Suite Francaise (46 page)

Then the bitter voice of some old man dozing by the stove called out, “Sure they do, they’re
our
horses!”

The old man spat into the fire, muttering curses that the young girls didn’t hear. They were only interested in one thing: to hurry and finish the dishes so they could go and watch the Germans at the château. Running alongside the grounds was a path lined with acacias, lime trees and beautiful aspens with leaves that incessantly trembled, incessantly rustled in the wind. Between the branches it was possible to see the lake and the lawns where the tables had been set up and, on the hill, the château, its doors and windows wide open, where the regimental orchestra would play. By eight o’clock, everyone in the village was there; the young girls had dragged their parents along; children that the young women hadn’t wanted to leave at home were sleeping in their mothers’ arms, or running about shouting and playing with the pebbles; some pushed aside the soft branches of the acacia trees and watched the scene with curiosity: the musicians on the terrace, the German officers lying on the grass or slowly strolling through the trees, the tables covered with dazzling linen, the silver reflecting the last rays of the sun and, behind each chair, a soldier standing as still as if he were at inspection—the orderlies who would act as waiters. The orchestra played a particularly lively, cheerful song; the officers took their places. Before sitting down, the head of the table (“the place of honour . . . a general,” whispered the French) and all the other officers stood at attention, raised their glasses and shouted,
“Heil Hitler!”
It took a long time for the roar to subside; it reverberated through the air with a pure, fierce, metallic echo. Then they could hear the hubbub of conversations, the clinking of cutlery and the sound of the night birds singing.

The Frenchmen strained to see if they could recognise people they knew. Next to the General with the white hair, delicate features and long hooked nose, were the officers from Headquarters.

“That one, over there on the left, look, he’s the one who took my car, the bastard! The little blond one with the rosy complexion next to him, he’s nice, he talks good French. Where’s the Angelliers’ German? He’s called Bruno . . . pretty name . . . It’s a shame it’ll be dark soon; we won’t be able to see anything then . . . The shoemaker’s Fritz told me they were going to light torches. Oh, Mummy, that will be so pretty! Let’s stay ’til then. What will the owners of the château be saying about all this? They won’t be able to sleep tonight. Who’s going to eat the leftovers? Who, Mummy? The Mayor?”

“Oh, be quiet, you silly thing, there won’t be any leftovers, they’ve got hearty appetites.”

Little by little, darkness spread across the lawns; they could still make out the gold decorations on the uniforms, the Germans’ blond hair, the musicians’ brass instruments on the terrace, but they had lost their glow. All the light of the day, fleeing the earth, seemed for one brief moment to take refuge in the sky; pink clouds spiralled round the full moon that was as green as pistachio sorbet and as clear as glass; it was reflected in the lake. Exquisite perfumes filled the air: grass, fresh hay, wild strawberries. The music kept playing. Suddenly, the torches were lit; as the soldiers carried them along, they cast their light over the messy tables, the empty glasses, for the officers were now gathered around the lake, singing and laughing. There was the lively, happy sound of champagne corks popping.

“Oh, those bastards! And to think it’s our wine they’re drinking,” the Frenchmen said, but without real bitterness, because all happiness is contagious and disarms the spirit of hatred.

And of course, the Germans seemed to like the champagne so much (and had paid so much for it!) that the Frenchmen were vaguely flattered by their good taste.

“They’re having a good time. Thank goodness it’s not all war . . . Don’t worry, they’ll be fighting again . . . They say it will be over this year. Sure it would be bad if they won, but what can you do, it’s got to end . . . Everyone’s so miserable in the cities . . . and we want our prisoners back.”

All along the road, the young girls held one another by the waist and danced to the soft lively music. The drums and brass instruments gave the waltzes and tunes from operettas a bright tone that was victorious, happy, heroic and joyous, that made their hearts beat faster; sometimes a low, prolonged, powerful note rose above the lively arpeggios like the echo of a distant storm.

When it was completely dark they started singing. Groups of soldiers sang to one another from the terrace and the park, from the banks of the lake and the lake itself, where boats decorated with flowers drifted past. The Frenchmen listened, delighted, in spite of themselves. It was nearly midnight, but no one would have dreamed of leaving their spot in the tall grass or between the branches.

Only the burning torches and sparklers lit up the trees. Wonderful voices filled the night. Suddenly, there was a long silence. They could see the Germans running like shadows against a background of green flame and moonlight.

“They’re going to light the fireworks!” shouted a little boy. “They’re definitely having fireworks. I know. The Fritz told me.”

His shrill voice could be heard down by the lake.

His mother scolded him: “Be quiet. You’re not allowed to call them Fritz or Boches. Not ever. They don’t like it. Just be quiet and watch.”

But they couldn’t see anything now except the shadows of men scurrying about. From the terrace someone shouted something they couldn’t make out; it provoked a long, low commotion, like rumbling thunder.

“What are they shouting about? Could you hear? It must be
‘Heil Hitler, Heil Goering! Heil the Third Reich!’
or something like that. We can’t hear a thing now. They’re not talking any more. Look, the musicians are leaving. Do you think they’ve had some news? Do you think they’ve invaded England? Well, I think they just got cold outside and they’re moving the party inside the château,” said the pharmacist pointedly; he was worried about the night dampness because of his rheumatism.

He took his young wife’s arm. “Why don’t we go home too, Linette?”

But she wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh! Let’s stay, just a little longer. They’re going to sing again, it was so nice.”

The French waited but there was no more singing. Soldiers carrying torches were running between the château and the grounds as if they were conveying orders. There was even some shouting. Beneath the moonlight, empty boats drifted on the lake; all the officers had jumped out on to the bank. They were walking along, talking to each other quickly in loud voices. Although the French could hear them, no one could understand what they were saying. One by one, the sparklers went out. The spectators began yawning. “It’s late. Let’s go home. The party’s definitely over.”

They made their way in little groups back to the village: the young girls, arm in arm, walking in front of their parents; the sleepy children dragging their feet.

When they got to the first house, they saw an old man sitting on a straw chair, smoking his pipe. “Well,” he said. “Is the party over, then?”

“Yes. Oh, they had such a good time!”

“Well, they won’t be having a good time for long,” the old man said calmly. “I’ve just heard on the radio that they’re at war with Russia.” He knocked his pipe against his chair several times to get rid of the ashes, then looked at the sky. “It’ll be dry again tomorrow . . . Not good for the gardens, this weather.”

22

They’re going!

For several days they had been waiting for the Germans to leave. The soldiers themselves had announced it: they were being sent to Russia. When the French heard the news, they looked at them with curiosity (“Are they happy? Worried? Will they win or lose?”). As for the Germans, they tried to work out what the French were thinking: Were they happy to see them go? Did they secretly wish they’d all get killed? Did anyone feel sorry for them? Would they miss them? Of course they wouldn’t be missed as Germans, as conquerors (they weren’t naïve enough to think that), but would the French miss these Pauls, Siegfrieds, Oswalds who had lived under their roofs for three months, showed them pictures of their wives and mothers, shared more than one bottle of wine with them? But both the French and the Germans remained inscrutable; they were polite, careful of what they said—“Well, that’s war . . . We can’t do anything about it . . . right? It won’t last long, at least we hope not!” They said goodbye to one another like passengers on a ship who have reached their final port of call. They would write to each other. They would see each other again some day. They would always remember the happy weeks they’d spent together. More than one soldier whispered to a pensive young girl, “When the war is over I’ll come back.” When the war is over . . . How far away that was!

They were leaving today, 1 July 1941. The French were concerned primarily with the question of whether the village would be occupied by other soldiers; because if so, they thought bitterly, well, it wasn’t worth going to the trouble of changing them. They were used to this lot. Maybe the new ones would be worse . . .

Lucile slipped into Madame Angellier’s room to tell her that it was definite, they’d received their orders, the Germans were leaving that very night. They could reasonably hope for at least a few hours’ grace before any new soldiers arrived and they should take advantage of this to help Benoît escape. It was impossible to hide him until the end of the war, equally impossible to send him home as long as the area remained occupied. There was only one hope: to get him across the demarcation line. However, the line was closely guarded and would be even more so during the evacuation of the troops.

“It’s dangerous,” said Lucile, “very dangerous.” She looked pale and tired: for several nights she had hardly slept. She looked at Benoît, standing opposite her. Her feelings towards him were an odd combination of fear, incomprehension and envy: his calm, severe, almost brutal expression intimidated her. He was a big, muscular man, with a ruddy complexion; beneath thick eyebrows, his pale eyes were sometimes unbearable to look at. His tanned, lined hands were the hands of a labourer and a soldier, thought Lucile: earth or blood, it was the same to him. Neither remorse nor sorrow troubled his sleep, of that she was sure; everything was simple to this man.

“I’ve thought about it a lot, Madame Lucile,” he said quietly.

Despite the fortress-like walls and closed doors, whenever all three of them were together, they felt they were being watched and said what they needed to very quickly and almost in a whisper.

“No one will be able to get me across the line. It’s too risky. I know I have to leave, but I want to go to Paris.”

“To Paris?”

“While I was with the regiment I had some friends . . .”

He hesitated.

“We were taken prisoner together. We escaped together. They work in Paris. If I can find them they’ll help me. One of them wouldn’t be alive now if . . .”

He looked at his hands and fell silent.

“What I need is to get to Paris without getting arrested on the way and to find someone I can trust to put me up for a day or two until I find my friends.”

“I don’t know anyone in Paris,” murmured Lucile. “But in any case, you’ll need identity papers.”

“As soon as I find my friends, Madame Lucile, I’ll be able to get hold of some papers.”

“But how? What do your friends do?”

“They’re in politics,” Benoît said curtly.

“Communists . . .” murmured Lucile, recalling certain rumours she’d heard about Benoît’s ideas and activities. “The Communists will be hunted down now. You’re risking your life.”

“It won’t be the first time, Madame Lucile, or the last,” said Benoît. “You get used to it.”

“And how will you get to Paris? You can’t take the train; your description is posted everywhere.”

“On foot. By bicycle. When I escaped I was on foot. It don’t scare me.”

“But the police . . .”

“The people who put me up two years ago will remember me and won’t shop me to the police. It’s safer than here where plenty of people hate me. It’ll be easier.”

“Such a long journey, on foot, alone . . .”

Madame Angellier, who hadn’t said a word until now, was standing next to the window, her pale eyes watching the Germans come and go across the village square; she raised her hand to warn them. “Someone’s coming.”

All three of them fell silent. Lucile’s heart was pounding so violently, so quickly that she was ashamed; the others could surely hear it, she thought. The old woman and the farmer remained impassive. They could hear Bruno’s voice downstairs; he was looking for Lucile; he opened several doors.

“Do you know where Madame Lucile is?” he asked the cook.

“She’s gone out,” Marthe replied.

Lucile sighed with relief. “I’d better go down,” she said. “He’s looking for me to say goodbye.”

“Take advantage of it,” Madame Angellier suddenly said, “to ask him for a petrol coupon and a travel pass. You can take the old car: the one that wasn’t requisitioned. You can tell the German you have to drive one of our tenant farmers to town because he’s ill. With a pass from German Headquarters you won’t be stopped and you could make it safely to Paris.”

“But to lie like that . . .” said Lucile in disgust.

“What else have you been doing for the past ten days?”

“And once we get to Paris? Where will he hide until he finds his friends? Where will we find anyone courageous enough, committed enough, unless . . .”

She was remembering something.

“Yes,” she said suddenly. “It’s possible . . . Anyway, it’s a chance we’ll have to take. Do you remember the refugees from Paris we helped in June 1940? They worked in a bank, quite an old couple, but full of spirit and courage. They wrote to me recently: I have their address. They’re called Michaud. Yes, that’s it, Jeanne and Maurice Michaud. They might do it . . . Of course they’ll do it . . . but we’d have to write and ask and wait for their reply, or just take our chances and hope for the best. I don’t know . . .”

“Ask for the pass in any case,” said Madame Angellier. “It shouldn’t be difficult,” she added with a faint, bitter smile.