Lies Told In Silence (14 page)

Chapter 18

September 1916

Henri embarked for Beaufort as soon as he received Lise’s telegram. He took an official vehicle to expedite his journey, but conditions along the roads caused endless delays. His sister, Chantal, joined him at a small village near Versailles.

Chantal hugged him tighter than usual. “I can’t believe Maman’s gone. I wish . . .” Her lower lip trembled, but she kept her emotions in check.

“I know. I haven’t seen her since January.”

“Maman’s heart has always plagued her. And the stress of these past few years . . .” Chantal did not complete her sentence. Instead, she took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her tears.

“But it was too s
oon to lose her. Far too soon.”

Henri concentrated on driving to avoid his sister’s eyes. Ahead, he could see army transport vehicles followed by the dark mass of a tramping regiment turning onto the road. As he wondered how long they would be delayed, a dispatch rider, wearing goggles and mounted on a lurching motorcycle, roared past. He and Chantal settled into silence unt
il the road cleared once again.

“Beaufort was good for her,” Chantal said.

They had just crossed a bridge where two soldiers demanded papers of passage at rifle point.

“I think so. She and Lise became very close. They shared the worries of Beaufort. As Helene matured, she helped too. She was with Maman when it happened.”

“How difficult for her.”

Henri nodded. He knew both Lise and Helene would be very upset and continued delays were frustrating him.

“Do you remember the time we went shooting with Papa? Maman was so angry that he let me handle a rifle.” Chantal chuckled softly at the memory, and for a time they shared stories about their parents.

While they travelled north, ambulances full of half-dead soldiers bullied their way through, and a bedraggled line of wounded limped by. Henri knew they would be seeking the solace of a Red Cross hospital located in some abandoned church or factory. Others shuffled along the route: refugees from villages that existed only in memory, carrying precious possessions and little children stunned into silence, prisoners prodded at gun point wearing uniforms weeping with blood and battle filth, worn-out horses. Pitiful remnants of war.

Some villages swarmed with troops and supplies, their command centres bristling with action while citizens huddled in doorways or peered through windows, uncertain what havoc the next days would hold. Other villages gave evidence of battles won or lost, heaps of rubble that used to house people in comfort, scorched walls, streets wiped out as if a cyclone had tossed everything in its path.

They took a circuitous route to avoid areas of conflict and occasionally stopped at an intersection uncertain how to proceed, for all signposts and mile markers had been removed to confuse the enemy. But finally, in the afternoon of the second day, they arrived at Tante Camille’s.

Henri stepped out and opened his arms to Lise, Jean and Helene. No one spoke. After several minutes, Lise broke away to welcome Chantal.

“The others?” she asked.

“Odette is nursing her father-in-law. Etienne and Pascal were unable to get permission to travel. No one knows where Luc is.” Chantal made a face at the mention of Luc, the youngest of their siblings, who had been estranged from the family for years.

Lise turned to Henri. “And Guy?”

“He’s stationed near the Somme.”

Henri hugged his wife again and did not mention the extent of French and British action in that area. Fortunately, their troops were having success against German positions, but the costs were high.

“Come into the house,” Lise said. “We have a light supper ready.”

The following day was grey and cool as a small group clustered around an open grave: Madame Suras, the proprietor of Café Pitou, who had gossiped with Mariele whenever she came in for coffee; Doctor Valdane, who had looked after her medicines; Monsieur and Madame Garnier, who provided special cuts of pork from time to time and whose famous pig, Emmeline,
had died only a few weeks earlier. Helene’s friend Germaine, Monsieur and Madame Doucet, Madame Lalonde and Gaston were also there. Father Marcel, whose belly was no longer round and whose cheekbones were now marked with spidery veins, said the mass, and then Henri sprinkled the first shovelful of dirt on his mother’s casket.

He hated the thought of his mother lying in dirt. She had always been a fastidious woman, known for her style, grand parties and lively stories. Since coming to Beaufort, his mother had shed the black mantle of widowhood and regained her sense of humour, making a few friends in the village and creating comfort for his family. He knew that she had favoured him—although only in private—and that she had admired his intellect and applauded his career advancement. They rarely disagreed.

Light rain began to fall, hastening the departure of those who had gathered to bid farewell with simple words of comfort, shaking hands one by one with the Noisette family. Tears mingled with the rain as they made their way back to the house.

“Is Helene going to be all right?” Henri asked as he and Lise undressed for bed. “She’s so thin and pale.” The hollow look on his daughter’s face had startled him. Her eyes were dull rather than bright, her sentences delivered in brief monotone. She looked like a shadow of herself.

“She was there when your mother died. I think she feels responsible,” Lise said.

“There was nothing she could do.”

“No, but that’s an analytical response. Not emotional.” Lise removed her earrings and reached for a jar of hand cream.

Henri went over to the window and raised the sash. A dog barked, disturbing the peacefulness of country fields sleeping in moonlight.

“Will you be able to cope?”

“We’ll have to, won’t we? I hope being busy again will be good for all of us. Your mother held us together.”

“I wish I could stay.”

“I know.”

Henri lay down and took her in his arms. She put her head on his shoulder as he pulled her close, and for a while, they submerged their grief in the quiver of skin touching skin, mingling their bodies in familiar rhythms until Lise cried out and Henri shuddered in response.

* * *

The previous day’s chill vanished in bright sunshine that settled into the land, releasing smells of late growth, freeing rabbits, birds and squirrels to leap and swoop. Tufted grasses swished like paintbrushes on canvas.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Henri said to Helene as they walked across the fields.

“I know,” she said, dropping her head.

“She’s had this condition for years.” Helene nodded without looking at her father. “I should have told you.”

A stone stile marked the end of their path through the fields. Henri crossed the stile first and held out his hand to Helene as she descended the steps, his gallantry rewarded with a brief smile. She led the way as they began to climb, the path narrow in some spots, wide in others, sun filtering through treetops to expose gnarled roots and wildflowers next to patches of moss. A bird beat its wings in sudden flight, and Helene drew her breath in sharply.

“That startled me,” she said.

Henri nodded, wondering where they were going, though it seemed clear his daughter had a destination in mind. The path continued uphill with occasional flat sections where they stepped across a trickle of water or clambered over decaying tree trunks. Eventually, they emerged from the trees onto a grassy crest of land with a view of three small villages and a wide plain criss-crossed with the ancient lines of farm fields.

“I haven’t been up here before,” said Henri. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a good place for thinking,” Helene said as she swept her hand in a wide arc like an artist revealing a precious new work.

He sat down on a flat grey boulder, the sun shining on his lined face and thinning hair, and rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms strengthened by two years of military service. Despite his government responsibilities, he trained regularly, just in case.

“Come, sit beside me,” he said, and for a while, they were silent, looking east, where in the far-off distance, barely visible against a bank of clouds, a ridge of land thrust above the plain.

“Many days, I can hear artillery up here,” she said, “even when we can’t hear it at the house.”

Henri closed his eyes.
How can it be that my daughter knows the sound of artillery, and I’m not here to protect her?
He wanted to gather her on his knee as he did years ago, but this woman—for she was no longer a child—was too old for that, and he knew he would disturb the gentle space between them if he made an overt move. He was unaccustomed to his daughter as an adult. Perhaps silence would facilitate disclosure.

“Jean brought me up here the first time. He has more time to explore than I do.”

“He’s grown so tall.”

“Maman was buying clothes for him when . . .” She looked
away.

“When Grandmere died?”

Helene nodded and her shoulders drooped once again.

“She loved you.”

“I know. I loved her. So did Maman. We’d grown so close. And we were happy, despite the war and the things that were hard. We were content.”

“A good memory to have.” He paused. “You’re lucky, you know. I hadn’t seen her for months
 . . .” Henri’s voice trailed off.

Helene slipped her hand into his. “She told me many stories about you and the family. She told me about Grandpere. You know what I liked best?” Henri smiled to encourage her. “She treated me like an adult. Asked my opinion. Told me things a woman should know. Most grandmothers wouldn’t do that.”

“She was like that when I was growing up,” he said, recalling his mother’s candid advice about pleasing a woman the night before he married Lise. “For a woman born in 1849, she was surprisingly modern in her attitudes.”
Such a contrast to my father
, he thought.

“I was afraid, Papa, when she . . . I couldn’t think what to do. Monsieur Doucet wasn’t home. I couldn’t leave her. I thought . . .”

Henri squeezed her hand. “You did your very best. And she knew you were there. That would have been a great comfort.”

He consoled himself that his mother knew his duties were all consuming and that he would have visited more often if matters of war were not so pressing. He could not remember the last time he told her what a wonderful mother she was or that he loved her. Regret swirled in his belly.

“The house feels so empty. I still think I’m going to see her or tell her something. Maman is sad too. And Jean is angry.”

“It takes time.”

They looked again across the vast, wide plain. Hawks circled on warm updrafts, and smoke traced a path near the river as a train whistled far below.

“Will you and Maman be all right? Returning to Paris is a possibility.” After two years of war, he had concluded that Paris
would probably be safer than Beaufort, but his family was fragile and needed to heal.

“What does Maman think?”

“She thinks a little more time here would be good.”

Helene did not respond; instead, she shifted on the rock to lean her back against another boulder and hugged her knees. A few moments later, when he saw her wistful smile, he asked what she was thinking about.

“Grandmere liked my trousers. The first time I wore them she chuckled and said she wished she were younger. I’m not sure Maman approves.”

“I’m not sure I approve either, but I imagine they’re easier to walk in than a skirt.”

Helene nodded. “I think Maman’s right about Beaufort. I don’t want to leave Grandmere all alone. Not yet. Maman’s needed at the hospital, and Jean likes the life he has here. We’ll be fine for now.”

“Good.” Henri patted her knee.

With that decision made he allowed himself to think about what awaited him back in Paris. Just before his mother’s death, they had learned of German leadership changes along the western front. Falkenhayn had resigned, replaced by Hindenburg and Ludendorff. Henri and his colleagues knew that the battle of Verdun and more recent action at the Somme were damaging German offensive capabilities, and they debated what these two men would do. With France close to economic collapse, unless the Allies secured a major win or the United States entered the war, they were certain to lose.

Chapter 19

October 1916

Dear Helene,

I am dreadfully sorry to hear about your grandmother. I’m sure it was very difficult to be the one who was with her when she died. Please accept my deepest sympathies. Your letters these past two years showed that you and your grandmother became very close. I hope this gives you comfort.

No day goes past without anxiety about our loved ones, partic
ularly Francois, although he is very good about writing regularly. Last week, we heard that my mother’s cousin has been gravely wounded, and two weeks ago, Papa’s dear friend died in the fighting around Fleury. What will be left when it is all over?

This month, London has suffered bombing raids from German aircraft. At night, the city is dark since regulations prohibit outside lights, and I close our heavy curtains well before dusk. When we hear the drone of a zeppelin or the buzz of airplanes, an air raid siren sounds and searchlights illuminate the sky to expose them to counterattack. Maman and I have often heard explosions as we hurry to an underground shelter. We are afraid, but I’m sure your circumstances are more difficult.

As for the soldier I mentioned, we have seen each other several times; however, his training is almost over and he will soon leave for France. Strange that I’m here in London while an English soldier is preparing to defend France.

I will write again soon.

Fondly,

Marie

* * *

Helene had been pleased to hear from Marie and astonished when Marie’s brother, Francois, also sent condolences. Beyond that, Francois wrote about being in the Engineer Corps, occupied with building bridges, reinforcing tunnels and constructing roads and railways. According to the letter, he had seen some action but generally worked behind the scenes
preparing for major offensives.

“Maman, I received a letter of condolence today from Francois Delancey. He says that his location is surprisingly close to us. Perhaps we’ll see him sometime.”

“I’m so glad to know he’s safe. Wouldn’t that be nice to see him? I wonder how much longer his parents will remain in London. Did Marie say anything about that?”

“No. But she did mention an English soldier she’s been seeing.” Helene tucked Francois’s letter back into its envelope. “I miss her very much, Maman. If Marie and I were still in Paris, I would know everything about this man. Germaine is a good friend, but she’s nothing like Marie.”

Helene sat in her grandmother’s chair. Her mother had suggested doing so one evening after dinner, and at first, Helene had refused, the chair symbolic of happier times. But she had tried it one afternoon when no one else was home and immediately felt Grandmere’s presence. Ever since that day, she sat beside her mother just as her grandmother had for two long years.

“Did I ever tell you about dancing with Francois at Gabrielle’s wedding?” Helene glanced at her mother, noting an encouraging smile. “He asked me for five dances. Imagine, Maman. Five dances. For a brief time, I thought he was interested in me.” She laughed. “Silly of me. He’s at least four years older.”

“Will you write to him?”

“He’s asked me to, so perhaps I will.”

Maman smoothed the back of a sweater she was knitting then held it against her chest. “Almost long enough,” she said. “You should write to him. Every soldier needs a woman to correspond with.”

* * *

Helene, Lise and Jean adjusted to loss as fall plumage faded. Mariele’s presence lingered in a half-finished sock, flowing script on a scrap of paper, the spicy scent of Fleur d’Orient, red rubber boots waiting at the back door. Gradually, they spoke her name again, and though they talked of returning to Paris, nostalgia held them in place.

Two or three times a week, Helene walked into Beaufort. She was restless and the confines of Tante Camille’s house grew smaller and smaller as cold kept them inside while war permeated the pores of daily living. No conversation occurred without some thread leading to battles fought and lives lost, landmarks destroyed and hardship endured. No chore was accomplished without thoughts of Guy’s absence or Papa’s responsibilities. No clothes put on or food prepared without reference to their relative good fortune or government regulations or farm shortages. Escaping the house kept her sane.

In town, she sought out Germaine or some other school friend for a smudge of normal life and a chance for gossip away from her mother’s eye. Though the Canadian troops had disappeared from Beaufort, from time to time Germaine brought a soldier along, a friend of her fiancé or of one of her brothers, and their conversation turned to lighthearted chatter as uniforms became irrelevant and young men shed the postures of war. On her journeys home, occasionally accompanied by one of Germaine’s soldiers, her cheerfulness ebbed like a sagging balloon.

* * *

Dear Maman,

Every day I remember your strength and calm when I was in
hospital and your encouragement when I faltered. I think of you, Helene and Jean safely tucked away in Tante Camille’s house, although I know you are missing Grandmere. I hope to have leave in December, and if I do, I will come immediately to Beaufort.

Our battalion is at rest for the moment. We have mopped up after a major offensive, and while our generals plan the next move—hopefully to strike a crushing blow against Germany—we are able to work at a more moderate pace. I have sent my two junior officers home to their families for a few days, so all the paperwork and decisions are mine. You would not believe, Maman, how much paperwork we have to do. The French army has forms for everything!

Sadly, five of my men were wounded recently though fortunately they all survived. I think of them lying in hospital and hope that their mothers or wives are with them, for I know firsthand what a difference that makes.

Papa wrote with encouraging news about America’s potential entry into the war. Apparently, their president’s speeches are increasingly supportive of France and the Allies. Additional troops will tip the balance in our favour. But in the meantime, we must carry on. I am never more proud of France than when I see our determination in battle.

Your letters and Renee’s sustain me with hope for the future.

Your loving son,

Guy

* * *

Dear Helene,

Your letter cheered me greatly. You have no idea how we all long to hear from family and friends. I am interested in your news about Canadian soldiers having been in Beaufort. I can understand why your Maman wanted you to stay home at night. My Maman would be scandalized if Marie met foreign soldiers on her own.

I thought you might be willing to hear more details about my activities. In early November, we received unexpected orders to leave one night, and after a gruelling march, we reached a small village around daybreak. We were all very hot, weighed down with so much gear. Not long after we settled in, several German planes passed overhead, but we were obviously not their target, as they flew on by. We joined a regiment already well situated, so my duties were initially light, but a week later we were poised to attack. Action began before dawn as every manner of shells flew towards the Germans, making a noise that would rouse the dead. For some time, all I could see was a thick cloud of smoke and flashes of light flying in all directions.

Our infantry awaited their signal, bayonets fixed, grenades at the ready, helmets tightly strapped. No one shrank from duty. One cry set them off—“en avant, vive la France”—and they leapt out of the trenches towards our enemy. It was a terrible and moving sight to see. Although I am not in the trenches, my unit had plenty to do, working very hard to repair bridges and roads damaged by the Boche. Action lasted until dawn the following day, taking close to five hundred metres from the enemy, and we will soon try to push farther forward.

If you would prefer that I not mention such details, I won’t do so again; however, it does help me to tell someone. As you might imagine, I do not write of this to my family.

Francois

* * *

Some days, Helene felt paralyzed by the indiscriminate fortunes of war. She reflected on Francois’s need to confide in someone and society’s expectations for men to be stoic.
They must fear for themselves and their fellow soldiers
. She wondered why Francois chose to write to her of these matters.
Surely he has a sweetheart.
She thought of dancing with him at Gabrielle’s wedding when his gallant behaviour and handsome face made her blush with excitement. Helene sighed. All that was so long ago.

She put Francois’s letter into a hatbox where she kept personal letters from Marie and a few Paris friends who still wrote. In the kitchen, she had dough rising, while outside she had hung Jean’s wool pants on the clothesline. Maman had gone to the pharmacy
and Jean was at school. Helene wished she had time to curl up on the sofa, now bathed in midday sun. Instead, she stood for a moment debating her next task.

Following Grandmere’s wisdom had been difficult at first, but now she considered herself part of the glue holding the family together, and she was grateful to see her mother’s sadness beginning to ease. As for Jean, Helene was increasingly worried about his restlessness. Beyond meals and sleep, he was rarely home. She prayed he would not get into some kind of trouble.