On this particular night, a violent wind was blowing as a storm from the Morvan mountains swept over the village. "There'll be more snow tomorrow!" everyone said. In her large, silent house that creaked like a ship adrift at sea, the woman couldn't bear it any more and, for the very first time, burst into tears. She hadn't cried when her husband had left in '39, nor when he'd said goodbye after his few days home on leave, nor when she'd found out he'd been taken prisoner, nor when she'd given birth all alone. But she just couldn't bear it any more: so much work to do… the baby was so big and wore her out with his feeding and crying… the cow hardly gave any milk because it was so cold… the chickens had nothing to eat and weren't laying any eggs… in the wash-house she had to break the ice… It was all too much. She just couldn't do it any more-it was making her ill. She had lost the will to live… What was the point of living? She would never see her husband again. They missed each other so much; at that moment he was probably dying in Germany. It was so cold in that big bed.
She reached for the warming stone, which a few hours ago had been burning hot but was now icy cold, took it out from under the sheets and set it gently down on the floor. As her hand touched the freezing tiles, she felt an even icier chill run straight through her heart. She was sobbing violently. What could anyone say to ease her pain? "You're not the only one…" She knew that only too well but other people seemed to be lucky… Madeleine Sabarie, for example… She didn't wish her harm… It was just too much! Life was too painful. Her thin body was frozen. It did her no good to huddle under the eiderdown, she felt the cold seeping right down to her bones. "It will pass, he'll come home and the war will be over!" people would say. No. She didn't believe it any more. No. It would go on and on and on… Even spring didn't seem to want to come… Had there ever been such terrible weather in March? March was nearly over and the ground was still frozen, frozen to the core, like her. Such harsh winds! Just listen to them! They would surely blow the tiles off the roof.
She sat up in bed and listened for a moment. A look of mild surprise suddenly passed across her sad, tear-stained face. The wind had stopped. Just as it had come out of nowhere, so it had now disappeared without a trace. It had broken branches off the trees, whipped the rooftops in its blind rage, carried away the last of the snow on the hill, and now, out of the dark sky devastated by the storm, the first rain of spring began to fall, still cold, but torrential and urgent, carving its way down to the smallest roots of the trees, down to the very heart of the deep, black earth.
TWO Dolce
1 Occupation
In the Angellier household they were locking away all the important papers along with the family silver and the books: the Germans were coming to Bussy. For the third time since the defeat of France, the village was to be occupied. It was Easter Sunday, High Mass. A cold rain was falling. At the entrance to the church, the branches of a small peach tree, pink with blossom, swayed mournfully. The Germans marched in rows of eight; they wore their field dress and metal helmets. Their faces maintained the impenetrable and impersonal expression of professional soldiers, but their eyes glanced furtively, inquisitively, at the grey façades of the town that was to be their home. There was no one at the windows. As they passed the church, they could hear the sound of the harmonium and the murmur of prayers; but a frightened member of the congregation shut the door. The stomping of German boots reigned supreme. The first detachment swung past and was followed by an officer on horseback; his beautiful dappled mare seemed furious at being forced to go so slowly; as she placed each hoof on the ground with reluctant care, she trembled, neighed and shook her proud head. Great grey armoured tanks pounded the cobblestone streets. Then came the cannons on their rolling platforms, a soldier positioned high above each one to keep watch. The column of soldiers was so long that throughout the priest's sermon a kind of constant thunder resounded through the church's vaults. The women sighed in the shadows.
After the metallic rumbling subsided, the motorcycles arrived, flanking the Commandant's car. Behind him, at a respectful distance, came trucks packed to the brim with large round loaves of black bread. They made the church windows rattle. The regiment's mascot-a thin, silent Alsatian dog, trained for combat-ran beside the cavalrymen who brought up the rear. Perhaps because they were so far away from the Commandant that he couldn't see them, or for some other reason incomprehensible to the locals, these soldiers were more informal, friendlier than the others. They talked and laughed among themselves. The Lieutenant in charge smiled when he saw the lone pink peach tree lashed by the bitter wind; he snapped off a branch. Since he saw nothing but closed windows all around him, he assumed he was alone. Far from it. Behind each shutter was an old woman, eyes as piercing as a knife, watching the conquering soldier's every move. Deep within hidden rooms, voices groaned.
"Could you ever have imagined such a thing…"
"He's destroying our fruit trees, for heaven's sake!"
"Seems this lot's the worst," a toothless mouth whispered. "I heard they did a lot of damage before coming here. Just our luck."
"I bet they'll take our sheets," said one housewife. "Just imagine, sheets I got from my mother! Only the best for them…"
The Lieutenant shouted an order. The men seemed very young. They had rosy complexions and golden hair. They rode magnificent, well-fed horses with wide, shiny rumps, which they tied up in the square, around the War Memorial. The soldiers broke ranks and started to make themselves at home. The village was filled with the sound of boots, foreign voices, the rattling of spurs and weapons. In the better houses, they hid away the good linen.
The Angellier women-the mother and wife of Gaston Angellier, prisoner of war in Germany -were finishing their packing. The elder Madame Angellier, a thin, pale person, frail and austere, quietly read out loud the title of each book in the library and religiously stroked its cover, before putting it away. "My son's books," she murmured, "to see them in the hands of a German!… I'd rather burn them."
"But what if they ask for the key to the library," groaned the fat cook.
"They'll have to ask me for it," said Madame Angellier and, standing very tall, she lightly tapped the pocket sewn inside her black wool dress; the bunch of keys she always kept with her jingled. "They won't be asking twice," she concluded darkly.
She instructed her daughter-in-law, Lucile Angellier, to remove the decorative ornaments from the mantelpiece. Lucile wanted to leave an ashtray out. At first the elder Madame Angellier objected.
"But they'll drop ash all over the carpets," Lucile pointed out. Pursing her lips, Madame Angellier gave in.
This older woman had such a transparent, pale face that she seemed to have not a drop of blood beneath her skin; her hair was pure white, her mouth like the blade of a knife, her lips almost purple. An old-fashioned high collar made of mauve cotton, held rigid by stays, covered but didn't hide her sharp, bony neck which pulsated with emotion like a lizard. When she heard a German soldier's footsteps or voice near the window, she would tremble from the tips of her small pointy little boots to the top of her impressively coiffed head. "Hurry up, hurry up, they're coming," she'd say.
They left only the bare essentials in the room: not one flower, not one cushion, not one painting. In the large linen cupboard, beneath a pile of sheets, they buried the family picture album, to prevent the sacrilegious enemy from seeing Great-Aunt Adelaide at her First Communion and Uncle Jules, aged six months, naked on a cushion. They packed away everything-right down to the mantelpiece ornaments: two porcelain Louis-Philippe vases decorated with parrots holding a garland of roses in their beaks (a wedding gift from a relative who came to visit less and less frequently but whom they didn't dare offend by getting rid of the present) and the two vases about which Gaston had said, "If the maid breaks them while sweeping, I'll give her a raise." Yes, even them. They had been given by French hands, looked at by French eyes, touched by the feather dusters of France-they would not be defiled by contact with Germans. And the crucifix! In the corner of the room, above the sofa… Madame Angellier took it down herself, slipped it beneath her lace shawl and held it to her breast. "I think that's everything," she said at last.