Lies Told In Silence (10 page)

“Maman, the shelves will soon be bare. How will we manage?” Helene said, as they left the bakery.

“Grandmere and I have already organized extra provisions. Your grandmother was clever enough to insist that we take precautions two weeks ago. We’ll continue to bottle more vegetables, and we’ll store as many apples, onions and potatoes as possible. I’ve spoken to Monsieur Doucet, and he is giving us two laying hens, and we can buy our milk from him. Monsieur Garnier will be our source for meat. There may be shortages, but I think we can manage.”

“For how long, Maman? What if we are at war for a long time?”

Helene tried to imagine what conditions would be like after a year of war. Would they be able to buy bread and sugar and coffee? Would all the men disappear? And if so, who would work the farms and slaughter the animals? Who would repair the water pump or fix the roof when it leaked? What else would happen?

“I don’t know how long it will last. Yesterday, when I was at Café Pitou, someone mentioned five or six months. We can manage that long, can’t we? Let’s go into the café and have something to drink before we walk home. I’m going to need another pair of sturdy shoes if I have to walk into town every day for news.”

Café Pitou was almost full, and it was only by luck that they found two chairs near the back stairs.

“Why is it so crowded today?” Maman asked
when Madame Suras came over to take their order.

“The mayor is coming at noon with some announcements. I have no idea what he’s going to tell us. People have been gathering since eleven o’clock. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your drinks.” The woman wiped down their table and hurried off.

When the mayor arrived accompanied by the deputy mayor, the café quieted except for small shuffling sounds as citizens settled in to listen. Helene looked anxiously at her mother. “The mayor looks worried, Maman. The news can’t be good.”

Helene’s mother squeezed her hand. “I’m sure he’ll have some advice for us, and I’m glad we came so we’ll know what’s happening.”

“Ladies and gentlemen. Attention, ladies and gentlemen.” The deputy mayor thumped the counter with his cane. “The mayor is about to speak.”

“Bonjour, everyone. As your mayor, I thought it proper for me to read President Poincaré’s war message, which he gave in an address to our parliament on Tuesday. Afterwards, the deputy mayor and I will endeavour to answer your questions. I also wish to advise you that I have heeded the call of our beloved country and will soon rejoin my old regiment. Monsieur Seguin will take charge in my absence. Now let me begin the president’s message.”

He cleared his throat and threw back his shoulders. “France has just been the object of a violent and premeditated attack, which is an insolent defiance of the law of nations. Before any declaration of war has been sent to us, even before the German Ambassador had asked for his passports, our territory has been violated.” The mayor paused to look around at his silent, respectful audience. “The German Empire waited till yesterday evening to give at this late stage the true name to a state of things which it had already created.”

The mayor’s deep, sombre voice continued. As Helene listened intently to every word, the reality of what was happening permeated her mind and body. Fear
gathered—fear and bewilderment. Fear for Guy, who would fight. Fear for Papa, who had such ominous duties. Fear for herself and her family in Beaufort. War was not happening in some distant time and place. It was happening here and now. A wave of nausea rushed through her.

“. . . In the war which is beginning, France will have Right on her side, the eternal power of which cannot with impunity be disregarded by nations any more than by individuals. She will be heroically defended by all her sons . . .”

At the mentions of sons, Maman squeezed Helene’s hand so hard Helene almost whimpered in pain.

“She is faithfully helped by Russia, her ally; she is supported by the loyal friendship of Great Britain. And already from every part of the civilised world, sympathy and good wishes are coming to her. For today once again she stands before the universe for Liberty, Justice, and Reason.
Haut les cœurs et vive la France!
”

Repeated cries of “
Vive la France
” broke out and the café dissolved into frenzied chatter. Tears ran down Maman’s cheeks. Helene remained still, as if frozen in time. Life was about to change in ways she could not imagine yet knew would be grim and horrifying.

* * *

My darling Lise,

Forgive my absence. I have been at work day and night for a week with only an hour or two to rest in my office and no chance to go home. I had to send for Lucy to bring me clean clothes and my shaving equipment, for otherwise I would smell like one of the pigs at Monsieur Garnier’s farm.

War has been declared, as you know. France will now feel its inhumanity. For weeks we have lived with uncertainty. You will realize that I am privy to more information than most, and yet the Ministry’s communication paths were badly flawed, or perhaps it was merely the unwillingness of our government to accept the inevitability of war. Paris, focused on its usual summer pursuits, was unable to conceive of invaders descending on our daily living!

The streets of the city, absent our young men, are full of wo
men, children and shuffling old men. They are also occupied with the oddest collection of vehicles: carts, two-wheeled lorries, bicycle drawn wagons–some stocked with rifles and led by soldiers. Our citizens go about with such confidence and determination that Germany will find the heart of France is set on freedom.

Guy is working very hard for Colonel Nivelle’s staff. I am not privy to details; however, I imagine that his time is taken up with training recruits and the logistics of artillery deployments. I trust you have had a letter from him, as he made a most firm commi
tment that he would be regular in his communication to you.

I have closed off much of the house since Felicien and Jules have been conscripted, and Lucy and Didi, whose men are now in the army, have increased family responsibilities. Only Lucy is able to come and for just one day each week. Do not worry about me. I am finding creative methods to keep well fed and properly dressed.

Each day I consider coming to fetch you back to Paris, however I am advised to wait, as the roads are clogged with our army on the move and, in truth, my duties here are overwhelming. In the meantime, I ask that you organize the household supplies so that you have plenty of food, wood and coal. Keep emergency cash hidden in a safe place. I am certain that there is no immediate danger for you in Beaufort; however, these are sensible precautions just the same. I will write again very soon, my dearest, and hope to visit in a few weeks’ time.

All my love,

Henri

* * *

Dear Maman, Grandmere, Helene and Jean,

Thank you for your letters. I am grateful for regular news; Papa also writes as do a few friends. There is always much crowding and jostling when we receive letters. And then the men find a quiet spot to read and treasure a moment from home.

We are on the move–I cannot disclose our exact location, but we are north and east of Paris. Germany is pushing hard from the north, our divisions are pushing equally hard to resist their advances and recapture lost ground. Captain Faucoux updates us daily, although he concentrates on news in our more immediate vicinity. The French and British are working well together, and we can see the effect of our combined strength resulting in successes along various fronts.

Lise stopped reading. “Pushing hard from the north,” she muttered to herself. Beaufort was almost directly north of Paris. Was Guy close? How close? Rumours bombarded their little town, and already some families were talking of leaving. Every moment of every day she debated what to do. She prayed for guidance and for the safety of all her loved ones.

The weather has been beautiful and the birds are singing; it is hard to realize there’s a war going on. The wives of the men who come from nearby villages bring us baked bread, hearty stews and local wine, so we enjoy modest feasts from time to time.

I am well and will write again soon,

With much love,

Guy

Chapter 13

September 1914

As August unfolded, Helene’s mother and grandmother held quiet conversations that stopped as soon as she approached, worried frowns giving way to false smiles. Every day the papers told of fresh disasters, and Helene had taken to reading the news thoroughly from front to back. Headlines screamed for attention: DESPITE FIERCE RESISTANCE, LIEGE FALLS; 600 TAXI CABS MOVE FRENCH TROOPS TO FRONT; FRENCH RETREAT AFTER SURPRISE ATTACK IN CERNAY; RUSSIAN SECOND ARMY DEFEATED; JAPAN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY. Smaller articles reported local news: the departure of twelve young men to serve with the French Third Army; the death of the mayor’s nephew; the closure of Chez Pantoux; the anticipated shortage of coal.

“Maman,” Helene said. “Did you see this article? It says twe
nty-seven thousand soldiers were killed in a single day. How could that possibly be? Why didn’t the generals do something? I know soldiers risk their lives, but twenty-seven thousand in one day.” Helene shook her head in tiny back and forth movements, her mouth open, the newspaper clutched in one hand.

“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t know what to tell you. These numbers are unfathomable. It makes my heart bleed to read about them.
I’m sure the generals are doing their best. And soon we will have some good news. Perhaps you shouldn’t read these articles.”

“I have to, Maman. I’m not a child anymore. And you and Grandmere don’t need to pretend that everything is going to be all right. Keep Jean out of it if you wish, but not me. I have to know. Guy is in the midst of it all. I have to know.” Helene turned back to the newspaper for a moment then lifted her head again to look at her mother. “Papa was wrong, you know. Paris is safe. We are the ones in danger.”

Maman did not reply, but Helene saw the fear in her eyes and in the way her hands gripped the edge of the kitchen table. Later that week came a report of German troops entering Brussels moving precisely and endlessly hour after hour through the streets of that city. The journalist described the troops as moving under a cloak of invisibility, their uniforms the “grey of the hour just before daybreak, of mist among green trees”, flowing like a river of steel. For twenty-six hours, that grey army rumbled with “the mystery of fog and the pertinacity of a steamroller”. When she finished reading, Helene was chilled to the bone.

By mid-September, two trench lines had taken root, snaking from the northern reaches of Belgium heading south through France. A map reproduced in the Amiens newspaper showed bulges in the trench line around Ypres and Arras, which remained under Allied control, and it was clear that Beaufort was less than tw
enty kilometres from the front.

On a Saturday morning, Helene and her mother were picking plump green beans from vines attached to thin poles with twine. Helene, who had been stooping to pick the beans hanging close to the ground, clos
ed one eye and cocked her head.

“Can you hear that noise, Maman? It sounds a bit like thunder, but there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

Setting aside her basket, Lise shaded her eyes against the noon sun. Rumbles echoed in the distance one after the other.  “Do you think that’s the sound of artillery?” she said, her voice like an out-of-tune piano, the notes familiar but vaguely discordant. Helene straightened up so quickly her basket of beans spilled.

“Artillery?”

Her mother nodded. “Sound can travel long distances, particularly if they’re very loud.”

Helene listened again, a hand cupped behind one ear. Seconds passed and then another low rumble, louder than before. Hearing it again, she knew her mother was right; in fields not far away, soldiers aimed their weapons and men would die.
No
, she thought,
war is for history books, not for us to experience firsthand. It’s for faraway places known only on maps
.

“Let’s not worry. The closest lines are
still far away.”

How could Maman tell her not to worry? If they could hear the artillery, Germany might soon be close enough to shell Beaufort. Helene resisted an urge to panic; she could hide behind her mother’s desire to protect or she could stand beside her. Fear would not help. Fear was the enemy.

“I think you should tell me everything you and Grandmere know, Maman.”

* * *

Dear Marie,

You will be hearing our news from London, which must be so strange. I am afraid for all of us—but especially Guy and Papa. Maman and Grandmere are also very worried. Only Jean smiles these days.

Our life has not changed much so far except that all the men have disappeared into the army, and vehicles and horses have been requisitioned. Fortunately, our Tonneau is much too old to be useful. Maman is expecting food restrictions, and we have already made apricot and apple preserves and pickled many jars of beets, beans and cucumbers.

Some of our friends feel that war will only last a short while, but Papa refuses to predict one way or another. And he is in the War Ministry! His letters take forever to reach us, and he is unable to visit. Our little corner of the world is somewhat cut off from the rest of France ever since the Germans invaded through Belgium. We hope and pray that they will soon be pushed back.
Right now, I feel like we are on the edge of disaster.

I heard the sounds of artillery one day last week. Maman guessed what it was, and when night fell and we could see flashes of light and smoke rising in the distance, Maman, Grandmere and I were certain. The following day, all was quiet and I had the strangest sensation of living in a dream.

I wonder if this letter will reach you? Will your father return to France? Will Francois enlist? Tell your brother to stay safe in England. Write to me soon. A letter from you will give me comfort.

Your dearest friend,

Helene

* * *

From Henri’s letters that did reach them, Lise knew he was frantic, worrying whether the lines closest to Beaufort would hold. For the first two weeks of September, German forces occupied the city of Amiens, blocking access to Paris from Beaufort, and so near Tante Camille’s house they heard artillery crashing and booming almost every day.

Living through the seesaw of German movements—edging closer then halting then forced to retreat—left her gaunt and anxious, her fingers twitching at sudden noises. Lise knew she had to conquer her fears, or at least push them aside and take charge. If Henri were with them, he would soothe her and tell her what to do. But Henri was in Bordeaux, where the government had relocated when Germany threatened to overrun Paris. Decisions remained in her hands.

In early October, she gathered her family together. They ate in the kitchen now, choosing warmth over elegance except on Sundays when Lise or her mother-in-law created a hint of their Paris life with late-blooming flowers and Tante Camille’s crystal wine goblets. While eating dinner, Lise had been grateful to Mariele, who had entertained them with a story of Monsieur Doucet chasing a squawking chicken around the yard. Fragrant smells of garlic and tarragon lingered in the house. As Mariele and Helene finished the dishes, Lise called up the stairs for Jean to join them, and when everyone was assembled, she folded her hands in front of her on the table and cleared her throat.

“Papa cannot come to Beaufort. Although the government will soon return to Paris, we cannot join him there. The journey south is much too dangerous. So we must be resilient and support one another. I’ve spoken to Monsieur Doucet, who has lost his farm workers to the army. He has agreed that you two can help with his cows and chickens. In return, we will have milk and eggs and more vegetables. Next spring, we will plant a larger garden.”

“Do we have money, Maman?” Helene said.

Her daughter’s face looked calm, although Lise imagined she was frightened. “Yes,
chérie
. We’ll be fine.”

When they had spoken that day picking beans in the garden, Lise had explained many of her precautions to Helene but had said nothing about burying a chest of money beneath a loose floorboard in the grange. She and Mariele had also buried several ornate pieces of silver and most of their jewellery.

“You can have what I’ve saved, Maman.” Jean wore a solemn expression.

Lise squeezed his hand. “Papa says there are many restrictions and a general curfew for those living in Paris. Milk is rationed and breakfast rolls have disappeared, so we are lucky to be here where we certainly have plenty of milk and bread. He also wrote that telephone conversations must now be conducted only in French, although that makes no sense to me at all. We must prepare ourselves for similar difficulties.”

“Will we go to school?”

“Papa wants you to continue at school. But we will find ways to support the war effort. I received a letter from Madame Ribot; she is making uniforms and bandages and says that Parisian women are doing the jobs that men used to do. I’ll talk to Madame Lalonde and see how we can help.”

* * *

My dearest Henri,

I trust that this letter will find you safe and well. I hope that Lucy is managing to keep the house in some semblance of order. Are you eating properly?

Beaufort is surprisingly unaffected by the war. We can purchase most items as before, although Chez Pantoux has closed its doors, so finding housewares is more difficult. Occasionally, one of the young men appears in uniform for a home visit, and Gilles Degas, the butcher’s son, was badly wounded on the eastern front and is still unable to get out of bed. They say he may never walk again. Sadly, the eldest son of Dr. Valdane, the pharmacist, died in battle at the Marne. The entire village attended the funeral, and when it ended, we sang the Marseillaise, which made me weep.

Our arrangement with Adrien Doucet is working well–both Jean and Helene have been very diligent with their farm chores, for which I am grateful. Now that it is much cooler, they work mainly in the barns rather than outdoors. We have adequate food with only occasional shortages, and your Maman can do wonders even with the tougher cuts of meat available at the Saturday market.

I have continued with my needlework and now have an agre
ement with Madame Larouche to sell some of it. Do not worry about this, Henri. I am pleased to earn a few extra francs from time to time, and it is not difficult work.

Our village is debating how long the war will last. Of course, I am optimistic now that France has strong support from Britain and Russia. Perhaps we will soon be able to return to Paris.

With all my love,

Lise