in the dusk. She could see he was imagining them full of chatty and emotional old women, prudent and nit-picking middle-class ladies, and further away, in the countryside, farmers who were more like animals. It was almost true, partly true. Yet there remained something shadowy, mysterious, impossible to articulate, and over which, Lucile suddenly thought, remembering something she’d read at school, “even the proudest tyrant will never rule.”

“Let’s walk on a bit further,” he said.

The path was lined with lilies; their silky buds had burst open under the last rays of the sun and now the sweet-smelling flowers blossomed proudly in the night air. During the three months they had known each other, Lucile and the German had taken many walks together, but never in such splendid weather, so conducive to love. By tacit agreement they tried to forget everything except each other. “It’s nothing to do with us, it’s not our fault. In the heart of every man and every woman a kind of Garden of Eden endures, where there is no war, no death, where wild animals and deer live together in peace. All we have to do is to reclaim that paradise, just close our eyes to everything else. We are a man and a woman. We love each other.”

Reason and emotion, they both believed, could make them enemies, but between them was a harmony of the senses that nothing could destroy; the silent understanding that binds a man in love and a willing woman in mutual desire. In the shade of a cherry tree heavy with fruit, near the little fountain where the frogs croaked, he tried to take her. He pulled her into his arms with a violence he couldn’t control, tearing at her clothes, crushing her breasts.

“No, never!” she cried out. “Never!” Never would she be his. She was afraid of him. She no longer craved his touch. She wasn’t depraved enough (or too young perhaps) to allow her fear to be transformed into desire. The love she had welcomed so willingly that she didn’t believe it could be shameful, suddenly seemed to her disgraceful madness. She was lying; she was betraying him. How could you call that love? What had it been, then? Simply a moment of pleasure? But she was incapable of feeling even pleasure. What now made them enemies was neither reason nor emotion, but the secret movements of blood they had counted on to unite them and over which they were powerless. He touched her with his beautiful slim hands. She had so desired them, yet she felt nothing, nothing but the cold buckle of his uniform pressing against her chest, which froze her to the core. He was whispering to her in German. Foreigner! Foreigner! Enemy, in spite of everything. Forever he would be the enemy, with his green uniform, with his heavenly beautiful hair and his confident mouth.

Suddenly, it was he who pushed her away. “I won’t take you by force. I’m not a drunken boor . . . Just go.”

But the chiffon ties of her dress were caught on the officer’s metal buttons. Slowly, his hands shaking, he freed her. She, meanwhile, was looking anxiously towards the house. The first lamps were being lit. Would Madame Angellier remember to close both sets of curtains so the fugitive’s silhouette couldn’t be seen through the window? People weren’t careful enough on these beautiful June evenings. Secrets were revealed through open bedroom windows, where anyone could see in. People weren’t careful enough . . . They could distinctly hear the English radio coming from a neighbouring house; the cart passing by on the road was full of contraband; weapons were hidden in every home. His head bowed, Bruno held the long ties of her flowing belt in his hands.

“I thought . . .” he finally said sadly. He stopped, hesitated, then continued, “that you cared for me . . .”

“I thought so too.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. It cannot be.”

She took a few steps back and stood slightly away from him. For a moment they just looked at each other. The heart-rending blast of a trumpet sounded: it was curfew. The German soldiers walked through groups of people in the village square. “Go along now. Time for bed,” they said politely. The women protested and laughed. The trumpet blasted again. The locals went home. The Germans remained. The sound of their monotonous rounds was the only thing that would be heard until daybreak.

“It’s curfew” said Lucile impassively. “I have to go back. I have to close all the windows. I was told yesterday at Headquarters that the light from the sitting room wasn’t blocked out enough.”

“As long as I’m here, you don’t have to worry about anything. No one will bother you.”

She didn’t reply. She held out her hand to him; he kissed it and she walked back to the house. Long after midnight, he was still walking around in the garden. She could hear the brief, monotonous calls of the guards in the street, and beneath her window her jailor’s slow, steady walk. Sometimes she thought, He loves me, he doesn’t suspect anything, and sometimes, He’s suspicious, he’s watching, he’s waiting.

It’s such a shame, she thought in a sudden moment of honesty. It’s such a shame, it was a beautiful night . . . a night made for love . . . We shouldn’t have wasted it. The rest isn’t important. But she stayed where she was; she didn’t get out of her bed to go to the window. She felt bound and gagged—a prisoner—united with this captive land that dreamed and sighed softly with impatience; she let the empty night drift by.

21

The village had been looking cheerful all afternoon. In the square the soldiers had decorated the flagpoles with leaves and flowers, and on the balcony of the municipal hall, red and black banners with Gothic writing floated below the swastikas. It was a beautiful day. The flags and banners billowed in the soft, cool breeze. Two young soldiers with pink faces were pushing a cart full of roses.

“Are they for the tables?” the women asked, curious.

“Yes,” the soldiers proudly replied. One of them picked out a rosebud and, with an exaggerated salute, offered it to a young girl, who blushed.

“It will be a wonderful party.”

“
Wir hoffen es
. We hope so. We’re going to a lot of trouble,” the soldiers replied.

The cooks were working outdoors preparing pâtés and cakes for the dinner. To avoid the dust, they had set up beneath the great lime trees that surrounded the church. The head chef, in uniform but wearing a high hat and apron of dazzling white to protect his jacket, was putting the finishing touches to an enormous gâteau. He decorated it with cream swirls and candied fruit. The smell of sugar filled the air. The children squealed with delight. The head chef, bursting with pride but trying not to show it, frowned and scolded them: “All right, back up a bit, how do you expect us to work with you crowding around?” At first, the women pretended not to be interested in the cake. “Ugh! . . . It will be horrible . . . They don’t have the right kind of flour . . .” Gradually, they moved closer, shyly at first, then more confidently. Eventually they found the audacity to start giving advice, as women do.

“Hey, Monsieur, there’s not enough decoration on this side . . . you need some angelica.”

They ended up helping. Pushing back the delighted children, they bustled about round the table with the Germans; one of them chopped the almonds; another crushed the sugar.

“Is it just for the officers? Or will the ordinary soldiers have some too?” they asked.

“It’s for everyone, everyone.”

“Everyone except us!” They sniggered.

The head chef raised the earthenware platter holding the enormous cake and with a little salute showed it to the crowd, who laughed and applauded. Then he carefully laid it on a huge wooden plank carried by two soldiers (one at the head, one at the foot) and they all set off for the château. Meanwhile, officers invited from all the regiments billeted in the area began to arrive. Their long green capes floated behind them. The shopkeepers stood in front of their doors, smiling at them. They had been bringing up their remaining supplies from the cellars since morning: the Germans were buying everything they had, and paying well. One officer snapped up the last few bottles of Benedictine brandy, another paid 1,200 francs for lingerie for his wife; the soldiers crowded round the shop windows and looked lovingly at the pink and blue bibs. Finally, one of them couldn’t help himself and, as soon as the officer had gone, he called the saleswoman over and pointed to some baby clothes; he was very young, with blue eyes.

“Boy? Girl?” the saleswoman asked.

“I don’t know,” he said ingenuously. “My wife will write and tell me; it happened during my last leave, a month ago.”

Everyone around him started laughing. He blushed but seemed very happy. He bought a rattle and a little robe. He came back across the road in triumph.

They were rehearsing the music in the village square. Next to the circle formed by the drums, the trumpets and the fifes, another circle formed round the regimental postmaster. The Frenchmen noted the open mouths and eyes bright with hope, and nodded politely, thinking sadly, We know what it’s like . . . when you’re waiting for news from another country. We’ve all done that . . . Meanwhile, an enormous young German with huge thighs and a fat bottom that threatened to split his tight riding breeches entered the Hôtel des Voyageurs and, for the third time, asked to look at the barometer. It was still set at fair. The German, beaming with delight, said, “Nothing to worry about. No storm tonight.
Gott mit uns
.”

“Yes, yes.” The waitress nodded in agreement.

This innocent delight spread to the customers and the owner himself (who supported the British); everyone stood up and went over to the barometer: “Nothing to worry about! Nothing! Is good . . . nice party,” they said, deliberately speaking in pidgin French so he’d understand them better.

And the German slapped everyone on the back with a wide grin while repeating, “
Gott mit uns
.”

“Sure, sure,
Got meedns
. He’s drunk, that Fritz,” they whispered behind his back rather sympathetically. “We know what it’s like. He’s been celebrating since yesterday . . . He’s a big lad . . . Well, so what! Why shouldn’t they have fun? They’re men after all.”

Having created a sympathetic atmosphere with his words and appearance, and after downing three bottles of beer one after the other, the German, beaming, finally left. As the day progressed, all the local people began to feel happy and light-headed, as if they too would be going to the ball. In the kitchens, the young girls listlessly rinsed the glasses and every few minutes leaned out of the window to watch the groups of Germans going up to the château.

“Did you see the Second Lieutenant who lives at the church house? Isn’t he handsome with his smooth skin. There’s the Commandant’s new interpreter. How old is he, do you think? I’d say he couldn’t be more than twenty, that boy. They’re all so young. Oh, there’s the Angelliers’ Lieutenant. He’d drive me wild, he would. You can tell he’s a gentleman. What a beautiful horse! They really do have beautiful horses, by God.” The young girls sighed.