Suite Francaise (47 page)

“I’ll try,” said Lucile.

She was dreading the moment she would be alone with Bruno. Nevertheless, she hurried down the stairs. Best to get it over with. What if he suspects something? Oh, so what! It was war. She would submit to the rules of war. She was afraid of nothing. Her empty, weary soul was almost eager to run some great risk.

She knocked at the German’s door. She went in and was surprised to find he was not alone. With him were the Commandant’s new interpreter, a thin red-headed boy with a hard, angular face and blond eyelashes, and another very young officer who was short and chubby, with a rosy complexion and a childlike expression and smile. All three of them were writing letters and packing up: they were sending home all those little knick-knacks soldiers buy when they are in the same place for a while, to create the illusion they live there, but which are burdensome during a campaign: ashtrays, little clocks, prints and, especially, books. Lucile wanted to go but he asked her to stay. She sat down in an armchair Bruno brought out for her and she watched the three Germans who, after apologising, continued working. “We want to get all this in the post by five o’clock,” they said.

She saw a violin, a small lamp, a French–German dictionary, books in French, German and English, and a beautiful romantic print of a sailing boat at sea.

“I found it in Autun at a bric-à-brac shop,” said Bruno.

He hesitated.

“Actually, better not . . . I won’t post it . . . I don’t have the right box for it. It will get damaged. It would make me so very happy, Madame, if you would keep it. It will brighten up this rather dark room. The subject is appropriate. Look. Dark, threatening skies, a ship setting sail . . . and far in the distance, a hint of brightness on the horizon . . . a vague, very faint glimmer of hope. Do accept it as a memento of a soldier who is leaving and who will never see you again.”

“I will,
mein Herr,
” Lucile said quietly, “because of this hint of brightness on the horizon.”

He bowed and continued packing. A candle was lit on the table; he held the sealing wax over its flame, placed a seal on the finished package, took his ring off his hand and pressed it into the hot wax. Lucile watched him, remembering the day he had played the piano for her and how she had held the ring, still warm from his hand.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly looking up at her. “The happy times are over.”

“Do you think this new war will last long?” she said, immediately regretting having asked. It was like asking someone if he thought he would live long. What did this new war mean? What was going to happen? A series of thundering victories or defeat, a long struggle? Who could really know? Who dared predict the future? Although that’s all people did . . . and always in vain . . .

He seemed to read her thoughts. “In any case,” he said, “there will surely be much suffering, much heartache and much bloodshed.”

He and his two comrades were getting everything organised. The short officer was carefully wrapping up a tennis racket and the interpreter some large, beautiful books bound in tan leather. “Gardening books,” he explained to Lucile, “because in civilian life,” he added in a slightly pompous tone of voice, “I design gardens in the Classical style of Louis XIV.”

How many Germans in the village—in cafés, in the comfortable houses they had occupied—were now writing to their wives, their fiancées, leaving behind their worldly possessions, as if they were about to die? Lucile felt deeply sorry for them. Outside in the street there were horses coming back from the blacksmith and saddle maker, all ready to leave, no doubt. It seemed strange to think about these horses pulled away from their work in France to be sent to the other end of the world. The interpreter, who had been watching them go by, said seriously, “Where we’re going is a really wonderful place for horses . . .”

The short lieutenant made a face. “Not so wonderful for men . . .”

The idea of this new war seemed to fill them with sadness, Lucile thought, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell too deeply on their feelings: she feared to find, in the place of emotion, some spark of their so-called “warrior mentality.” It was almost like spying; she would have been ashamed to do it. And anyway, she knew them well enough by now to know they would put up a good fight. What’s more, she said to herself, there’s a world of difference between the young man I’m looking at now and the warrior of tomorrow. It’s a truism that people are complicated, multifaceted, contradictory, surprising, but it takes the advent of war or other momentous events to be able to see it. It is the most fascinating and the most dreadful of spectacles, she continued thinking, the most dreadful because it’s so real; you can never pride yourself on truly knowing the sea unless you’ve seen it both calm and in a storm. Only the person who has observed men and women at times like this, she thought, can be said to know them. And to know themselves. She would never have believed herself capable of saying to Bruno in such ingenuous and sincere tones, I’ve come to ask you a great favour.

“Tell me, Madame, how can I be of service to you?”

“Could you recommend me to someone at Headquarters who could get me a travel pass and petrol coupon as a matter of urgency? I have to drive to Paris . . .”

As she was speaking she was thinking, “If I tell him about some sick tenant farmer he’ll be suspicious: there are good hospitals in the area, in Creusot, Paray, or Autun . . .”

“I have to drive one of my farmers to Paris. His daughter works there; she’s seriously ill and is asking for him. The poor man would lose too much time if he went by train. You know it’s the harvest. If you could grant me permission, we could do the entire journey there and back in a day.”

“You don’t need to go to Headquarters, Madame Angellier,” the short officer said quickly; he’d been shyly glancing at her from a distance, lost in admiration. “I have full powers to grant you your request. When would you like to go?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, good,” murmured Bruno. “Tomorrow . . . so you’ll be here when we leave.”

“When are you leaving?”

“At eleven o’clock tonight. We’re travelling at night because of the air raids. It seems a bit ridiculous since the moon is so bright it’s almost like daytime. But the army works on tradition.”

“I’ll be going now,” said Lucile, after taking the two pieces of paper the short officer had written out: two pieces of paper that symbolised a man’s life and liberty. She calmly folded them up and slipped them under her waistband without allowing the slightest sense of urgency to betray her nervousness.

“I’ll be here when you go.”

Bruno looked at her and she understood his silent plea.

“Will you come and say goodbye to me,
Herr Lieutenant
? I’m going out, but I’ll be back at six o’clock.”

The three young men stood up and clicked their heels. In the past, she had found this display of courtesy by the soldiers of the Reich old-fashioned and rather affected. Now, she thought how much she would miss this light jingling of spurs, the kiss on the hand, the admiration these soldiers showed her almost in spite of themselves, soldiers who were without family, without female companionship (except for the lowest type of woman). There was in their respect for her a hint of tender melancholy: it was as if, thanks to her, they could recapture some remnant of their former lives where kindness, a good education, politeness towards women had far more value than getting drunk or taking an enemy position. There was gratitude and nostalgia in their attitude towards her; she could sense it and was touched by it. She waited for it to be eight o’clock in a state of deep anxiety. What would she say to him? How would they part? There was between them an entire world of confused, unexpressed thoughts, like a precious crystal so fragile that a single word could shatter it. He felt it too, no doubt, for he spent only a brief moment alone with her. He took off his hat (perhaps his last civilian gesture, thought Lucile, feeling tender and sad), took her hands in his. Before kissing them, he pressed his cheek against hers, softly and urgently both at the same time. Was he claiming her as his own? Attempting to brand her with his seal, so she wouldn’t forget?

“Adieu,” he said, “this is goodbye. I’ll never forget you, never.”

She stood silent. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears. He turned away.

“I’m going to give you the address of one of my uncles,” he said after a moment. “He’s a von Falk like me, my father’s brother. He’s had a brilliant military career and he’s in Paris working for . . .” He gave a very long German name. “Until the end of the war, he will be the Commandant in greater Paris, a kind of viceroy, actually, and he depends on my uncle to help make decisions. I’ve told him about you and asked that he help you as much as he can, if you ever find yourself in difficulty; we’re at war, God alone knows what might happen to all of us . . .”

“You’re very kind, Bruno,” she said quietly.

At this moment she wasn’t ashamed of loving him, because her physical desire had gone and all she felt towards him now was pity and a profound, almost maternal tenderness. She forced herself to smile. “Like the Chinese mother who sent her son off to war telling him to be careful ‘because war has its dangers,’ I’m asking you, if you have any feelings for me, to be as careful as possible with your life.”

“Because it is precious to you?” he asked nervously.

“Yes. Because it is precious to me.”

Slowly, they shook hands. She walked him out to the front steps. An orderly was waiting for him, holding the reins of his horse. It was late, but no one even considered going to bed. Everyone wanted to see the Germans leave. In these final hours, a kind of melancholy and human warmth bound them all together: the conquered and the conquerors. Big Erwald with the strong thighs who held his drink so well and was so funny and robust; short, nimble, cheerful Willy, who had learned some French songs (they said he was a real comedian in civilian life), poor Johann who had lost his whole family in an air raid, “except for my mother-in-law,” he said sadly, “because I’ve never had much luck . . .” All of them were about to be attacked, shot at, in danger of dying. How many of them would be buried on the Russian steppes? No matter how quickly, how successfully the war with Germany might finish, how many poor people would never see the blessed end, the new beginning? It was a wonderful night: clear, moonlit, without even a breath of wind. It was the time of year for cutting the branches of the lime trees. The time when men and boys climb up into the beautiful, leafy trees and strip them bare while, down below, women and girls pick flowers from the sweet-smelling branches at their feet—flowers that will spend all summer drying in country lofts and, in winter, will make herbal tea. A delicious, intoxicating perfume filled the air. How wonderful everything was, how peaceful. Children played and chased one another about; they climbed up on to the steps of the old stone cross and watched the road.

“Can you see them?” their mothers asked.

“Not yet.”

It had been decided that the regiment would assemble in front of the château and then parade through the village. From the shadow of doorways came the sound of kisses and whispered goodbyes . . . some more tender than others. The soldiers were in heavy helmets and field dress, gas masks hanging from their necks. The awaited drum roll came and the men appeared, marching in rows of eight. With a final goodbye, a last blown kiss, the latecomers hurried to take their pre-assigned place: the place where destiny would find them. There was still the odd burst of laughter, a joke exchanged between the soldiers and the crowd, but soon everyone fell silent. The General had arrived. He rode his horse past the troops, gave a brief salute to the soldiers and to the French, then left. Behind him followed the officers, then the grey car carrying the Commandant, with its motorcycle outriders. Then came the artillery, the cannons on their rolling platforms, the machine-guns, the anti-aircraft guns pointing at the sky, and all the small but deadly weapons they’d watched go by during manoeuvres. They had become accustomed to them, had looked at them indifferently, without being afraid. But now the sight of it all made them shudder. The truck, full to bursting with big loaves of black bread, freshly baked and sweet-smelling, the Red Cross vans, with no passengers—for now . . . the field kitchen, bumping along at the end of the procession like a saucepan tied to a dog’s tail. The men began singing, a grave, slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust.

Appendices

APPENDIX I

Irène Némirovsky’s handwritten notes on the situation in France and her plans for
Suite Française,
taken from her notebooks

My God! what is this country doing to me? Since it is rejecting me, let us consider it coldly, let us watch as it loses its honour and its life. And the other countries? What are they to me? Empires are dying. Nothing matters. Whether you look at it from a mystical or a personal point of view, it’s just the same. Let us keep a cool head. Let us harden our heart. Let us wait.

21 June
.
*
¹
Conversation with Pied-de-Marmite. France is going to join hands with Germany. Soon they will be calling up people here but “only the young ones.” This was said no doubt out of consideration towards Michel. One army is crossing Russia, the other is coming from Africa. Suez has been taken. Japan with its formidable fleet is fighting America. England is begging for mercy.

25 June
. Unbelievable heat. The garden is decked out with the colours of June—azure, pale-green and pink. I lost my pen. There are still many other worries such as the threat of a concentration camp, the status of Jews etc. Sunday was unforgettable. The thunderbolt about Russia
*
²
hit our friends after their “mad night” down by the lake. And in order to [?] with them, everyone got drunk. Will I write about it one day?

28 June
. They’re leaving. They were depressed for twenty-four hours, now they’re cheerful, especially when they’re together. The little dear one sadly said, “The happy times are over.” They’re sending their packages home. They’re overexcited, that’s obvious. Admirably disciplined and, I think, no rebellion in their hearts. I swear here and now never again to take out my bitterness, no matter how justifiable, on a group of people, whatever their race, religion, convictions, prejudices, errors. I feel sorry for these poor children. But I cannot forgive certain individuals, those who reject me, those who coldly abandon us, those who are prepared to stab you in the back. Those people . . . if I could just get my hands on them . . . When will it all end? The troops that were here last summer said “Christmas,” then July. Now end ’41.

There’s been talk here about de-occupying France except for the no-go area and the coasts. Carefully rereading the
Journal Officiel
*
³
has thrown me back to feeling the way I did a few days ago,

To lift such a heavy weight

Sisyphus, you will need all your courage.

I do not lack the courage to complete the task

But the end is far and time is short.

The Wine of Solitude
by Irène Némirovsky for Irène Némirovsky

30 June 1941
. Stress the Michauds. People who always pay the price and the only ones who are truly noble. Odd that the majority of the masses, the detestable masses, are made up of these courageous types. The majority doesn’t get better because of them nor do they [the courageous types] get worse.

Which scenes deserve to be passed on for posterity?

1                  Waiting in queues at dawn.

2                  The arrival of the Germans.

3                  The killings and shooting of hostages much less than the profound indifference of the people.

4                  If I want to create something striking, it is not misery I will show but the prosperity that contrasts with it.

5                  When Hubert escapes from the prison where the poor wretches have been taken, instead of describing the death of the hostages, it’s the party at the Opera House I must show, and then simply people sticking posters up on the walls: so and so was shot at dawn. The same after the war and without dwelling on Corbin. Yes! It must be done by showing contrasts: one word for misery, ten for egotism, cowardice, closing ranks, crime. Won’t it be wonderful! But it’s true that it’s this very atmosphere I’m breathing. It is easy to imagine it: the obsession with food.

6                  Think also about the Mass on Rue de la Source, early morning while it’s still completely dark. Contrasts! Yes, there’s something to that, something that can be very powerful and very new. Why have I used it so little in
Dolce
? Yet, rather than dwelling on Madeleine—for example, perhaps the whole Madeleine–Lucile chapter can be left out, reduced to a few lines of explanation, which can go into the Mme Angellier–Lucile chapter. On the other hand, describe in minute detail the preparations for the German celebration. It is perhaps
an impression of ironic contrast, to receive the force of the contrast. The reader has only to see and hear
.
*
⁴

Characters in order of appearance (as far as I can remember):

The Péricands—the Cortes—the Michauds—the landowners—Lucile—the louts?—the farmers etc.—the Germans—the aristocrats.

Good, need to include in the beginning: Hubert, Corte, Jules Blanc, but that would destroy my unified tone for
Dolce
. Definitely I think I have to leave
Dolce
as is and on the other hand reintroduce all the characters from
Storm,
but in such a way that they have a momentous affect on Lucile, Jean-Marie and the others (and France).

I think that (for practical reasons)
Dolce
should be short. In fact, in comparison with the eighty pages of
Storm, Dolce
will probably have about sixty or so, no more.
Captivity,
on the other hand, should make a hundred. Let’s say then:

390,
*
⁵
let’s say 400 pages, multiplied by four. Lord! That makes 1,600 typed pages!
Well, well, if I live in it!
*
⁶
In the end, if the people who have promised to come arrive on 14 July, then that will have certain consequences, including at least one, maybe two sections less.

In fact, it’s like music when you sometimes hear the whole orchestra, sometimes just the violin. At least it should be like that. Combine [two words in Russian] and individual emotions. What interests me here is the history of the world.

Beware: forget the reworking of characters. Obviously, the time-span is short. The first three parts, in any case, will only cover a period of three years. As for the last two, well that’s God’s secret and what I wouldn’t give to know it. But because of the intensity, the gravity of the experiences, the people to whom things happen must change (. . .)

My idea is for it to unravel like a film, but at times the temptation is great, and I’ve given in with brief descriptions or in the episode that follows the meeting at the school by giving my own point of view. Should I mercilessly pursue this?

Think about as well:
the famous “impersonality” of Flaubert and his kind lies only in the greater fact with which they express their feelings—dramatising them, embodying them in living form, instead of stating them directly
?

Such
*
⁷
. . . there are other times when no one must know what Lucile feels in her heart, rather show her through other people’s eyes.

1942

The French grew tired of the Republic as if she were an old wife. For them, the dictatorship was a brief affair, adultery. But they intended to cheat on their wife, not to kill her. Now they realise she’s dead, their Republic, their freedom. They’re mourning her.

For years, everything done in France within a certain social class has had only one motive: fear. This social class caused the war, the defeat and the current peace. The Frenchmen of this caste hate no one; they feel neither jealousy nor disappointed ambition, nor any real desire for revenge. They’re scared. Who will harm them the least (not in the future, not in the abstract, but right now and in the form of kicks in the arse or slaps in the face)? The Germans? The English? The Russians? The Germans won but the beating has been forgotten and the Germans can protect them. That’s why they’re “for the Germans.” At school, the weakest student would rather be bullied than be free; the tyrant bullies him but won’t allow anyone else to steal his marbles, beat him up. If he runs away from the bully, he is alone, abandoned in the free-for-all.

There is a huge gulf between this caste, which is the caste of our current leaders, and the rest of the nation. The rest of the French, because they own less, are less afraid. If cowardice stops stifling the positive feelings in our souls (patriotism, love of freedom etc.), then they can rise up. Of course, many people have recently built fortunes, but they are fortunes in depreciated currency that are impossible to transform into concrete goods, land, jewellery, gold etc. Our butcher, who won five hundred thousand francs in a currency whose exchange rate abroad he knows (exactly zero), cares less about money than a Péricand, a Corbin
*
⁸
cares about their property, their banks etc. More and more, the world is becoming divided into the haves and the have nots. The first don’t want to give anything up and the second want to take everything. Who will win out?

The most hated men in France in 1942: Philippe Henriot
*
⁹
and Pierre Laval. The first as the Tiger, the second as the Hyena: around Henriot you can smell fresh blood, and around Laval the stench of rotting flesh.

All in all, it’s only the initial shock that counts. People get used to everything, everything that happens in the occupied zone: massacres, persecution, organised pillaging, are like arrows shot into mire! . . . the mire of our hearts.

They’re trying to make us believe we live in the age of the “community,” when the individual must perish so that society may live, and we don’t want to see that it is society that is dying so the tyrants can live.

This age that believes itself to be the age of the “community” is more individualistic than the Renaissance or the era of the great feudal lords. Everything is happening as if there were a fixed amount of freedom and power in the world that is sometimes divided between millions of people and sometimes between
one single person
and the other millions. “Have my leftovers,” the dictators say. So please don’t talk to me about the spirit of the community. I’m prepared to die but as a French citizen and I insist there be a valid reason for my death, and I, Jean-Marie Michaud,
*
¹⁰
I am dying for P. Henriot and P. Laval and other lords, just as a chicken has its throat slit to be served to these traitors for dinner. And I maintain, yes, I do, that the chicken is worth more than the people who will eat it. I know that I am more intelligent, superior, more valuable where goodness is concerned than those men. They are strong but their strength is temporary and an illusion. It will be drained from them by time, defeat, the hand of fate, illness (as was the case with Napoleon). And everyone will be dumbfounded. “But how?” people will say. “They were the ones we were afraid of!” I will truly have a communal spirit if I defend my share and everyone else’s share against their greed. The individual only has worth if he is sensitive to others, that goes without saying. But just so long as it is “all other men” and not “one man.” Dictatorship is built around this confusion. Napoleon said he only desired the greatness of France, but he proclaimed to Metternich,
*
¹¹
“I don’t give a damn if millions of men live or die.”

Hitler:

FOR STORM IN JUNE:

What I need to have:

1                  An extremely detailed map of France or Michelin Guide

2                  The complete collection of several French and foreign newspapers between 1 June and 1 July

3                  A work on porcelain

4                  June birds, their names and songs

5                  A mystical book (belonging to the godfather) Father Bréchard

Comments on what’s already been written:

1                  Will—He talks for too long.

2                  Death of the priest—schmaltzy.

3                  Nimes? Why not Toulouse which I know?

4                  In general, not enough simplicity!

[In Russian, Irène Némirovsky added: “in general, they are often characters who have too high a social standing.”]

April 1942
. Need to have
Storm, Dolce, Captivity
follow on from one another. Replace the Desjours farm by the Mounain farm. I want to place it in Montferroux. Dual advantage: links
Storm
to
Dolce
and cuts out what is unpleasant in the Desjours household. I must create something great and stop wondering if there’s any point.

Have no illusions: this is not for now. So mustn’t hold back, must strike with a vengeance wherever I want.

For
Captivity:
the changing attitudes of Corte: national revolution, necessity of having a leader. Sacrifice (everyone agrees about the necessity of sacrifice just as long as it’s your neighbour’s), then the lapidary phrase
*
¹²
which makes him famous, for in the beginning Corte is rather frowned upon: he takes an attitude that is too French but he realises through subtle and menacing signs that this is not what he should do. Yes, he is patriotic but only afterwards: today the Rhine is flowing over the Ural mountains, he has a moment of hesitation but, after all, that is understandable given all the geographical fantasies which have become realities these past few years—the English border is at the Rhine and to top it all off the Maginot Line
*
¹³
and the Siegfried Line
*
¹⁴
are both in Russia, Horace’s final creation (
down him
*
¹⁵
).