The Silent Hours (10 page)

‘Neat hand, boy,’ he growls, as he passes me back my work. The book is small in his hand.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I squeak.

He turns to Samuel’s work, barely looking at it. Instead he looks straight at him. Samuel looks anywhere but up at his face. Monsieur Garande waves a hand at him like I have seen Papa do at waiters when he’s cross and walks off, muttering something about ‘more of them’.

Samuel’s face falls. My smile grows a little wider.

SEBASTIEN

Lilies are my mother’s favourite flowers so I have bought some artificial ones for the living room. She was heartbroken when the florist closed his doors a few weeks ago. Although they aren’t quite what she wants, I know she will appreciate the thought.

The apartment is strangely quiet when I arrive home from work and I close the door softly behind me, placing the flowers on the side table in the entrance hall. A little pile of letters, addresses written in thick blue ink in my father’s sloping handwriting – one to an address in England – are waiting to be posted. I shrug off my coat, flinging it onto a hook on the hat stand. The streets were wet outside from a light rain shower earlier and I know Mother has spent some back-breaking hours cleaning the carpets, so I do the polite thing and remove my shoes. I don’t want to give her any ammunition.

Padding over the carpet, past the archway to the sitting room, I can smell a soapy scent still in the air, a light breeze from a half-open window in the sitting room wafting the smell around the apartment. Not for the first time I see my mother’s pride in our home: the ornaments, delicate figurines of musicians, are dusted on a regular basis; sideboards are polished; cutlery is cleaned; clothes are magically brought from the back room after being scrubbed at and ironed. The whole place is immaculately presented and when people arrive at the door they are instantly charmed, commenting on the prints Mother has selected for the walls, the crocheted cushion covers, the lamps she has picked up in little shops in narrow alleyways. Father and I do not compliment her enough on our surroundings. Suddenly, the lilies seem horribly out of place. I must get hold of some fresh flowers, but it is not easy during a war.

I take the stairs two at a time. As I put a hand on the banister to turn the corner to my bedroom, I notice the door to my parents’ bedroom is ajar. In the thin gap through which I can normally make out the cream bedding and large linen chest at the foot of my parents’ carved wooden bed, a figure sits. Pushing the door open slightly, I see it is my father, sitting on the edge of the bed in his dressing gown, his feet dangling inches from the carpet. His feet are bare, and he is smoking a cigarette. The room smells stale, the curtains are still half-drawn, the bedclothes rumpled.

I clear my throat to signal my presence.

He looks up wearily at me and I shrink back a little. The ashtray overflows with spent cigarettes and the shadow on his chin suggests he hasn’t been up at all today.

‘Are you ill, Father?’

‘Apparently,’ he states, dragging on his cigarette and then grinding it aggressively into the ashtray. His left hand grips the mattress but his voice is steady, a little higher than normal. ‘God only knows,’ he continues.

This dishevelled man in pyjamas is not my father. He is usually fastidious about his appearance, and not because he is vain. His combed hair is always in a neat side parting – baldness is not a family trait and he used to remind me that his thick head of hair was at least one piece of inheritance I could be grateful for. He wears braces over spotless shirts and polishes his shoes as if he were in the military and turning out for parade. He keeps a clean handkerchief in his top pocket and is never seen without his hat once outside. He ensures his clothes are laundered and kept flat, and has admitted to me that he would never do business with a man who had dirty nails. He bemoans my mop of hair that never quite rests flat and has, on occasion, left a tin of shoe polish outside my door that he obviously thinks I should use, or trip over.

This man, sitting on the edge of the bed, grey hairs poking up sporadically from his collar; this unshaven man who doesn’t appear to have the energy for slippers, is not him.

‘Where is Mother?’ I ask.

‘Out.’

‘Father, what is it? What’s happened?’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

I take in the newspaper at his side, pick it up, shake out its pages to scan the print.

‘
It
’s happened,’ Father says, drawing another cigarette from its case and searching for his matches. ‘Shit,’ he swears, uncharacteristically, as he realizes he has used up the last one. ‘Match?’ He looks at me hopefully.

I automatically shake my head. ‘What does this mean?’ I step backwards, taking a seat on the little stool by the dressing table.

‘It means everything.’

We sit in silence, my thoughts whirling.

‘Jean-Paul can help,’ I say.

‘Perhaps.’

‘But …’ My eyes glance at the paper again. ‘There has always been this hatred of the Jewish race. Banned from public office—? I mean, of all the …’

‘And teaching, running newspapers, running cinemas …’ Father rattles off. ‘Just think what they’re doing by this one act.’

‘They can’t do this.’ My protest sounds pathetic.

‘People can do anything.’

We sit, listening to the only sounds in the room: our own breathing, irregular in contrast to the gentle tick of the carriage clock.

‘It has always been there. They don’t want us here, Sebastien. They don’t even have the excuse of occupation. They simply want rid.’

‘That’s not true,’ I insist.

‘Is it not?’

‘What does it mean for us?’

‘The business?’

I nod.

‘The beginning of the end.’

‘But it doesn’t say anywhere that we can’t continue to run the bank—?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘What do you mean “yet”?’

‘I don’t know what I mean, Sebastien.’ Father rubs his eyes. He seems to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes. My head is spinning with it all, what it means.

‘What is “Jewishness” anyway?’ I continue. ‘How are they to know?’

‘We’ve told them, haven’t we?’ Father laughs, a dull sound. ‘We’ve trooped along like good little citizens and signed their census, admitted to the great sin of being Jewish.’

I’d ticked the box without a second thought.

‘Soon they’ll be testing our facial features, measuring our noses, our ears … like sizing up cattle for market. We’ll be herded in the same way as those animals, shunted to somewhere, out of the way.’

‘Surely not in Vichy? They can’t touch us here. It’s not in their interest – we’re fighting a war, so why turn on their own men?’ ‘This was passed in Vichy,’ Father points out. ‘But …’ I am flailing now. Father sighs. ‘No one will stand up for us, Sebastien. No one will come to our aid.’ ‘But
we
won’t be affected,’ I stress again, wanting confirmation, wanting something, feeling the floor disappear from under my feet.

Father is talking as if to himself. ‘We should have left months ago, but the business, I didn’t … your mother …’ He trails off, staring at the cigarette he’s snapped in half as I pace the room trying to help, to solve, to control this.

A cold, creeping fear squeezes the edges of my heart and I shiver.

There is a scrape of a key in a lock and the sound of footsteps up the stairs. Mother has returned from shopping. She clutches a little posy of pink flowers to arrange in the vase by the bed, a smile on her face as she enters the room.

‘Mother bought flowers,’ I point out stupidly.

Father hasn’t heard. He is still staring hopelessly at the halves of his cigarette.

ISABELLE

From the bench outside the town hall I watch a family nearby: the little boy, who can’t be more than six, is playing with his older sister. The game involves a lot of complicated hand-clapping and chanting some made-up song. Their parents are scanning the tram timetable, the mother looking over every now and again to check on them. The pace increases and I giggle as the boy loses the rhythm, his older sister cuffing him gently before ordering him to start again. Children are so wonderfully uncomplicated. This kind of game is popular in our village school.

I have loved the last few months as Mademoiselle Rochard.

I remember my own childhood with Paul. I think I bored him for years but was still always a playmate when no one else would do. I watched him and Papa fish down by the river and spent hours dangling upside down from tree branches, something that always got me a telling-off from Maman. We fought of course, ridiculous arguments that embarrass me now, but we became closer in our later years. I miss him now.

The family is leaving. The mother, taking the hands of her children, smiles at me as they pass. I wish them a good day and go back to my book, a rather dull book that I haven’t the energy for, encouraging my restless mood. It’s a relief to finally see the familiar figure of Sebastien walking along the pavement in the distance, heading in my direction.

This bench has become a regular meeting place, mostly due to an excellent café around the corner that still manages to produce pastries, of varying qualities, despite the shortages. He hasn’t seen me yet. He is wearing a suit and hat, his thick brown hair just visible above the collar of his jacket. He’s an ideal height, just over six foot, which is tall enough to make me feel suitably dainty and feminine and short enough that I don’t have to crane my neck backwards to look at him. He is a man you can’t help noticing: even if I try to focus on something else, one eye will peek, just to see what he is doing. There is something in his movements, fluid, like water, his face open; an easy raise of his eyebrows or a twitch of his lips that makes me want always to be in on the joke.

I see another girl, a redhead, pass him, head snapping back to take another look, and I feel a rush of pride. He is oblivious to the attention, nodding an acknowledgement to an elderly gentleman in the street, his brown eyes, edged with thick lashes, crinkling as he smiles.

I sigh like I’m starring in my own romantic novel and feel warmth spread through me when he sees me and breaks into a grin.

He removes his hat and leans down to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘No, not really. I’ve been pretending to read this.’ I hold up my book. ‘It’s terribly dull, so please distract me from it.’

He laughs, turning it over to inspect the jacket cover. ‘Remind me never to borrow it from you. I’m desperate for a drink … you?’

‘Absolutely.’ I stand up, put the book in my bag, notice a patch on my cardigan, dart a hand to cover it.

I know it’s shallow and silly to be so concerned with my fraying clothes but I want to dazzle him.

He tucks my arm in his and I am unable to resist leaning into him, our bodies centimetres apart. His wide shoulders carry a heavy weight: I know he worries about his parents, the business, and I know he finds it hard being young, male and at home, unable to go to war.

As I say something that makes him throw back his head I feel a rush, the start of an addiction. His teeth flash as he rocks appreciatively. Glowing, I feel there is a light inside me, starting in my stomach, bursting into the edges of my skin, heating my organs, and when it starts to sputter and go out, I want to say something else, prompt the reaction all over again. I want his hand to brush mine, want him to lean towards me conspiratorially, as if it is only us in the whole country, only two of us against the rest, and the light is sparked all over again.

We push into the shop, waiting briefly to be seated, step back to let another couple leave. I adore the feel of the little café – the scattered tables, the assortment of chairs and the crockery with faded china patterns.

We sit and I order almost immediately. Sebastien laughs at my enthusiasm.

‘They’re not going to run out of pastries,’ he states.

I roll my eyes at him.

Over Sebastien’s shoulder I notice two middle-aged men. One man is staring at us, brow furrowed. I make a mental note to be a little quieter. Something niggles at me, something familiar.

The waitress brings us our drinks, a substitute for coffee, roasted chicory and grain, and a thin apple tartlet in a pool of cream. As I stir the mixture I briefly imagine I can smell real coffee. I open my mouth to share this thought with Sebastien.

I am vaguely aware of a scrape of a chair and then the man from the table behind us is standing, looking down at Sebastien. He is towering over our table, a man who needs to duck before entering a room.

‘You’re Pierre’s son – at Maribanque,’ he states gruffly.

Sebastien pushes his chair back and stands, ‘I am.’ He dabs at the side of his mouth with his napkin and then holds out his hand to the man.

‘Sebastien.’ He is clearly trying to place him too and, as I see the man look at the proffered hand, ignore it and shrug on his coat, it hits me.

His thin moustache twitches. ‘I don’t bank there,’ he says, buttoning up his coat.

‘And I never will,’ mutters the other man who appears beside him, putting on his hat, his mouth nothing but a straight line on his face.

A look passes across Sebastien’s face and I don’t know whether to stay sitting or stand too.

‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ he asks.

‘No, we just know your type,’ the second man says, turning around before pulling on his coat. It is the mayor of the town.

At this I stand. Sebastien says nothing, but one hand flies out as if to stop me, or protect me – I’m not sure which. His mouth is half-open in surprise. The waitress glances over at us all huddled around the small circular table. Other diners are curious too.

The man continues. ‘We were just sitting there listening to you laugh with your lady friend here. How nice everything must be – your cosy little tryst, no matter that other young men are in prisoner of war camps or off fighting a war on your behalf.’

Sebastien flinches, hurt in his eyes. I know he’d hate it if I said anything but I’m fizzing with rage; it’s bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill out. My hands clench into fists at my sides. How dare they? And then I can’t stop myself, because Sebastien is just taking it, standing there, allowing them to say these things.

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘Isabelle …’ Sebastien looks at me.

‘But …’

‘We should leave,’ he says. His shoulders sag and his brown eyes have lost all their sparkle.

‘No, no, please stay and continue to enjoy yourselves. You and your money-grabbing kind are used to living the high life, I imagine.’

His kind?

I take a step forward and the table wobbles, spilling the dirty liquid over the tablecloth. The waitress hurries over.

The man leaves with a last look over his shoulder. ‘We’ll be sure to look out for you and your family.’

Sebastien lowers himself slowly back into his chair. He looks at me wiping fruitlessly at the stain as the waitress fusses that I mustn’t worry. I can feel it in her voice, the need to try and reach out to us, to assure us she doesn’t think like that, and I want to hug her for it.

Sebastien has lost all appetite, the tartlet abandoned. He is staring at his plate.

‘I’m sorry. I should have stopped him, it’s just … I … I’ve never …’

I reach a hand across the table. He looks at it and after a pause, takes it in his own. I squeeze it.

‘Don’t think about it. Really. They are just vile people with their own problems.’

‘Their sons are probably fighting somewhere, or prisoners,’ he says generously.

‘A lot of sons are fighting somewhere and that doesn’t excuse it,’ I respond, knowing that Paul would have said the same to him.

And it had been more than that. We both know it.

‘Shall we go?’

I want to stay, to rally him out of this sudden black mood.

‘Of course. We can walk to the park, go and feed those fat ducks or …’

He cuts me off. ‘I think I’ll go back to the office.’

I nod quickly, feel my throat thicken, swallow. Ridiculous.

Back along the street, Sebastien doesn’t say a word.

‘This is me,’ I say, pointing to the tram stop, knowing I probably have an age till it leaves for Oradour. ‘Thank you for the drink and the pastry.’ I falter, feeling cross with myself, cowardly, for not saying more.

‘I’ll be at the library on Thursday for lunch,’ I try.

He nods, his mouth turning up a fraction.

I should throw my arms around him. I should tell him the man is an ignorant fool and should be instantly forgotten. How can anyone think like that? I don’t know what to do though, so I pat his forearm and let him leave me.

He walks slowly down the pavement, head bent down, one leg stiff, affecting his gait. As I turn to check the timetable I see the men again across the street. They too are watching Sebastien leave.