The Silent Hours (11 page)

ADELINE

1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France

Sometimes I am captured in a memory so clear, punctuated by a warmth that flows through every sinew, making me feel for a moment that I can run out of this place, that I am still there and that it is all possible. And then it shimmers, flickers, twists.

I see Vincent’s face, every feature perfectly recalled. He is sitting in the armchair in the small room we keep as a study, a book open in his lap, the reading lamp beside him casting an orange glow. The fire has long gone out, just feathery ashes. I close the door quietly behind me, move to the other chair, picking up my tapestry as I pass him. A slight incline of his head in my direction, barely there but vital. He reaches out his hand, huge as I place mine in it. He squeezes it briefly and, without looking at me, starts to rumble with laughter at whatever it is he is reading. His face has new lines where it has creased and I can’t help but smile as I sit. His laughter ends and he looks up at me, his mouth turns up so slowly, and I feel wholly at peace as I settle back on a cushion.

I wish I could see his face once more. I never said goodbye to him, I never said I was sorry. His face distorts, then fades, his mouth turns down, his eyes leave me. Too dark to read, I desperately try to catch them once more.

He is only ever there for a moment.

SEBASTIEN

Isabelle has persuaded me out to her village to get some rest from banking, paperwork and, although she doesn’t say it, the melancholic mood of my father. Ever since the Jewish statute banning Jews from various positions, he seems half the man he used to be, stooped and weary. Ever since the men in the café, I suppose I have, too.

We meet at the tram stop in the village and Isabelle looks furtively left and right before greeting me quietly.

‘I’m so glad you came. Follow me.’ Her voice is light, the words almost lost as she turns, walking a few steps ahead.

Three young boys are behind the tram stop, two are kicking a football, the youngest, adorably blond and not part of the game, sucks his thumb, watching me through a thick fringe as I walk past him. I tip my hat at him and he removes the thumb to give me a big smile, showing uneven front teeth. The oldest boy – Tristan – blushes furiously as Isabelle calls out his name, mumbling a greeting and looking at me with narrowed eyes.

Isabelle trips lightly across the street, delicately picking her way over the tram lines in her low-heeled shoes, her skirt swinging just below her knees; a thread has come loose at the hem. She wears her hair half pinned up, thick strands falling between her shoulder blades. Looking over her right shoulder she smiles briefly at me, a thin line between her eyebrows, before dropping down a side street and then into a small path to the left.

Once there she slows, waiting for me, shadows making patterns on her skirt and cream cardigan. I squeeze myself by her side. The path itself is narrow and brambles poke out at various angles, breaking free of the hedge. I lower my head as we walk along, dodging the thin branches spattered with early buds. The air smells earthy and the ground beneath us is soft, tiny puddles of rainwater captured in the runnel of churned-up mud that runs down the middle of the path. A fly hums around my head and I swat at it uselessly.

Isabelle seems less tense now: her shoulders lower a fraction, an easier smile lights her face, no glances around as we walk across the meadow. Long grass prickles my calves through my trousers, daisies are dotted around, dandelions form clusters and, beneath it all, the river moves effortlessly through.

Shaking out a rug she lays it carefully on the grass and motions for me to sit. I feel creaky and awkward as I lower myself down. An insect skitters across the fabric making his escape. The grass beneath the rug tickles the hand that I rest on, uneven. The river narrows at this point and the water forces its way around larger stones in its path, dampening the slime-green edges and leaving the tops of the stones dry. Weeds and grasses grow in the cracks and some pink flowers have clumped on the bank beneath twisted tree roots that disappear into the stream. We seem almost hidden from the village here.

Isabelle sits down; I crackle with nerves. There is colour in her cheeks, a peach blush as she looks off into the distance. I wonder if she feels it too. I realize this is the first time I have been truly alone with her.

‘No one comes here,’ Isabelle announces, as if confirming my thought. ‘Paul and I used to spend hours here in the summer, further down there.’ She points to a wooden bridge someway off. ‘It’s more popular, but I’ve always loved this spot.’

I lean back on my elbows, watching the water flow making the reflections of the plants that drape over the edge quiver as it eddies.

Shadows from clouds above darken the water in places and the river is a mix of browns and greens.

Silent and peaceful I feel my muscles relax, feel the warmth of the sun, weak but there, through my clothing, and listen to the occasional chirrup of birds, the rustle of an animal and, all the time, the backdrop of the quiet trickle of the river as it continues to move past. Closing my eyes I breathe in deeply, holding the breath, my senses heightened, then release and open my eyes again. The fields beyond look like a vivid watercolour painting; my mother would love the view.

Isabelle is watching me. She has kicked off her shoes, the suede heels lying abandoned on their sides, and her stockinged feet resting on the rug. I find myself fascinated by them, the gentle arch, the curl of her toes, the soft pink of her nails just visible beneath the fleshcoloured fabric.

‘Join me,’ she laughs, wiggling her toes and making me look up, a heat creeping up my neck.

‘I wouldn’t want to lower the tone,’ I tease, brushing one hand over the rug.

‘I’m glad someone is concerned with standards,’ she says, her face solemn, removing a flask from her basket. ‘Water?’ she offers. She hands me a small tin mug and pours from the flask.

I sip the water, feeling the cool liquid run down my throat.

‘How is school?’ I ask.

She nods eagerly. ‘I’m really enjoying it, every day is different. This term my classroom is decorated with poetry and pictures and I still adore their faces when they understand something for the first time. It’s magical, that moment.’

‘It always sounds much more exciting than the business of a bank.’

‘Ah, but not as lucrative.’ She laughs. ‘Now, wait here.’ She disappears somewhere behind me. ‘You’re not to follow,’ she calls over her shoulder, and I wait for her to re-emerge. When she does, I can’t help but laugh as she throws her stockings in a ball at her bag and makes her way over to the bank.

‘You know, you can be quite shocking, Mademoiselle Rochard,’ I say.

‘I do hope so,’ she sighs, gasping as she steps into the shallows.

She takes another step to plant herself. The water forges past her calves, splitting and meeting again, as she stands there, her skin pale in the light, paler beneath the water. She dips her hands down into the water and trails her fingers along the surface.

‘Amazing.’ She looks back at me. ‘You have to,’ she says, no teasing in her voice.

She is right, of course, and without a second thought I find myself removing my shoes, untying the laces hastily, pulling off my socks, rolling up my trousers, the hairs on my legs dark against my skin. Standing up, I walk over to the bank, place a toe into the water, my expression earning a laugh from Isabelle.

‘It’s colder than Alaska.’

Stepping onto the flat pebbles I exhale in a rush. The shock of the water stings, as if cold jaws have clamped themselves around my feet. At that moment the sun is obscured by a cloud and the scene becomes muted, faded to dull green and muddy brown. Small goosebumps break out on my skin and I give an involuntary shiver.

I soon get used to the feeling, wading out a little deeper, feeling the light tug of the current, enjoying the ripples I create moving in wide rings away from me, disrupting the darker parts of the water.

Looking back towards Oradour, I place my hands on my hips and feel the sun emerge, warming my back like a hug from Mother when I was younger. The whole village can be seen above the line of trees: the tiled rooftops, backs of houses, windows left open to welcome this weather, washing hanging out in the gardens, and then the church, rising up at the end on my right. Its rectangular tower, topped with a spire, seems to act as a watch guard to the village. The stones look like they have been there for ever, solid in a shifting landscape. A pale trail of swallows in the sky beyond it dives en masse.

‘I want to invite you to meet my parents,’ I blurt, turning to catch her eye. I worry that this admission will scare her but I realize then, as I see her expression change, that I am the one that is afraid.

She opens her eyes wide. The greens seem to reflect the mossy colour of the water below. ‘I would love that.’ She smiles, closing her eyes and lifting her throat so that the sun shines on her face. ‘I’d love that.’

We spend the next hour on the bank, bait on a simple piece of string dropped into the water. I sneak glimpses of Isabelle over the book I am barely reading. Her long hair falls towards her lap in blonde waves, a small leaf caught in it; her arms are turning brown, small faint freckles sprinkled over warm skin.

I will return and talk to my parents, finally. I know I want to be with her, like this, for the rest of my life.

I look back towards the village. I can’t imagine a more peaceful place.

ISABELLE

Dear Paul,

I’ve fallen in love.

I wish I could see your face – see that disapproving look you get when Iannounce I’ve bought a new hat (‘How many hats does one girl need?’) or meta man. I have to share it here and miss the creasing of your brow … it’s not a hat, Paul – I have actually fallen in love!

Honestly and truly I feel it deep within me. And don’t go saying it’s just indigestion or some such, or that it’s only because he’s handsome (he is, of course, but you know that can’t be all of it – Marcus Porcher is good looking and I find him so dull).

You would like him. He is gentle – an optimist. He’s kind in infinitesimal ways and he’s thoughtful. He brings me things – of course, you’ll think he’s just buying his way into my affections, but I mean small things, like a strudel (youknow I adore them; well, anything covered in pastry) and flowers he has pickedor an article he has read that he thinks I will find interesting.

Although I suppose all this is wasted on you – what you really wantto know is if he is any good at sport? I shall have to find out. He certainlycan’t fish.

Is this trivial? I’m sorry but I don’t know what else you want to hear from here. We miss you as ever and the village seems to be waiting for something to happen. We hear of the fighting in other places but we hardly ever see any Germans and it’s quite unreal still, as if it is happening to other people and we are just hearing about it all second-hand. As I write this I feel so foolish – of course you won’t want to hear it.

How can anyone be falling in love when elsewhere such horrible things are happening? I am sure you are staying strong and making others laugh and being brave. How you must hate the Stalag. Will working for them be better than being idle or will you loathe the fact that you have to help them? I’m glad you’re with the others, grateful you’re not alone – is that awful? Wishing the same fate on others? I think you know what I mean.

I am thinking of you every day: we all are.

We love you.

Isabelle

TRISTAN

Papa’s eyes narrow as he reads Monsieur Garande’s note and then he looks at me, waiting for me to speak. The note felt hot in my hand the whole way back from school.

‘It was Samuel,’ I begin. ‘He’s a liar, he got me into all this, he started it.’

‘He made you fall on him like a savage in the playground in front of everyone, did he?’ Papa asks. It is a hard question to answer and so I pause to think of a clever reply.

‘He’s a liar,’ I repeat, realizing I have failed.

‘Can you enlighten me then, Tristan?’

‘He accused me of cheating on a trick,’ I say, not feeling confident that I am enlightening him to anything, as I don’t really know what that means.

‘What trick?’

‘A card trick.’

‘Well, did you?’

‘What?’

‘Did you cheat in the trick?’

‘Well, it’s a trick …’

‘So you did.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why that boy in particular?’ he asks.

I frown at that. How can I explain why I don’t like Samuel? He just makes me so angry.

My father looks at me. ‘Monsieur Garande tells me what he is and I would expect nothing better from their sort, but I don’t want you to be so out in the open with it. We must
always
be cleverer than them.’

I don’t understand that bit either, but I don’t want to say anything in case I add to my punishment.

‘Do you really not have anything else to say?’ he asks.

I do not.

Father sighs and starts the lecture about the war and bigger things to worry about and Maman and him under a lot of pressure and all this makes me squirm. But much worse is when he gets a long stick out of the coat stand and I know I am going to have to bend over and receive a punishment. He asks me one more time if I want to tell him exactly what happened but I know he will probably punish me anyway so I think it best to just take the beating.

I try to stay still as it hurts so much more if you tense, and I try to offer him the most plump part of my behind in the hope he might hit me there, but as the first blow falls the familiar sensations flood over me and I don’t feel like staying still and taking it. There will be extra strokes if I move, but each stroke of the cane makes me wiggle even worse.

I don’t know what Papa means about Monsieur Garande telling him what Samuel is – I can say what Samuel is, and that is a know-it-all. Of course I know exactly why the argument began but I don’t want to share it with Papa as I’m not confident he will see things from my point of view.

It was my new trick. Perfected over the weekend. At school break, André chose a card, I did a series of complicated flicks and things, a quick tap, a lot of magic words, a shuffle and –
voilà
– I pulled his card from out of the pack as he stood there with his mouth open. It was brilliant.

Samuel came and sat down in front of us both and then another boy with a birthmark down one side of his face, who is in the year below, joined too. They were both eating the vitamin biscuits that taste like cardboard. I smiled at the boy with the birthmark but turned my back a little so I was facing away from Samuel. Annoyingly, he didn’t get the hint and stayed right where he was to watch. I didn’t really mind though, as this seemed to others to be quite a crowd as I noticed a few other people looking over at us.

André selected a card again and I did all the flicks and things like I had learnt, before asking him in a low voice, ‘Is this your card?’

He nodded again, clearly impressed.

Samuel piped up, swiping crumbs from his jumper, ‘You didn’t even put the card in the pack.’

André looked at him in surprise, then back at me.

‘Yes, I did,’ I said, gritting my teeth and closing my eyes. How dare he question my trick?

‘No, you didn’t, did he, Pedro?’ he asked the boy with the birthmark, who nodded.

‘I did,’ I repeated, feeling my face get hot.

‘You kept it out of the pack, I saw.’

‘You can’t see clearly from where you are,’ I said, shaking my head at André as I said it. ‘And anyway, no one likes tall stories,’ I added, quoting from something Papa said to me once.

Samuel looked hurt at this, clearly faking, which made André feel sorry for him so then André sided with him in this and claimed that I must have done it as why else would Samuel have said that? I threw the cards on the ground but then, to prove that he was just a liar, I picked them all up and repeated the trick one more time, this time super-fast, with extra-large taps and twists and things and I made sure that the card was out of sight.

Samuel didn’t say a word at the end and I turned to André. ‘See, I told you,’ I said, holding out the four of spades. ‘That is your card.’

‘It was,’ André said, shrugging at Samuel, who nodded then and turned to go.

I hadn’t had enough, though. ‘Ha! See! He is just a liar. A silly, little liar.’

Samuel froze on the spot. Then he slowly turned, looked straight at me and said, ‘It was up your sleeve.’That made me go quiet and André just stood there. ‘You put it up there once André had chosen it,’ he said.

He ruined everything with his showing off.

‘He keeps it up his sleeve whilst he’s shuffling,’ he said to André.

Before he could continue, I launched myself at the stupid know-itall, who ducked out of the way. I caught him again though, and we both fell on the ground. It was at that moment that Monsieur Garande saw us and his booming voice stopped both of us dead still.

As I lie on my Papa’s lap and feel each stroke I blame it all on Samuel. This is not over.