death?”
“Leave him alone, Aline, he’s right, for goodness sake!” said the woman with the bandaged head. “What do you want us to do? Those two, they don’t deserve to live, they don’t, I’m telling you!”
They stopped talking. She had been a servant until she’d married a worker from the Renault car factory. They’d managed to keep him in Paris during the first few months of the war, but he’d gone in February and now he was fighting God knows where. He’d already fought in the other war and he was the oldest of four children, but none of that had made any difference. Privileges, exemptions, connections, all that was for the middle classes. Deep in her heart were layer upon layer of hatred, overlapping yet distinct: the countrywoman’s hatred, who instinctively detests city people, the servant’s hatred, weary and bitter at having lived in other people’s houses, the worker’s hatred. For the past few months she had replaced her husband at the factory. She couldn’t get used to doing a man’s work; it had strengthened her arms but hardened her soul.
“You really got them, Jules,” she said to her brother. “I’m telling you, I didn’t think you had it in you!”
“When I saw Aline about to faint, and those bastards with all their wine, foie gras and everything, I don’t know what came over me.”
Aline, who seemed shyer and softer, ventured, “We could have just asked them for some, don’t you think, Hortense?”
“What, are you crazy?” her husband exclaimed. “For goodness sake! No, you don’t know their type. They’d rather see us die like dogs, worse! You’re crazy . . .”
“I know those two, I do,” said Hortense. “They’re the worst, they are. I saw him once at that old bag the Countess Barral du Jeu’s; he writes books and plays. A madman, according to the driver, and thick as two short planks.”
Hortense put away the rest of the food as she spoke. Her large red hands were extraordinarily nimble and agile. Then she picked up the baby and undressed him. “Poor little thing, what a journey! Oh, he’ll have learned about life early, he will. Maybe that’s better. Sometimes I don’t regret having had a hard life: knowing how to use your hands, there are some who can’t even say that. You remember, Jules, when Ma died, I was just about thirteen. I went to the wash-house no matter what the weather, breaking the ice in winter and carrying bundles of laundry on my back . . . I used to cry into my raw hands. But then, that taught me to stand on my own two feet and not to be afraid.”
“You really can cope, for sure,” said Aline with admiration.
Once the baby was changed, washed and dried, Aline unbuttoned her blouse and held her little one to her breast; the others watched her, smiling.
“At least he’ll have something to eat, poor little chap, won’t he!”
The champagne was going to their heads; they felt vaguely, sweetly intoxicated. They watched the flames in the distance in a deep stupor. Now and again they would forget why they were in this strange place, why they had left their little flat near the Gare de Lyon, rushed along the roads, crossed the forest at Fontainebleau, robbed Corte. Everything was becoming dark and cloudy, as in a dream. They’d hung the cage from a low branch and now they fed the birds. Hortense had remembered to bring a packet of seeds for them when they left. She took a few pieces of sugar from her pocket and put them into a cup of boiling hot coffee: the thermos had survived the car accident. She drank it noisily, bringing her thick lips to the cup, one hand placed on her enormous bosom to protect it from coffee stains. Suddenly, a rumour spread from group to group: “The Germans marched into Paris this morning.”
Hortense dropped her half-full cup; her round face had gone even redder. She bowed her head and began crying. “Now that hurts . . . that hurts here,” she said, touching her heart.
A few hot tears ran down her
“Leave him alone, Aline, he’s right, for goodness sake!” said the woman with the bandaged head. “What do you want us to do? Those two, they don’t deserve to live, they don’t, I’m telling you!”
They stopped talking. She had been a servant until she’d married a worker from the Renault car factory. They’d managed to keep him in Paris during the first few months of the war, but he’d gone in February and now he was fighting God knows where. He’d already fought in the other war and he was the oldest of four children, but none of that had made any difference. Privileges, exemptions, connections, all that was for the middle classes. Deep in her heart were layer upon layer of hatred, overlapping yet distinct: the countrywoman’s hatred, who instinctively detests city people, the servant’s hatred, weary and bitter at having lived in other people’s houses, the worker’s hatred. For the past few months she had replaced her husband at the factory. She couldn’t get used to doing a man’s work; it had strengthened her arms but hardened her soul.
“You really got them, Jules,” she said to her brother. “I’m telling you, I didn’t think you had it in you!”
“When I saw Aline about to faint, and those bastards with all their wine, foie gras and everything, I don’t know what came over me.”
Aline, who seemed shyer and softer, ventured, “We could have just asked them for some, don’t you think, Hortense?”
“What, are you crazy?” her husband exclaimed. “For goodness sake! No, you don’t know their type. They’d rather see us die like dogs, worse! You’re crazy . . .”
“I know those two, I do,” said Hortense. “They’re the worst, they are. I saw him once at that old bag the Countess Barral du Jeu’s; he writes books and plays. A madman, according to the driver, and thick as two short planks.”
Hortense put away the rest of the food as she spoke. Her large red hands were extraordinarily nimble and agile. Then she picked up the baby and undressed him. “Poor little thing, what a journey! Oh, he’ll have learned about life early, he will. Maybe that’s better. Sometimes I don’t regret having had a hard life: knowing how to use your hands, there are some who can’t even say that. You remember, Jules, when Ma died, I was just about thirteen. I went to the wash-house no matter what the weather, breaking the ice in winter and carrying bundles of laundry on my back . . . I used to cry into my raw hands. But then, that taught me to stand on my own two feet and not to be afraid.”
“You really can cope, for sure,” said Aline with admiration.
Once the baby was changed, washed and dried, Aline unbuttoned her blouse and held her little one to her breast; the others watched her, smiling.
“At least he’ll have something to eat, poor little chap, won’t he!”
The champagne was going to their heads; they felt vaguely, sweetly intoxicated. They watched the flames in the distance in a deep stupor. Now and again they would forget why they were in this strange place, why they had left their little flat near the Gare de Lyon, rushed along the roads, crossed the forest at Fontainebleau, robbed Corte. Everything was becoming dark and cloudy, as in a dream. They’d hung the cage from a low branch and now they fed the birds. Hortense had remembered to bring a packet of seeds for them when they left. She took a few pieces of sugar from her pocket and put them into a cup of boiling hot coffee: the thermos had survived the car accident. She drank it noisily, bringing her thick lips to the cup, one hand placed on her enormous bosom to protect it from coffee stains. Suddenly, a rumour spread from group to group: “The Germans marched into Paris this morning.”
Hortense dropped her half-full cup; her round face had gone even redder. She bowed her head and began crying. “Now that hurts . . . that hurts here,” she said, touching her heart.
A few hot tears ran down her
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