17

The German army had ordered a requisitioning of horses. The going price for a mare was in the region of 60,000 or 70,000 francs; the Germans were paying (promising to pay) half that amount. It was nearly harvest time and the farmers bitterly asked the Mayor how they were supposed to manage.

"With our bare hands, eh? But we're warning you, if we aren't allowed to work, it's the towns that'll starve to death."

"But my good fellows, I can't do anything about it," muttered the Mayor.

In fact, the farmers knew very well that he was powerless; it was simply that they secretly held a grudge against him. "He'll be all right, he'll get by, they won't touch a single one of his cursed horses." Nothing was going right. A storm had been raging since the night before. The gardens were soaked with rain; hail had wreaked havoc in the fields.

That morning, when Bruno left the Angelliers' house to ride to the neighbouring town where the requisitioning was to take place, he looked out over a desolate landscape, lashed by the rainstorm. The great lime trees lining the wide road had been violently battered; they creaked and groaned like masts on a ship. Bruno, however, experienced a feeling of joy as he galloped along; this pure, biting, cold air reminded him of eastern Prussia. Oh, when would he again see those plains, that pale-green grass, those marshes, the extraordinary beauty of the skies in spring-the late spring of northern countries-those amber skies, pearly clouds, reeds, rushes, sparse clumps of silver birch…? When would he again hunt for heron and curlew? Along the way he came across horses and their riders from all the hamlets, villages and estates in the area heading for town. They're good animals, he thought, but badly cared for. The French-and all civilians actually-understood nothing about horses.

He stopped for a moment to let them pass. They were zigzagging by in small groups. Bruno studied the animals closely; he was trying to work out which ones would be suitable for war. Most of them would be sent to Germany to work the fields, but some of them would have to carry heavy loads in the African desert or the hop fields of Kent. God alone knew where the wind of war would carry them. Bruno remembered how the horses had neighed in terror as Rouen burned. It was raining now. The farmers walked with their heads down, only looking up when they saw this motionless cavalryman with his green cape thrown over his shoulders. For a moment their eyes would meet. They're so slow, Bruno thought, look how clumsy they are. They'll get there two hours late and when are we supposed to have lunch? We'll have to see to the horses first.

"Well, go on, then, get a move on," he muttered, impatiently hitting the back of his boots with his riding crop, restraining himself so he didn't start shouting out orders as he did during manoeuvres. Some old people walked past him, children and even women; everyone from the same village stayed together. Then there would be a gap. Only the swirling wind filled the space, the silence. Taking advantage of one of these lulls, Bruno broke into a gallop and headed for the town, leaving the patient procession behind.

The farmers were silent: they had taken all the young men; they had taken the bread, the wheat, the flour and the potatoes; they had taken the petrol and the cars, and now the horses. What would they take tomorrow? Some of them had started out at midnight. They walked with their heads down, stooped over, faces impassive. Even though they'd told the Mayor they'd had enough, that they wouldn't do another thing, they knew very well the work had to be finished, the harvest taken in. They had to eat. "It's strange to think we used to be so happy," they thought. "Germans… bunch of bastards… You have to be fair, though. It's war. Still, for God's sake, how long will it go on? How long?" muttered the farmers as they looked at the stormy sky.

Men and horses had passed by Lucile's window all day long. She covered her ears so she wouldn't hear them any more. She didn't want to know anything any more. She'd had enough of these warlike scenes, these depressing sights. She was deeply disturbed by them; they broke her heart; they prevented her from being happy. Happy, my God! So there's a war, she said to herself, so there are prisoners, widows, misery, hunger, the occupation. So what? I'm not doing anything wrong. He's a most respectful friend. The books, the music, our long conversations, our walks in the Maie woods… What makes them shameful is the idea of the war, this universal evil. But he's no more at fault than I am. It's not our fault. Just leave us in peace… leave us alone! Sometimes she even frightened and surprised herself at feeling such rebellion in her heart-against her husband, her mother-in-law, public opinion, this "spirit of the hive" Bruno talked about. That evil, grumbling swarm serving some unknown end. She hated it.

Let them go where they want; as for me, I'll do as I please. I want to be free. I'm not asking for superficial freedom, the freedom to travel, to leave this house (even though that would be unimaginably blissful). I'd rather feel free inside-to choose my own path, never to waver, not to follow the swarm. I hate this community spirit they go on and on about. The Germans, the French, the Gaullists, they all agree on one thing: you have to love, think, live with other people, as part of a state, a country, a political party. Oh, my God! I don't want to! I'm just a poor useless woman; I don't know anything but I want to be free! Slaves, she continued thinking. We're becoming slaves; the war scatters us in all directions, takes away everything we own, snatches the bread from out of our mouths; let me at least retain the right to decide my own destiny, to laugh at it, defy it, escape it if I can. A slave? Better to be a slave than a dog who thinks he's free as he trots along behind his master. She listened to the sound of men and horses passing by. They don't even realise they're slaves, she said to herself, and I, I would be just like them if a sense of pity, solidarity, the "spirit of the hive" forced me to refuse to be happy.

This friendship between herself and the German, this dark secret, an entire universe hidden in the heart of the hostile house, my God, how sweet it was. Finally she felt she was a human being, proud and free. She wouldn't allow anyone to intrude into her personal world. No one. It's no one's business. Let everyone else fight one another, hate one another. Even if his father and mine fought in the past. Even if he himself took my husband prisoner… (an idea that obsessed her unhappy mother-in-law) what difference would it make? We're friends. Friends? She walked through the dim entrance hall and went up to the mirror on the chest of drawers that was framed in black wood; she looked at her dark eyes and trembling lips and smiled. "Friends? He loves me," she whispered. She brought her lips to the mirror and gently kissed her reflection. "Yes, he loves you. You don't owe anything to the husband who betrayed you, deserted you… But he's a prisoner of war! Your husband is a prisoner of war and you let a German get close to you, take his place? Well, yes. So what? The one who's gone, the prisoner of war, the husband, I never loved him. I hope he never comes back. I hope he dies!

"But wait… think…" she continued, leaning her forehead against the mirror. She felt as if she were talking to a part of herself she hadn't known existed until then, who'd been invisible and whom she was seeing now for the first time, a woman with brown eyes, thin, trembling lips, burning cheeks, who was her but not entirely her. "But wait, think… be logical… listen to the voice of reason… you're a sensible woman… you're French… where will all this lead? He's a soldier, he's married, he'll go away; where will it lead? Will it be anything more than a moment of fleeting happiness? Not even happiness, just pleasure? Do you even know what that is?" She was fascinated by her reflection in the mirror; it both pleased her and frightened her.