Lies Told In Silence (17 page)

Instead of orderly drills or the calm stacking of sandbags and trucks waiting to load or unload, below them was a sea of churning mud; grey dawn streaked the sky; there were sharp flashes of red, the rumble of airplanes overhead. In the far distance near the ridge, an orange glow hovered like a bulging midnight sun. Shells burst from all directions, illuminating soldiers advancing, bayonets flashing with deadly purpose.

Helene looked at Jean, a mix of fear and awe on his face. She said nothing, for what possible words could make sense of the destruction carried out below? In the preceding weeks, what they had heard and seen—the bright snap of flares and answering clouds of smoke, the stuttering back and forth of machine guns, the sharp whine as planes breached the horizon, the gentle drift of observation balloons—were only the barest hints of reality. They were silent, standing vigil over an unfolding battle, honouring those who fought for their freedom, men they would never know.

Wherever she looked, troops moved forward, less than thirty metres behind exploding bombs launched by their own artillery. This barrage was their shield, a curtain of steel protecting them from German counterattacks. Step by step they advanced, scrambling across uneven ground, thick clumps of earth flying through the air around them.

Gradually, the sky lightened, bringing the battle into sharper focus then a sudden flurry of snow obscured her view, and she wondered how the soldiers could possibly find their way.  The snow left as quickly as it had appeared, and in the far, far distance, she saw white and black puffs of smoke; then a plane, trailing black streamers, emerged from the far left and flew low over the scene, its klaxon sounding like an ancient battle cry.

While they watched, Helene thought of Guy. Had he grown accustomed to these mind-numbing sounds mixed with exploding bursts of earth and shrapnel? Was this what it had been like when he was wounded? Was he brave, or did he fear for his life? Did he lead his men with care? Did he shout at death as it whirled around him? How could he face battle again and again, her wonderful
brother who laughed and teased, enjoyed the give and take of argument, took pride in his studies, loved his family? How could any of them?

Overwhelmed, she tugged at her brother’s arm. “We should go home.”

She thought at first Jean might refuse, but then she saw the fear in his eyes. He swallowed before agreeing in a trembling voice.

No one could sleep through such deafening noise, and Helene knew her mother would be awake when they returned. They found her weeping by the kitchen window, hysteria not far from the surface. She embraced them both and then slapped them each across the face.

“Don’t you ever disappear like that again! How could you, Helene? You’re an adult now. How could you?”

“Maman, I’m sorry. So sorry. Forgive me, please.” She clutched her mother’s arm and began to sob.

“Where did you go? The guns woke me and I couldn’t find you. I could only imagine something dreadful had happened to you.”

“If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” said Jean. “I’m the one who started watching them.”

The story tumbled out as Jean and Helene told their mother of the months of preparation, the tunnels, artillery huts, the vastness of it all. Eventually, they told her what they saw that morning.

“Thousands and thousands of soldiers, Maman. You wouldn’t believe it,” Jean said, shaking his head.

“We think they’re trying to take the ridge,” Helene added.

“How could you possibly think that what you did was accept
able? Do you have no sense? What if the Germans had gained the upper hand and stormed the hill where you were?” Her mother’s voice was raspy; her lips and cheeks drained of colour.

Later that morning, with the sound of artillery booming in rolling cascades, Helene went about everyday tasks, turning the hay in their small barn, bringing in a supply of firewood, grinding pork for sausages, cleaning the hearth. She spoke only when spoken to. Fear pulsed with every echoing crash, with the faint drone of faraway planes, with the coils of black blotting the sky, with the
smells of smoke and with each moment of silence. One looming question filled every crevice of her being: Who would prevail?

* * *

That night, Helene dozed but did not sleep. Though the massive barrage diminished, occasional explosions sounded until the dark, still hours before dawn. She imagined hundreds of dead soldiers lying in craters carved out by heavy artillery fire, the wounded moaning for help that might never arrive. She imagined the glutinous mass of mud and bleak cold air facing those who survived. What would their tunnels be like now that thousands of men had tramped each passageway? Who would deliver food to those carrying the burden of war all day? Where would they sleep? Would they sleep?

In the morning, sleet whirled outside Tante Camille’s, obscuring the road beyond the house, but by midmorning, sun poked through the clouds. Jean sat by the fire pretending to read, lunging from his chair at the slightest noise to look out the window. Maman wrote letters while Helene turned up the hem on a skirt her grandmother used to wear. Each quarter hour the clock chimed.

Around three in the afternoon, a new barrage began.

“Sounds farther away,” said Jean.

“Perhaps the Allies have pushed the Germans back.”

“If I took my binoculars up the hill, I might be able to see what’s going on.”

“You will do no such thing, Jean Noisette. Is that clear?” Maman’s voice cracked with anxiety.

Jean tossed his book aside and stomped upstairs.

When Wednesday passed without the death rattle of machine guns or the raging boom of artillery, Helene’s mother agreed they could walk into Beaufort the following morning. Three days of waiting was almost more than Helene could bear, and that night, she stood by her window for hours straining to hear something, anything, to indicate what had occurred. Only a few muffled thuds echoed in the distance.

After breakfast, she set out with her mother and brother, bright
sun and sharp blue sky promising a new beginning. Early crocuses bravely poked above ground, providing relief from the grey gloom that had blanketed their world, and here and there trees sprouted hard bits of green. Thick mud and wide puddles along the road forced them to pick their way with care.

“We must have won, otherwise German soldiers would have passed the house,” said Jean, poking a sharp stick in the ground as he voiced his opinion.

“Not necessarily,” said Helene. “Perhaps our soldiers merely held their own lines.”

“One thing is certain, there will be casualties,” her mother said. “I’m going to ask Madame Lalonde what
help is needed most at the hospital. Regardless of who won or lost, the hospital will be full.”

Around the next corner, a ribbon of smoke billowed from the Garniers’ chimney. When they drew closer, Madame Garnier ran out of the house, her long white apron flapping and her voice warbling with excitement, and they listened for several minutes as she chattered about the past three days, barely pausing to take a breath.

“Perhaps you’ll see my husband when you’re in Beaufort. He’s planning to speak to the mayor about how we can help.”

They left Madame Garnier
and continued towards Beaufort, the winter land looking harsh and unyielding, giving no hint of the rich, dark soil brewing spring nutrients and the lush vegetation that would sprout in a few months. A thin covering of snow flattened the rolling countryside, shadows pale and indistinct.

“I wonder if Papa knows what’s happened,” Helene said.

“Probably. I’ve written a letter telling him we’re safe.”

“Did you—”

“No,” her mother interrupted, “I did not mention your shocking behaviour. Time for that later when Papa has less to worry about. And when we’re in Beaufort, you’re to say nothing about watching from the hill.”

Helene exchanged a look with her brother; Papa would be furious.

As they neared Beaufort, a wagon full of silent soldiers, some barely able to sit, merged onto the road ahead, pulled by a speckled grey horse whose emaciated haunches suggested meagre rations and endless work. Following the wagon was a snaking line of wounded, limping men, many with arms around those too weak to walk by themselves, battle worn and weary, making their way into Beaufort for treatment and rest. Despite their injuries, this group of men did not appear downcast but instead laughed and jostled one another. Helene heard bits of singing as they walked a discreet distance behind.

She was stunned when they entered Beaufort. In just a few days, their sleepy little town had been transformed into one bustling with purpose as messengers came and went and soldiers strode the streets. Distinguished-looking officers arrived in black motorcars while Red Cross ambulances waited to deposit their wounded at the newly equipped hospital.
Everywhere they turned, men saluted smartly to one another.

Moving with brisk importance, the citizens of Beaufort wore expressions of determination and hope. Finally, they were able to serve their country. A battle that had raged in their environs gave purpose to those otherwise occupied by routine and the hardships of living in a country at war. Posted in the town square was a large notice with information about the battle. Helene read
it from top to bottom.

“Maman, just like we thought, it was the Canadians who were fighting,” Helene said.

“Dear God, look at the casualty figures.” Maman made the sign of the cross. “And I’m sure there’ll be more.”

“But they took the ridge,” said Jean, looking back and forth between his mother and the public notice.

“The Germans have held that ridge since the beginning,” Monsieur Garnier observed, peering over their shoulders. “What will these soldiers do now?”

“We’ve been asking the same question,” Helene’s mother said. “How are you, Monsieur? We stopped to talk with your wife this morning.”

“Such an awful three days we’ve had. My pigs are very distraught. Are you going to Café Pitou? I’m heading there now.”

The café was standing room only. It
clamoured with conversation, warms smells of coffee mingling with cigarette smoke. After three fearful days, Helene felt relieved to be with others. Her mother nodded to several acquaintances and took a stool Madame Suras fetched from behind the counter. The deputy mayor, who stood with his back to the fire, tapped his umbrella against the table.

“
Mesdames et messieurs
! Just a few words, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve had a fearsome time these past few days. A fearsome time. But nothing as fearsome as the brave soldiers who took the ridge.” A rumble of approval greeted this statement. “The mayor has spoken with a senior Canadian officer. A Colonel Balfour, I think that was the name.
Oui, oui
, Balfour. The military appreciates everything we can do for them. Many of their men will be resting here for a while. Others are being cared for in the hospital. I know you will do your very best to make them feel welcome in our little village. Monsieur Garnier has already offered to hold a party for the soldiers at his farm. It won’t be for a few weeks, but everyone is invited.”

Shouts of approval greeted this statement, and Monsieur Ga
rnier offered a little bow of acknowledgement. The deputy mayor raised his arms to quiet the crowd.

“The Germans are withdrawing on several fronts, destroying everything as they go. No counterattack yet, which is surprising, though the Colonel said the Germans are digging in south of us. I’m sure there will soon be more information.”

Helene listened as Monsieur Seguin’s comments led to an outburst of noisy speculation based on the assumption that success from such a major offensive would ripple north and south along the front.

“Apparently, the Canadians can’t move their guns forward because of the weather,” one man said.

“Not surprising. I could hardly get my wagon into town. Got stuck several times in the muck,” said Monsieur Garnier.

“Something else is brewing. I’ve heard that our soldiers have gathered from Saint- Quentin to Rheims. Could be big.”

“Is our hospital full?” Helene looked up at her mother’s question.

“To the brim. Should’ve seen them coming in the last few days. Terrible wounds.”

All this time, Helene had been standing next to the wooden counter where, before the war, Madame Suras displayed baked goods and pastries. Now the only item on the counter was a large glass jar covered with a red cross and half-full of coins. She dug into her pocket and found a few
centimes
to contribute.

Jean was standing near
a group of men who continued talking about the war. Helene could tell he was hanging on every word, and she wondered whether he would be able to resist telling them about their hilltop vigil.
Doubtful
, she thought. Maman had finished her coffee and was putting on her gloves.

Her mother stood. “Helene, I’m going to speak to Madame Lalonde at the hospital and ask her what more I can do to help.”

“I think I’ll see if I can find Germaine. You go ahead, Maman. I’ll tell Jean that we’ll meet here in an hour.”

* * *

“I’ve agreed to continue four days a week but for longer hours,” Maman said on the way back to Tante Camille’s. “I have to do something more. What if it were Guy who needed help?”