other side, was Liliane Béthune. Her hair was piled up inpin curls, she was wearing the black astrakhan coat, and her eyes
were shadowed. She glanced behind her as I unlocked the top and bottom bolts and opened
the door.
‘Liliane? Are you … do you
need something?’ I said.
She reached into her coat and pulled out an
envelope, which she thrust at me. ‘For you,’ she said.
I glanced at it. ‘But … how
did you –’
She held up a pale hand, shook her head.
It had been months since any of us had
received a letter. The Germans had long kept us in a communications vacuum. I held it,
disbelieving, then recovered my manners. ‘Would you like to come in? Have some
coffee? I have a little real coffee put by.’
She gave me the smallest of smiles.
‘No. Thank you. I have to go home to my daughter.’ Before I could even thank
her, she was trotting up the street in her high heels, her back hunched against the
cold.
I shut the screen and re-bolted the door.
Then I sat down and tore open the envelope. His voice, so long absent, filled my
ears.
Dearest Sophie
It is so long since I heard from you. I pray you are safe. I tell myself in
darker moments that some part of me would feel it, like the vibrations of a
distant bell, if you were not.
I have so little to impart. For once I have no desire to translate into colour
the world I see around me. Words seem wholly inadequate. Know only that,
precious wife, I am sound of mind and body, and that my spirit is kept whole by
the thought of you.
The men here clutch photographs of their loved ones liketalismans, protection against the dark – crumpled, dirty images endowed with
the properties of treasure. I need no photograph to conjure you before me,
Sophie: I need only to close my eyes to recall your face, your voice, your
scent, and you cannot know how much you comfort me.
Know, my darling, that I mark each day not, like my fellow soldiers, as one that
I am grateful to survive, but thanking God that each means I must surely be
twenty-four hours closer to returning to you.
Your Édouard
It was dated two months previously.
I don’t know if it was exhaustion, or
perhaps shock from the previous day’s events – I am not someone who cries easily,
if at all – but I put the letter carefully back into its envelope, then rested my head
on my hands and, in the cold, empty kitchen, I sobbed.
I could not tell the other villagers why it
was time to eat the pig but the approach of Christmas gave me the perfect excuse. The
officers were to have their dinner on Christmas Eve in Le Coq Rouge, a larger gathering
than normal, and it was agreed that while they were here Madame Poilâne would hold a
secret
réveillon
at her home, two streets down from the square. For as
long as I could keep the German officers occupied, our little band of townspeople would
be safe to roast and eat the pig in the bread oven that Madame Poilâne had in her
cellar. Hélène would help me serve the Germans their dinner, then sneak
through the hole in the cellar wall and out down the alley to join the children at
Madame Poilâne’s house. Thosevillagers who lived too far from
her to walk through the town unnoticed would remain in her home after curfew, hiding if
any Germans came checking.
‘But that isn’t fair,’
Hélène remarked, when I outlined the plan to the mayor in front of her two
days later. ‘If you remain here you will be the one person to miss it.
That’s not right, given all you did to safeguard the pig.’
‘One of us has to stay,’ I
pointed out. ‘You know it’s far safer if we can be sure that the officers
are all in one place.’
‘But it won’t be the
same.’
‘Well, nothing
is
the
same,’ I said curtly. ‘And you know as well as I do that Herr Kommandant
will notice if I am gone.’
I saw her exchange glances with the
mayor.
‘Hélène, don’t fuss. I
am
la
were shadowed. She glanced behind her as I unlocked the top and bottom bolts and opened
the door.
‘Liliane? Are you … do you
need something?’ I said.
She reached into her coat and pulled out an
envelope, which she thrust at me. ‘For you,’ she said.
I glanced at it. ‘But … how
did you –’
She held up a pale hand, shook her head.
It had been months since any of us had
received a letter. The Germans had long kept us in a communications vacuum. I held it,
disbelieving, then recovered my manners. ‘Would you like to come in? Have some
coffee? I have a little real coffee put by.’
She gave me the smallest of smiles.
‘No. Thank you. I have to go home to my daughter.’ Before I could even thank
her, she was trotting up the street in her high heels, her back hunched against the
cold.
I shut the screen and re-bolted the door.
Then I sat down and tore open the envelope. His voice, so long absent, filled my
ears.
Dearest Sophie
It is so long since I heard from you. I pray you are safe. I tell myself in
darker moments that some part of me would feel it, like the vibrations of a
distant bell, if you were not.
I have so little to impart. For once I have no desire to translate into colour
the world I see around me. Words seem wholly inadequate. Know only that,
precious wife, I am sound of mind and body, and that my spirit is kept whole by
the thought of you.
The men here clutch photographs of their loved ones liketalismans, protection against the dark – crumpled, dirty images endowed with
the properties of treasure. I need no photograph to conjure you before me,
Sophie: I need only to close my eyes to recall your face, your voice, your
scent, and you cannot know how much you comfort me.
Know, my darling, that I mark each day not, like my fellow soldiers, as one that
I am grateful to survive, but thanking God that each means I must surely be
twenty-four hours closer to returning to you.
Your Édouard
It was dated two months previously.
I don’t know if it was exhaustion, or
perhaps shock from the previous day’s events – I am not someone who cries easily,
if at all – but I put the letter carefully back into its envelope, then rested my head
on my hands and, in the cold, empty kitchen, I sobbed.
I could not tell the other villagers why it
was time to eat the pig but the approach of Christmas gave me the perfect excuse. The
officers were to have their dinner on Christmas Eve in Le Coq Rouge, a larger gathering
than normal, and it was agreed that while they were here Madame Poilâne would hold a
secret
réveillon
at her home, two streets down from the square. For as
long as I could keep the German officers occupied, our little band of townspeople would
be safe to roast and eat the pig in the bread oven that Madame Poilâne had in her
cellar. Hélène would help me serve the Germans their dinner, then sneak
through the hole in the cellar wall and out down the alley to join the children at
Madame Poilâne’s house. Thosevillagers who lived too far from
her to walk through the town unnoticed would remain in her home after curfew, hiding if
any Germans came checking.
‘But that isn’t fair,’
Hélène remarked, when I outlined the plan to the mayor in front of her two
days later. ‘If you remain here you will be the one person to miss it.
That’s not right, given all you did to safeguard the pig.’
‘One of us has to stay,’ I
pointed out. ‘You know it’s far safer if we can be sure that the officers
are all in one place.’
‘But it won’t be the
same.’
‘Well, nothing
is
the
same,’ I said curtly. ‘And you know as well as I do that Herr Kommandant
will notice if I am gone.’
I saw her exchange glances with the
mayor.
‘Hélène, don’t fuss. I
am
la
Similar Books
