physical than the men’s, simpler as well and more open. They consoled themselves with recriminations: “Well . . . I don’t know why we bothered! . . . To end up here . . . It’s shameful, it is . . . we’ve been betrayed, Madame, betrayed I say . . . we’ve been sold out and now it’s the poor men who are suffering . . .”
Hubert listened to them, clenching his fists, rage in his heart. What was he doing here? Bunch of old chatterboxes, he thought. If only he were two years older! Suddenly his young and innocent mind—younger, until now, than his years—was overtaken by the passions and torment of a grown man: patriotic anguish, a burning feeling of shame, pain, anger and the desire to make a sacrifice. Finally, and for the first time in his life, he thought, he felt linked to a truly serious cause. It wasn’t enough to cry or shout traitor, he was a man; he might not be legally old enough to fight but he knew he was stronger, more robust, more able, more cunning than these old men of thirty-five and forty who had been sent to war, and
he
was free. He wasn’t held back by family ties, by love! “Oh, I want to go,” he murmured, “I want to go!”
He rushed towards his mother, grabbed her hand, took her aside. “Mummy, let me have some food and my red jumper from your bag and . . . give me a kiss,” he said. “I’m leaving.” He couldn’t breathe. Tears were streaming down his face.
His mother looked at him and understood. “Come on now, darling, you’re mad . . .”
“Mother, I’m leaving. I can’t stay here . . . I’ll die, I’ll kill myself if I have to stay here and be useless, twiddling my thumbs while . . . and don’t you realise the Germans will come and force all the boys to fight, make them fight for them. I couldn’t! Let me go.”
He had gradually raised his voice and was shouting now; he couldn’t control himself. He was surrounded by a circle of trembling, terrified old women: another young boy, scarcely older than him, the nephew of the two spinsters, rosy and fair, with curly hair and big innocent blue eyes, had joined him and repeated in a slight southern accent (his parents were civil servants—he’d been born in Tarascon), “Of course we have to go, and tonight! Look, not very far from here, in the Sainte woods, there are troops . . . all we have to do is get on our bikes and join them . . .”
“René,” moaned his aunts, holding on to him, “René, my darling, think of your mother!”
“Let go of me, Auntie, this is not a matter for women,” he replied, pushing them away, and his lovely face flushed with pleasure: he was proud of what he’d said.
He looked at Hubert, who had dried his tears and was standing next to the window, serious and determined. He went up to him and whispered in his ear, “Are we going, then?”
“Yes, we’re going,” Hubert whispered back. He thought for a minute and added, “Meet on the road leading out of the village, at midnight.”
They shook hands in secret. Around them the women were all talking at once, begging them to give up their plan, to take pity on their parents, to hold on to their lives, such precious lives, to think of the future. At that moment they heard Jacqueline’s piercing screams from upstairs. “Mummy, Mummy, come quickly! Albert’s run away!”
“Albert, is that your other son? Oh, my God!” exclaimed the spinsters.
“No, no, Albert’s the cat,” said Madame Péricand, who thought she was going mad.
Meanwhile, the sound of deep muffled explosions reverberated through the air: guns were firing in the distance, they were surrounded by danger. Madame Péricand collapsed into a chair. “Hubert, just listen to me! In the absence of your father I am in charge. You are a child, barely seventeen, your duty is to save yourself for the future . . .”
“For the next war?”
“For the next war,” Madame Péricand repeated automatically. “In the meantime, you must simply be quiet and do as I say.
Hubert listened to them, clenching his fists, rage in his heart. What was he doing here? Bunch of old chatterboxes, he thought. If only he were two years older! Suddenly his young and innocent mind—younger, until now, than his years—was overtaken by the passions and torment of a grown man: patriotic anguish, a burning feeling of shame, pain, anger and the desire to make a sacrifice. Finally, and for the first time in his life, he thought, he felt linked to a truly serious cause. It wasn’t enough to cry or shout traitor, he was a man; he might not be legally old enough to fight but he knew he was stronger, more robust, more able, more cunning than these old men of thirty-five and forty who had been sent to war, and
he
was free. He wasn’t held back by family ties, by love! “Oh, I want to go,” he murmured, “I want to go!”
He rushed towards his mother, grabbed her hand, took her aside. “Mummy, let me have some food and my red jumper from your bag and . . . give me a kiss,” he said. “I’m leaving.” He couldn’t breathe. Tears were streaming down his face.
His mother looked at him and understood. “Come on now, darling, you’re mad . . .”
“Mother, I’m leaving. I can’t stay here . . . I’ll die, I’ll kill myself if I have to stay here and be useless, twiddling my thumbs while . . . and don’t you realise the Germans will come and force all the boys to fight, make them fight for them. I couldn’t! Let me go.”
He had gradually raised his voice and was shouting now; he couldn’t control himself. He was surrounded by a circle of trembling, terrified old women: another young boy, scarcely older than him, the nephew of the two spinsters, rosy and fair, with curly hair and big innocent blue eyes, had joined him and repeated in a slight southern accent (his parents were civil servants—he’d been born in Tarascon), “Of course we have to go, and tonight! Look, not very far from here, in the Sainte woods, there are troops . . . all we have to do is get on our bikes and join them . . .”
“René,” moaned his aunts, holding on to him, “René, my darling, think of your mother!”
“Let go of me, Auntie, this is not a matter for women,” he replied, pushing them away, and his lovely face flushed with pleasure: he was proud of what he’d said.
He looked at Hubert, who had dried his tears and was standing next to the window, serious and determined. He went up to him and whispered in his ear, “Are we going, then?”
“Yes, we’re going,” Hubert whispered back. He thought for a minute and added, “Meet on the road leading out of the village, at midnight.”
They shook hands in secret. Around them the women were all talking at once, begging them to give up their plan, to take pity on their parents, to hold on to their lives, such precious lives, to think of the future. At that moment they heard Jacqueline’s piercing screams from upstairs. “Mummy, Mummy, come quickly! Albert’s run away!”
“Albert, is that your other son? Oh, my God!” exclaimed the spinsters.
“No, no, Albert’s the cat,” said Madame Péricand, who thought she was going mad.
Meanwhile, the sound of deep muffled explosions reverberated through the air: guns were firing in the distance, they were surrounded by danger. Madame Péricand collapsed into a chair. “Hubert, just listen to me! In the absence of your father I am in charge. You are a child, barely seventeen, your duty is to save yourself for the future . . .”
“For the next war?”
“For the next war,” Madame Péricand repeated automatically. “In the meantime, you must simply be quiet and do as I say.
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