Lies Told In Silence (18 page)

“What will you do?” Helene asked.

“I’m to write letters for the soldiers who can’t write their own. I told Madame that my English is good enough for that. It’s a small way to contribute. How is Germaine?”

Since Jean had already returned home, Helene felt she could speak freely. “I’m worried about her. She’s engaged to Jacques, and yet she continues to flirt with other men. The latest is this Canadian soldier she’s met. Why do you think she does that?”

“I’m not sure,
chérie
. Some women like the power that comes with flirting. Or maybe her feelings for Jacques have changed.”

“She says she loves him. Jacques would be devastated if he
knew.”

“Perhaps she agreed to the engagement because he was going off to war. That has happened often enough.”

“I don’t know, Maman, but I wish she would think about his feelings instead of just her own. Today, she talked on and on about the men we might meet at Monsieur Garnier’s party.”

Her mother laughed. “Well, maybe you will meet someone. It wouldn’t hurt for you to do a little flirting.”

“Maman!”

Chapter 22

April 1917

Dear Henri,

We went into the village several days ago, a long, muddy walk after three dreadful days. I can’t imagine how the soldiers were able to endure it. Such a relief to get out after listening to the rumble of artillery so close by. You can imagine the conversation at Café Pitou, everyone talking at once, everyone with an opinion, of course. We have some details from a notice posted in the main square, and there is good news of Canadian success taking the ridge. Many think further action will now proceed to the south, but I’m sure you have far more information.

I want you to know that I have increased my volunteering at the hospital, where there are hundreds of wounded soldiers, some without arms or legs, some with terrible head wounds, many who will not survive. Madame Lalonde has given me the task of writing letters for these men since my English is adequate enough. They are grateful for my help, and many have told me that I remind them of their own mothers. Most of them are so very young; it makes me want to weep at the gravity of their faces, so calm and strangely mature.

I am doing this for Guy but also for myself, as I can’t bear the thought of so much tragedy in our little town. Helene and Jean are managing the household tasks on the days that I’m away.

My darling, do not worry about us. We are coping well under the circumstances.

All my love,

Lise

Henri did not receive his wife’s letter until long after the French frontal assault began along the Chemin des Dames, a landscape dominated by masses of rock whose steep flanks had sheltered the Germans in underground quarries since 1914. This action, intended to follow Canadian success taking the ridge near Vimy with another resounding blow to the enemy, was countered everywhere by intense German machine gun fire and mortar attacks, which halted the limited French advance on its second day. Alarming dispatches arrived on his desk every hour. Fear for his son gathered like a vicious storm.

The number of casualties was staggering—forty thousand on the first day alone—and during the following twelve days of battle, losses mounted to one hundred and twenty thousand men. A total disaster.

Henri hardly slept during those twelve days and later, when the final count of two hundred and seventy-one thousand casualties was reported, he wept, alone at his desk with still no news of Guy. When he arrived home late that night, a telegram was waiting.

The envelope was plain and small, his name and address written in heavy black ink. “No. No. No!” he murmured. “Christ, no. Not Guy.”

Henri picked up the envelope, examining the front and back as if he could somehow discern the message from without. Tout Tout trotted down the stairs and stood with his tail wagging and small pink tongue hanging out.

“What do you think it says, Tout Tout?” Fatigued to the point of exhaustion, Henri slumped on the stairs. “Come here, little fellow. We’ll open it together, won’t we? No one should read bad news alone.”

With a sigh, Henri slid his finger along the flap and extracted a
thin piece of paper. LIEUTENANT GUY NOISETTE MISSING IN ACTION STOP YOUR SON VERY MUCH ADMIRED STOP EFFORTS CONTINUE TO FIND HIM STOP WILL SEND WORD SOONEST STOP CAPTAIN E. L. BRUNETTE

Henri read the telegram a second and third time, wondering whether he could squeeze a shred of hope out of the captain’s promise to continue looking. With casualties so staggeringly high, the chances of Guy being found were next to zero. Panic filled his head, preventing clear thinking, his heart pounded with dread. Every day he feared for the lives of his family, a fear that wiped the spit from his mouth and induced late night glasses of wine
or cognac. He was convinced that someone very close would die. It was only a matter of time.

“He’s missing, Tout Tout. But I’m going to find him. I won’t stop until I find him.”

* * *

The following morning, Henri petitioned the
Minister of War for permission to travel towards Rheims, which was within a few kilometres of the French army. That night, Charles and Maurice, both tired and grey, met him for dinner.

“What have you heard of Guy?” Maurice asked as soon as they were seated.

“He’s missing in action. I have permission to go to Rheims. I’m to report about conditions to the minister, but my main purpose is to find Guy.”

“My dear friend, I’m so sorry,” said Maurice. “Can Charles and I help in any way?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve sent a letter to Lise by special post. I just have to get to the front as quickly as I can. I’ll look in every hospital and morgue I can find. Talk to his commanding officer and anyone who knew him. Speed is critical.”

“If anyone can find him, it’s you, Henri,” Charles gripped Henri’s shoulder.

Silence descended. Henri sipped his wine and cleared his throat. “The plan was for this action at Chemin des Dames to capitalize on what the Canadians achieved. They say Nivelle didn’t realize most German troops could shelter underground during the bombardment phase.”

“So our bombs were useless?” Charles said.

Henri nodded. “Apparently they’re so well dug-in they use the front trench lines only for observation, with massive machine gun nests behind these lines, and well behind those are their reserve divisions, out of range of our artillery.”

“The
rumour is we weren’t prepared for their new machine guns,” said Maurice.

“You’re right. Faster and deadlier than ours.”

“And what happened to our tanks?” Charles, who had poked at his food and gulped his wine all evening, slurred his words.

“Either destroyed or bogged down in the mud. Useless.” Henri closed his bloodshot eyes, imagining the scene, tanks unable to move either forward or backward, sitting ducks for German artillery.

“Thank God Pétain has taken over,” Maurice said.

“Nivelle’s career is finished,” Henri added. “He should be put in jail for the men he sent out to die.”

Henri shook with rage every time he thought of what had occurred. Slaughter was the word for it. Senseless slaughter. He prayed his son had somehow survived.

Chapter 23

May 1917

Every day after the ridge had been taken, Helene and her family heard news of further military action and the frequent debates that ensued about possible consequences. In their little corner of France, she found it difficult to appreciate the significance of events in Gaza, Istabulat, Shiala or Isonzo, although she
diligently located each place on the atlas as if seeing a name in a faraway country outlined in pink or green or blue might help. Of greatest concern was the fighting taking place from Soissons to Rheims under the command of General Nivelle, for Guy was with Nivelle. As casualty numbers were announced, Helene watched her mother age in front of her eyes.

On Tuesdays, Maman did not volunteer at the hospital, so Helene went into town to check for mail. On the second Tuesday of May, a letter from Papa arrived, and she hurried home, half running, half walking so she and Maman could read it together.

Without a word, her mother tore open the envelope.

My darling Lise,

We have terrible news. Guy is missing in action. Although his commanding officer says they continue to look for him, I am going to Rheims to conduct my own search. Do not think to join me.
Conditions will be very difficult. Trust me to do all that is possible. I will write as often as possible.

Don’t lose hope, my love.

Henri

Her mother seemed frozen in place, one hand clutching the letter, the other held against her mouth, every vestige of colour drained away. Helene gripped her shoulders.

“Maman, sit down. Come with me and sit down.” She led her mother to a kitchen chair. “You stay here. I’m going to get you a brandy.” Helene continued talking as she went to the dining room, poured a generous measure of brandy into two glasses and placed one into her mother’s hand.

“Take a sip, Maman. That’s right. And another sip. Papa will be on his way already. Isn’t that good news? And soon we will have another letter. Papa will be able to find Guy. I’m sure of it. We’ll ask Jean what he thinks, but I’m sure he’ll agree too. With so much chaos, it’s no wonder they weren’t able to find Guy. Nothing to worry about. Papa is looking for him. Remember the time when no one could find Tout Tout? He was just a puppy then, wasn’t he, Maman? We all searched for him, and it wasn’t until Papa came home and looked in the coal bin that we found him. Papa is clever like that.”

As she attempted to ease her mother’s torment, Helene did her best to block the news about Guy from her thoughts. Someone had to be strong, and she steeled herself to remain calm, speaking in quiet, soothing tones while trying to imagine what else to do. Perhaps Father Marcel or Madame Lalonde would be able to help. Helene wished Jean were home so she could send him into town. She talked on and on, holding her mother’s hand, squeezing it gently from time to time. Although Maman parted her lips once
and seemed on the verge of speaking, she remained silent, eyes devoid of any spark of life, staring at nothing. Even when Jean came home, she said nothing.

In the middle of the night, Helene awoke to the sounds of crying, high-pitched, bordering on hysteria. She went to Maman’s
room and slipped beneath the sheets and held her mother until the sobs subsided into whimpers.

* * *

Lise passed by the sterilizing equipment and the supply room, where reams of bandaging materials were stored. She passed the pharmacy, where a gnome-like man huddled behind glass bottles of every size and shape, measuring ingredients on battered metal scales, then passed the kitchen, where tisanes were brewing. Eventually, she reached Ward Five, where the seriously wounded waited to be transported home, some of whom would die before being reunited with their families.

The ward was scrupulously clean, warmed by a row of stoves bisecting the middle of the room. Chintz curtains framed each bed, providing a bit of cheer and privacy, and a pile of wool blankets lay neatly folded near one of the stoves, ready to warm
a feverish man.

When she found John Baldwin, she smiled. “How are you today, John?” His head and eyes were heavily bandaged, but he smiled at her.

“Thought I heard your footsteps,” he said with obvious pleasure. “Doc says I’m finally getting better.”

“And
 . . .”

“I might be able to go home soon.”

“How wonderful. Do you want to write to your family?”

John nodded, and for the next hour, Lise wrote in her careful, round script the news of his potential return to Canada, his hopes of regaining his eyesight and his longing for home. She helped him add his signature, then wrote “as dictated to Lise Noisette, May 16, 1917” on the last page.

John grabbed her hand and held it tight. “I don’t think I would have made it without you.”

He looked very much like Guy, which was why she visited him so frequently, desperate that he would defy the odds and live, as if in some way this would help Henri with the seemingly impossible task of finding their son. She laid her hand on his cheek, grateful
that he could not see her tears.

A week had passed since Henri’s letter and n
ow Lise and Helene and Jean spoke of Guy in measured tones, each day waiting for the post to bring news. Emotions were mixed when no letter arrived—did no news mean Guy was soon to be found or did it signify that he was forever lost? Lise grew thinner and thinner until the hollows of her cheeks made her look like a walking corpse.

* * *

While their mother was at the hospital, Helene and Jean worked in the garden amidst clusters of newly blooming flowers—lilacs, red hawthorn, roses and lavender. Against one wall, peonies were bursting deep pink froth and bees hummed as they nestled in new growth. Though most of the garden was dedicated to vegetables, each year their mother determined that a small section would provide beauty rather than utility.

Helene snipped and trimmed, staked those flowers needing support, tore out the weeds and loosened the soil. When she finished, she went to help Jean dig around the bases of sprouting vegetables, tie up the beans and plant three rows of tomato seedlings grown in small pots on the dining room table. They worked more quickly than they had two years ago.

“The mayor is throwing a party for our Canadians,” she said.

Jean barely acknowledged his sister; he was in what their mother referred to as his “grunting phase”.

“There’s going to be dancing.”

With so few Frenchmen, the thought of dancing, even with soldiers from another country, seemed an exciting proposition. Jean grunted again.

“Do you think Maman will let me go?”

Almost three years had passed since they came to Beaufort, and much of that time had been embroiled in deprivation and worry. Beyond worrying about Guy, they worried about Papa, their friends and family and occasionally themselves. Clearly Paris would have been safer than this little town not far from the front, but, as her mother always said, “what’s done is done, no point
regretting that decision”. And now they were part of this community with others depending on them.
In a way, we’ve grown up here
, Helene thought.

She felt like a woman now, not a teenage girl—thinking like a woman, shouldering responsibilities, willing to make decisions. The realization made her proud, and she was also proud of her mother, who had shed her spoiled life of privilege and acquired strength and opinions independent from her husband.

They spent many evenings together, reading, writing letters and knitting socks, sweaters and scarves for the troops.
Just like Maman and Grandmere
, Helene reflected with a wry smile. As the flames crackled or warm breezes wafted, they discussed the latest news and spoke about family and friends. Helene was no longer surprised to find her mother full of ideas and perspective. Often the clock chimed eleven before they went to bed.

Beaufort offered little in the way of excitement unless one found a contest for the best pig or a truffle hunt or the annual church bazaar exciting, and Helene had grown accustomed to being solitary, often walking alone through hills and fields despite her mother’s cautions. Thoughts of dancing for a whole evening made her eyes sparkle and she wondered
if fate had something in store.

When her mother came home preoccupied by worries about her young soldier and Guy, she agreed to the dance without hesitation.

“I’ll go too. It’s something to celebrate. Madame Lalonde said just today that they need as many women as possible.”