patronne
. He expects to see me here every evening. He will know something
is going on if I am missing.’
I sounded, even to my own ears, as if I was
protesting too much. ‘Look,’ I continued, forcing myself to sound
conciliatory. ‘Save me some meat. Bring it back in a napkin. I can promise you
that, if the Germans are given rations enough to feast on, I will make sure I help
myself to a share. I will not suffer. I promise.’
They appeared mollified, but I
couldn’t tell them the truth. Ever since I had discovered that the
Kommandant
knew about the pig, I had lost my appetite for it. That he had
not revealed his knowledge of its existence, let alone punished us, didn’t make me
joyous with relief, but deeply uneasy.
Now when I saw him staring at my portrait, I
no longer felt gratified that even a German could recognize myhusband’s talent. When he walked into the kitchen to make casual conversation, I
became stiff and tense, afraid he might mention it.
‘Yet again,’ the mayor said,
‘I suspect we find ourselves in your debt.’ He looked beaten down. His
daughter had been ill for a week; his wife had once told me that every time Louisa fell
ill he barely slept for anxiety.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I
said briskly. ‘Compared to what our men are doing, this is just another
day’s work.’
My sister knew me too well. She didn’t
ask questions directly; that was not Hélène’s style. But I could feel
her watching me, could hear the faint edge to her voice whenever the question of the
réveillon
was raised. Finally, a week before Christmas, I confided in
her. She had been sitting on the side of her bed, doing her hair. The brush stilled in
her hand. ‘Why do you think he has not told anyone?’ I asked, when I
finished.
She stared at the bedspread. When she looked
at me it was with a kind of dread. ‘I think he likes you,’ she said.
The week before Christmas was busy, even
though we had little with which to prepare for the festivities. Hélène and a
couple of the older women had been sewing rag dolls for the children. They were
primitive, their skirts made of sacking, their faces embroidered stockings. But it was
important that the children who remained in St Péronne had a little magic in that
bleak Christmas.
I grew a little bolder in my own efforts.
Twice I stole potatoes from the German rations, mashing what was left to disguise the
smaller amounts, and ferried them in my pockets to those who seemed particularly frail.
I stolethe smaller carrots and fed them into the hem of my skirt so
that even when I was stopped and searched, they found nothing. To the mayor I took two
jars of chicken stock, so that his wife could make Louisa a little broth. The child was
pale and feverish; his wife told me she kept little down and seemed to be retreating
into herself. Looking at her, swallowed by the vast old bed with its threadbare
blankets, listless and coughing intermittently, I thought briefly that I could hardly
blame her. What life was this for children?
We tried to hide the worst of it from them
as best we could, but they found themselves in a world where men were shot in the
street, where strangers hauled their mothers from their beds by their hair for some
trivial offence, like walking in a banned wood or failing to show a German officer
sufficient respect. Mimi viewed our world with silent, suspicious eyes, which broke
Hélène’s heart. Aurélien grew angry: I could see it building in
him, like a volcanic force, and I prayed daily that when he finally erupted, it would
not come at huge cost to himself.
But the biggest news that week was the
arrival through my door of a newspaper, roughly printed, and entitled
Journal des
Occupés
. The only newspaper allowed in St Péronne was the
German-controlled
Bulletin de Lille
, which was so obviously German propaganda
that few of us did more with it than use it
. He expects to see me here every evening. He will know something
is going on if I am missing.’
I sounded, even to my own ears, as if I was
protesting too much. ‘Look,’ I continued, forcing myself to sound
conciliatory. ‘Save me some meat. Bring it back in a napkin. I can promise you
that, if the Germans are given rations enough to feast on, I will make sure I help
myself to a share. I will not suffer. I promise.’
They appeared mollified, but I
couldn’t tell them the truth. Ever since I had discovered that the
Kommandant
knew about the pig, I had lost my appetite for it. That he had
not revealed his knowledge of its existence, let alone punished us, didn’t make me
joyous with relief, but deeply uneasy.
Now when I saw him staring at my portrait, I
no longer felt gratified that even a German could recognize myhusband’s talent. When he walked into the kitchen to make casual conversation, I
became stiff and tense, afraid he might mention it.
‘Yet again,’ the mayor said,
‘I suspect we find ourselves in your debt.’ He looked beaten down. His
daughter had been ill for a week; his wife had once told me that every time Louisa fell
ill he barely slept for anxiety.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I
said briskly. ‘Compared to what our men are doing, this is just another
day’s work.’
My sister knew me too well. She didn’t
ask questions directly; that was not Hélène’s style. But I could feel
her watching me, could hear the faint edge to her voice whenever the question of the
réveillon
was raised. Finally, a week before Christmas, I confided in
her. She had been sitting on the side of her bed, doing her hair. The brush stilled in
her hand. ‘Why do you think he has not told anyone?’ I asked, when I
finished.
She stared at the bedspread. When she looked
at me it was with a kind of dread. ‘I think he likes you,’ she said.
The week before Christmas was busy, even
though we had little with which to prepare for the festivities. Hélène and a
couple of the older women had been sewing rag dolls for the children. They were
primitive, their skirts made of sacking, their faces embroidered stockings. But it was
important that the children who remained in St Péronne had a little magic in that
bleak Christmas.
I grew a little bolder in my own efforts.
Twice I stole potatoes from the German rations, mashing what was left to disguise the
smaller amounts, and ferried them in my pockets to those who seemed particularly frail.
I stolethe smaller carrots and fed them into the hem of my skirt so
that even when I was stopped and searched, they found nothing. To the mayor I took two
jars of chicken stock, so that his wife could make Louisa a little broth. The child was
pale and feverish; his wife told me she kept little down and seemed to be retreating
into herself. Looking at her, swallowed by the vast old bed with its threadbare
blankets, listless and coughing intermittently, I thought briefly that I could hardly
blame her. What life was this for children?
We tried to hide the worst of it from them
as best we could, but they found themselves in a world where men were shot in the
street, where strangers hauled their mothers from their beds by their hair for some
trivial offence, like walking in a banned wood or failing to show a German officer
sufficient respect. Mimi viewed our world with silent, suspicious eyes, which broke
Hélène’s heart. Aurélien grew angry: I could see it building in
him, like a volcanic force, and I prayed daily that when he finally erupted, it would
not come at huge cost to himself.
But the biggest news that week was the
arrival through my door of a newspaper, roughly printed, and entitled
Journal des
Occupés
. The only newspaper allowed in St Péronne was the
German-controlled
Bulletin de Lille
, which was so obviously German propaganda
that few of us did more with it than use it
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