Lies Told In Silence (19 page)

Chapter 24

May 1917

As Helene came over the rise on the evening of the dance, the sun
lingered just above Monsieur Garnier’s farm, its bright gold tinged with pink, and she heard faint echoes of a fiddle chasing a lively tune. Beside the road, narrow fields stretched into the distance, and the clang of cowbells echoed here and there. A tall woman, her hair wrapped in a bright red scarf, wielded a sickle back and forth. Around the next bend, a stooped, weather-beaten man with red-rimmed eyes nodded as they passed then turned to tug his goat away from the ditch where wildflowers were growing in sweet abundance. Helene knew neither of these people, but given the influx of Belgian refugees and soldiers from different countries, strangers no longer prompted comment.

Though Helene answered each of her mother’s questions, her thoughts were on the evening’s potential for romance and intriguing conversation, the feel of a stranger’s arms and the irresistible tug of music. She smiled at what Papa called her vivid imagination. After all, a man was not going to sweep her off her feet with her mother hovering nearby. Nevertheless, she had dressed with care in a skirt that gathered into soft folds and a blouse that displayed her long neck and slim figure to advantage.

Drawing near, they saw Monsieur Garnier standing by the gate, wearing a fine wool suit. He shook hands, clapped shoulders and laughed with gusto, sharing a word with each and every person who came. Chairs and tables filled the yard in front of the house, and flags from France, England and Canada draped the balconies.

“Roast pig for dinner,” said Monsieur Garnier, his smile full of pride as he shook hands with Lise and kissed Helene on both cheeks. “Four of my best.” He looked a little sad, as though he had sacrificed friends rather than animals raised for this exact purpose. “Helene, there are so many young men waiting—you must dance the whole night.”

“Go ahead. I know you can’t wait a moment longer.” Her mother chuckled and joined Madame Lalonde and several other women at a long rectangular table.

Helene
continued towards the barn, its open doors spilling music like a waterfall on playful children. Inside, the scent of freshly mown hay and damp wool mingled with sweat and alcohol. Streamers looped from post to post, making each one seem like a giant maypole. Drums, fiddles, a saxophone and an accordion filled the air as nimble feet cavorted in time with a lively tune. For a few moments, she watched the jostling soldiers, their fearless eyes rendered soft for the night, the burden of duty set aside. They shouted in both English and French above the din of music and conversation.

A tall soldier with burly shoulders and a bold smile grabbed her hand, pulling her
onto the dance floor, and when that dance finished, another soldier cut in, leading her effortlessly around the room, the music continuing its frenzy. She had no time to look for friends, passing with gallant courtesy from one man to another until, parched and exhausted, she demanded refreshment from a man whose cheeks were almost as red as his hair.

“My name is Eric Andrews. Would you like to go outside for a few minutes?” he asked in halting French when he returned with beer and a glass of cider.

“That would be nice,” she replied in English after taking a sip. “Call me Helene.”

The dying sun left nothing but a faint red glow, and a twi
nkling of stars marked the wide sky beyond Monsieur Garnier’s yard. Birds hopped on the plane tree a few metres from the barn, calling their night song, while the older men and women of Beaufort mopped their plates with fresh bread, lips smacking in appreciation of the succulent pork and hearty wine.

As they sipped their beverages, Eric told her that he came from a city called Toronto. “It’s a Mohawk word,” he said, “that means the place where trees stand in the water.”

“Mohawk?”

“One of our native Indian tribes.”

Their conversation continued amidst fragrant lilacs as night further blackened the sky.

“Will you dance with me
now?” Eric asked eventually.

Helene smiled her agreement and followed him back inside, her hand a willing captive of his. After two dances, another soldier cut in.

“You can’t have all the fun, Eric,” he said.

“I saw her first, Fuzz, so don’t steal her. Helene, this is my friend, Edward Jamieson. He got wounded when we took the ridge, but don’t be too nice to him.”

Edward looked at Helene with intensity, his wide brow and taut bearing giving an impression of quiet determination, yet she sensed vulnerability beneath the surface. She gave him her hand and they whirled away.

He was tall with long legs and a slim, fit build, deep-set eyes with dark brows and wavy hair that was only just beginning to recede. His clasp was warm, not at all damp or possessive; slender fingers, which she imagined could stretch more than an octave on the piano, laid against hers.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “You have a beautiful smile.”

The heat rushed to her face. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Edward,” he said. “Call me Edward.”

She dipped her head to acknowledge his request. “I’m so sorry to hear that you were wounded. We are all very grateful for what you Canadians have done.”

Assuming he would not wish to talk about the fighting, she said no more. Flashes of colour spun by, shadows gathered in the corners of the barn, the fiddlers’ fingers danced against the strings, the base player thumped an urgent beat. Helene let herself relax.

“You seem different from the other young women here,” he said.

“Different?”

“Yes. More assured. More sophisticated, I think.”

“You can tell that already?”

“I can.”

The tempo slowed as musicians shifted from one melody to another. Rather than releasing her, he tightened his hold, and she felt the pull of his body. Around and around they spun, dipping, swaying, smiling at one another without the need for words. She followed his lead with ease.

When Eric approached, Edward waved him away. “She doesn’t want to dance with you, Snowy.”

It was true. Helene wanted to stay in his arms, sheltered, romanced, enticed, beguiled. She shivered as longing spun its invisible threads between them.

“May I see you again?” he said as the evening came to an end.

It was well past midnight, and Maman had been sitting with Madame Lalonde and Madame Suras in a corner of the barn. Helene knew from the looks Maman had been giving her that it was time to go.

“I would like that.”

“Where can we meet?”

“Café Pitou. Do you know where that is?” He nodded. “Tue
sday afternoon. That’s my day to come into town. I’ll wait by the fountain.”

“Tuesday, then. I’ll be there.”

Chapter 25

May 1917

The shadow of St. Jerome lay across the main square like a guardian governing the comings and goings of Beaufort. A small, sturdy boy whose hair bristled like a hedgehog chased a brown terrier, giggling every time he came close to catching the frisky dog. The church bell had already struck two, but the square was quiet, most citizens of Beaufort resting after a midday meal, some taking a brief nap before resuming the business of living with an army close at hand.

Helene had been waiting near the fountain for ten minutes. Her mother thought she was visiting Germaine, and, with just the barest element of truth in this statement, Helene could pretend she was not lying. Tucked away in a small crevice was the knowledge that her mother would not approve of this outing.

Adjusting her straw hat to keep the sun off her face—Grandmere once declared this would prevent wrinkles in later life—she perched on the wall surrounding the fountain and opened her fan. The weather was unseasonably hot, and she regretted her choice of dress that flattered her figure but did nothing for comfort.

From her vantage point, she watched Dr. Valdane slowly unwind the red and white canopy shading his pharmacy, which
made her think of beach umbrellas at Deauville and the ice creams her father bought when she was young. Chocolate was her favorite flavour, and once Maman became very upset when Helene dribbled some on her dress just before Mass.

“Are you daydreaming?” Edward said, appearing out of n
owhere.

“Oh. You startled me.”

Helene waved her fan back and forth, wishing that her cheeks would not turn pink at the slightest provocation. She had not for a moment forgotten what he looked like, but today he seemed taller for some reason, and she wondered if that had anything to do with being in uniform. He smelled of shaving cream and peppermint.

Edward held out his arm. “Shall we go to Café Pitou, or would you prefer to take a walk?”

“Do you have time for both?”
Good heavens, what’s wrong with you Helene Louise Noisette? Young ladies shouldn’t be so forward. Maman would be shocked.

“I do.”

The café was almost empty, and they chose a corner table near one of the windows where they could watch the street and be somewhat secluded from other patrons, not that midafternoon was a busy time.

“Coffee?” he said.

“Yes, please.”

Madame Suras’s daughter smiled broadly as Helene translated their order. “
Toute suite, Mademoiselle
,” she said. Gossip travelled swiftly in a small town, and by tomorrow, her mother would know all about Helene’s visit with Edward.

“Tell me why you come into Beaufort on Tuesdays.”

“Maman works in the hospital four days a week. She writes letters for the soldiers who cannot write. Tuesday is her day at home, so I come for groceries and the post. We must always have the post. We wait . . .” Helene paused. Edward lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head.

“We wait for news of my brother. He is missing.” Helene felt tears gather and blinked rapidly to keep them from falling. “Papa
is looking for him.”

“How is it that your father can look for him? Is he not in the army?”

“He works at the
Ministre de la Guerre
. War Ministry.
Je pense
. . . I think he has a large position. He always travels. Maman says his travels take him near the front. Guy is my older brother. He was with General Nivelle near Soissons.”

“Soissons,” Edward said with a grimace. “I hope your father finds him. Do you have other brothers or sisters?”

“Jean is my younger brother. He lives with Maman and I. Tell me of your family.”

“Five brothers and three sisters.”

“Oh la la, what a large family.”

“It’s chaotic,” he replied. “I’m the eldest.”

The café door opened and Germaine entered. Helene waved, relieved to see the friend who was her alibi for being at Café Pitou.

“Bonjour,” Germaine said, her eyes twinkling.

“Germaine, this is Edward Jamieson. Edward, my friend Germaine Dubois.”

Edward stood and helped Germaine into her seat while Helene asked for another coffee. In a mixture of French and English, Germaine asked Edward a steady stream of questions until finally, when Helene was beginning to think they would never have any more time alone, Germaine said she had some errands to do, winked at them and left the café.

“I thought she would never leave.”

Helene laughed. “Me too.”

“Shall we walk somewhere?”

“You could walk me home. Maman will worry if I do not arrive home soon.”

“Have you always lived in Beaufort?” he asked as they strolled past the fountain.

“We used to live in Paris, but Papa sent us here for safety before the war began. A mistake, I think, but
c’est la vie
. Papa would like us to return, but last year, when my grandmother died, we agreed to spend a little more time in Beaufort before leaving her. And now Maman has her duties at the hospital, and Jean likes it here.”

“And what does Helene want?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wish to return to Paris. Other times I am happy here. As for Jean, he wants to be a soldier.”

“That’s a terrible idea. Do anything you can to keep him out of it. Anything.”

Edward spoke in a tone Helene had not heard him use, like the sound of tumbling gravel, and she observed a small tick in his right eye.

“We do our best, and for the moment, he listens. Maman is so afraid for Guy. He was wounded last year, and I know she worries that this will be worse.” Helene frowned. “I should be home with Maman.”

“Shall we walk faster?”

“No.”

Despite worries about her mother, Helene savoured every minute of their time together, the way he looked at her and his wry smile, a fleeting moment when he touched her face and asked if he could see her again.

“I would like that,” she said.

“We’ll be here for a while. But there’s little notice of time off. How can I reach you?”

“Send a note to Germaine. She will make sure I receive it.”

Chapter 26

May 1917

Henri was frustrated and had been for days. The entire area involved in the second battle of the Aisne was a mess of contradi
ctory orders, failed communications, deliberate obfuscation and, in his opinion, stupidity. If he did not find Guy in the next few days, he would have to return to Paris, having already stalled far too long with a story of investigating artillery problems, which, while believable and partially true, was wearing thin.
Where the hell is my son?

Beginning at Rheims, he had traveled all over the battlefront, visiting harried village hospitals housing broken soldiers. He drove through towns glittering with shattered glass and heard death’s hush in narrow alleys. According to many officers he met, instead of the crushing blow Nivelle had promised, the army gained only a few kilometers at the expense of casualty levels so catastrophic that mutiny erupted and the offensive was abandoned in disarray. Given the chaos, Henri was not surprised that finding Guy was proving difficult, but this did not dispel his frustration.

In his line of work, they were partially shielded from war’s brutality, soldiers mere numbers on a column or arrows on a map pointing towards the enemy. Often the men of France became elements of cost in an overworked equation.
We should be here on the front lines
, he thought,
watching our chessboard in play. Maybe then we would make better decisions
. But he knew battle strategy was driven by the contestant most nefarious and most willing to sacrifice. France had no choice.

A bizarre normality existed ten kilometres or so from the front in villages undamaged by war, half-timbered houses and high-roofed granaries looking much as they had for centuries. These villages nestled against fields green with crops. In the morning, church bells called the faithful while children played in the streets. When he drove closer to the line, he stopped from time to time where Headquarters staff gathered amidst the clang of telephones and hum of dictation. Officers were courteous but harassed when he asked about Guy or for directions to the nearest hospital.

Each day, with raw egg, bread and black coffee for nourishment, he set out to investigate more villages and field hospitals. Sounds of battle echoed across the valleys, numbing his senses such that one day seemed much like the next.

Near Soissons, he met a convoy of horses stomping and snu
ffling while waiting to cross a bridge under repair. The sergeant in charge, a barrel-chested man with a loud, clipped voice, told him it could be hours before they completed their work. With no patience for waiting, Henri detoured through the village of Soupir, where all that remained were blackened tree stumps and one wall of the church.

Beyond Soupir, he drove to the top of a hill, passing several German dugouts now occupied by French soldiers. A wooden scaffold used as an observation post lay on the ground by the road. He got out of the car and stood on the hilltop, looking out on a mess of trenches, barbed wire entanglements, shell holes and crudely marked graves. Less than a kilometre away, he could see another completely destroyed village.

Finally, near the town of Braine, he found someone who knew his son and directed him to the hospital at Vailly-sur-Aisne. “I think that’s where they took him, Monsieur.” A slim lead, but he had nothing else to go on.

The village consisted of roughly forty houses with a few stores
located along the main street and a bridge at the south end crossing the River Aisne. Henri found a Red Cross symbol over the town hall. An old woman opened the door, and at Henri’s request, went to find the doctor, a short, squat man whose fatigue was etched into every crevice of his face. Before greeting Henri, the doctor wiped his hands on a dirty white cloth tucked into the pocket of his coat.

“I’m Doctor Poitras, how can I help you, Monsieur?”

After Henri gave his credentials and explained his mission, the doctor shouted for his orderly, and a thin, young man whose smock was stained with blood appeared within seconds.

“We’re located in many buildings, as you will see. I do not recall the name Guy Noisette, but some of our soldiers are unidentified so it’s best to look for yourself. Philippe will help you find your way.” The doctor dismissed them with a wave of his hand and turned back into the house.

“Be careful, Monsieur,” Philippe said. “We had a detachment of cavalry quartered here, and their hooves have destroyed our streets. The mud is terrible.”

As they went from building to building, picking their way through the mud, Henri learned that the orderly had been helping the doctor for six months.

“I was a terrible soldier. Fortunately my captain agreed and sent me here. It suits me.”

“Doctor Poitras must have worked hard to assemble all these beds.”

“Yes, Monsieur. The villagers have been very helpful.”

Henri went slowly up and down rows of cots jammed into every possible inch of space, looking with special care at any man whose head was bandaged or whose nametag was missing. Occasionally, a patient acknowledged him, but for the most part, they did not move.

They stopped briefly inside a building dedicated to surgery, where Philippe carefully read the list of patients and shook his head. “No one called Noisette.” Then they visited a building where newly arrived soldiers encrusted with mud lay waiting to be washed and disinfected before treatment. Again, Henri surveyed each soldier, shaking his head as he reached the end of the room.

“We’ll go to the church now.”

“The church?”

The orderly chuckled. “Doctor Poitras even managed to co
nvince Father Georges to keep patients. They removed the pews to make room. Caused a big stir amongst the villagers, mainly the old biddies, but the doctor shamed them into it.”

Philippe then explained that patients in the church were not typically wounded but were seriously ill with fevers, bronchitis, pleurisy and trench sickness. He pushed open the large wooden doors just as the bells started ringing for vespers and led Henri to the first of four rows of cots.

The church was dark, only a few dim lights and two candles on the altar, so Henri bent close to each patient lying under dun-coloured blankets, their eyes lifeless and faces ashen, some agitated by fever, others unconscious. Meanwhile, the priest took his place behind the altar as women dressed in black and soldiers in dirty, faded blue gathered for Mass. Odors of incense and sweat mingled with the pungent smell of medicine.

So many faces
, Henri thought,
the sons of France decaying in narrow cots without friends or family. Nivelle should be shot for his arrogant incompetence
. As Henri finished the first row of patients and began to examine the second, the priest prayed for the safety of France and a woman cried, “Please, God, don’t abandon us!”

Where will I look next?
he wondered, distraction blurring his concentration. He looked at another young face covered by a dark beard, the soldier’s eyes staring vacantly. Henri was about to turn away when a faint, husky voice whispered, “Papa?”.