Tell No One Who You Are (14 page)

Lying alone in her bed, Régine could almost hear her parents arguing. How could her father be so sure that God did not exist? And how could her mother be equally sure that He did? Which of them was right, and which was wrong?

What to make of it all? Her mother believed in God but her father didn’t. Pierre and Sylvie believed in a different God, three Gods in one. Was there really a God, any God, somewhere, looking after people? If so, why didn’t He stop the war and bring back her parents and brother?

Régine was finally getting sleepy. She closed her eyes and invented a new game to play in the darkness of her room.

“If Papa comes back,” she said to herself, “then I will believe in God.”

It was more a bet than a game. Or maybe it was like bargaining. There were no real rules, and there was nothing she had to do, such as crossing the room without stepping on
a crack. To win this game, all she had to do was wait. When she thought about it, maybe it was a bit like praying.

In the meantime, how could she postpone the baptism? She would say she wanted to wait for spring, that the war might be over and her father would come back. In any case, her three months at the Wathieus’ would be over before then.

R
ÉGINE HAD LOOKED FORWARD
to going to school but she knew from the first day she attended that it was not going to work. All the subjects that the teacher covered, Régine had learned from Mademoiselle Descotte back at the
école primaire
in Brussels. Régine was far too advanced for the village school even though she was not one of the older students. The teacher realized this, too. After the first two weeks, as the other students worked on spelling and arithmetic, Régine was granted a special exemption from the regular curriculum and given a desk by herself at the back of the class where she spent her days dipping a nib in ink and practicing calligraphy.

The following week the teacher sent her home, explaining to Pierre and Sylvie that his one-classroom school had nothing to offer a bright student like Augusta Dubois. Pierre and Sylvie thanked the teacher and gave Régine the kind of smile that proud parents give their children.

Life at the farm settled into a routine that was some comfort to Régine while she waited for the war to end. She had the feeling everyone — the Wathieus, the old men who came in the evenings, the people in church — was also waiting for what they called
“la libération.”
For Régine the liberation meant the return of her father. Maybe Léon too. He was young and strong. Maybe Monsieur Gaspar was wrong about him. But her mother? She had been so sick: the pale face in the
hospital bed, the frail hand held out, almost pleading. Could she really believe her mother had come through two more years of trouble? She would not think of her mother. Just her father and brother.

Every Sunday was the same. Going to church was only part of the day’s ritual that started early in the morning and ended late at night. As time passed, she knew it by heart.

After the morning service she returned with Pierre and Sylvie to the farmhouse for lunch, which Sylvie prepared in the morning and left to simmer on the stove while they were away.

Sunday dinner was the most important meal of the week. It was the only meal for which a chicken was killed. Pierre, it turned out, was far too squeamish for such things, so it was always Sylvie who went into the barn. Sometimes Régine went with her. She was convinced the chickens knew what was coming the minute Sylvie came through the door. It was an eerie feeling, being watched by all those knowing birds. Sylvie seemed aware of this, too, and tried to act nonchalant. She would take the chicken outside before strangling it, but Régine was certain the other chickens sensed what was happening. Later, she always had a hard time swallowing her Sunday dinner.

After dinner, the three of them walked back to the church for afternoon services.

Later in the afternoon, they would sit in the living room, still dressed in their Sunday clothes. Pierre would read the
Évangile
while Sylvie and Régine brought out their rosaries. Together they recited the prayers — both prayers for each bead — until suppertime.

After supper, they read and prayed some more until bedtime. The Wathieus permitted Régine to read the two or
three books they had in the house, which all had something to do with Jesus. No other reading was allowed. Régine put away
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
after Pierre and Sylvie saw it and deemed it was “not fit for a Catholic household.” That left nothing but stories about children loving Baby Jesus, which she read and reread. In retrospect, her stay with Madame André in Boitsfort seemed less bleak. The old woman might have been cold and indifferent, but she did have a wonderful room full of books. Even better, Régine thought, she did not have to pretend she was someone else.

Sylvie also gave her a blue-enamel medal of the Virgin Mary — Notre Dame de Lourdes — along with firm instructions to carry it with her at all times. Sylvie had been to the shroud of Bernadette in Lourdes in southwestern France many years before and brought back the medal as a good luck charm. Régine accepted it and kept it in her pocket. It might help bring luck to her father, and maybe even Léon, she thought.

By Christmas, Régine had not only learned the prayers but also the service at the village church. She no longer had to watch the others to know when to sit, stand or kneel and when to reply “amen” during the sermon by Monsieur Le Vicaire. On Christmas Eve they went to midnight mass. Régine thought it was beautiful. From her pew, she had a good view of the life-size manger in front of the altar with the figures huddled around the baby Jesus. It was a family. The animals were lovely, too. She sang hymns from her song book, along with the choir whose voices resounded in the church. At home she tried to go up to bed ahead of Sylvie and Pierre to avoid crossing herself with the holy water. But when either was nearby, she no longer needed to watch them to know what she had to do.

F
ARM WORK
took up the days of the week while everyone waited for the war to end. Italy had surrendered but everyone knew the war could not end until the Allies landed somewhere in France or Belgium and drove the Germans out. When would that be?

Régine helped both inside and outside the house. There was milking La Blanque, sweeping the barn, shoveling dung, finding the eggs the hens had laid. After that, there was feeding the chickens and bringing up water from the spring in two buckets strung across her shoulders. She was glad Pierre’s special preserve was the latrine, which he cleaned out himself.

One day, Pierre said it was time to choose a pig. He explained that every year one pig was slaughtered to provide food. When the time came, Pierre was no braver than with the chickens. He called on the village veterinarian to do it for him. After the veterinarian left, Pierre cut up the carcass, and Sylvie cured the meat in jars of salt water which she kept down in the cellar. No part of the pig went to waste. Even the blood was used to make blood pudding.

When Pierre announced it was time to “service the sow” and said he knew of a farmer who had a hog for that purpose, Régine volunteered to accompany him. She had no idea what was about to happen.

With the help of Sylvie, Pierre tied a rope around the sow’s neck. Régine walked it along the road as if it were a dog, while
Marquis ran around barking at their feet. At the farm, Régine had her first lesson in sex.

It wasn’t the last. Soon afterwards, Pierre introduced the cow to a bull. That terrified Régine. The bull was enormous and he made a lot of noise. But somehow it didn’t work out. The cow seemed as terrified as Régine, so they had to leave and bring the cow back another time.

Régine had been waiting for some time for the sow to give birth. The animal was so pregnant she could hardly walk. But when the birth finally came, it was a surprise. The litter was large, and Régine had to work fast to clear the newborn baby pigs out of the way in case the mother made a mistake and rolled over on top of them. Some of the piglets had trouble getting milk from the mother so Régine learned to feed them from a bottle.

The birth of a calf was more complicated and required the services of the same veterinarian who came to slaughter the pig. Régine was fascinated, but she turned away when he put his hand inside the cow to check the position of the unborn calf.

Régine was particularly fond of sheep even though there were none on the Wathieu farm. Régine had become friends with Irene, the granddaughter of Old Monsieur Bertrand. At seventeen Irene was too old to go to school, so she stayed home to help on her family’s farm where there were many sheep. The Bertrands also had a horse, chickens and more cows than the Wathieus. There was even a phone in Irene’s house, a luxury that the Wathieu home lacked.

The two girls discovered they had something to share with each other. They both liked knitting. Régine was a good knitter, thanks to Madame André, and Irene knew how to make lace doilies on a circular needle. They got along well despite the gap of six years between them.

At home, Sylvie taught Régine how to spin wool on the spinning wheel in the kitchen, using fleece that she bought from Irene’s family. Régine knitted a sweater with this wool, but it was very rough on the skin. Régine also learned from Sylvie how to bake flat country bread and sugar pies. These last
tartes au sucre
were for Pierre because he did not like fruit pies.

The mending was done by a woman from a neighboring village. She came to the Wathieu house to work on a sewing machine which Sylvie kept covered in the main room. Seeing her work reminded Régine of her father and mother sewing “before the war.” Another woman came once a month to do the laundry by hand in the sink in the back room. The rest of the housework was done by Sylvie and Régine. Every night as news of German losses came on the radio, it seemed the war would end any moment. But as each day came and there was no word of an end, Régine threw herself into the farmwork. At least for those busy hours, she wasn’t lying awake worrying.

T
HE WATHIEU HOUSE
had a room that was kept closed. It was meant to be the dining room and a big round table stood in the center, but the Wathieus never ate there. Instead, like Régine’s parents, the Wathieus ate in the room that served both as a kitchen and living room.

The newly laid eggs which Régine or Sylvie brought in were put into a bowl on the big table in the closed room. When villagers came to buy eggs, Sylvie went in and counted out the required number. The milk and butter which Sylvie made was kept in the cellar where it was always cool. She would bring up the butter and weigh it on a scale on that same table. At all other times the door to the room was never opened.

It was in this spare room that Sylvie one day divulged a secret to Régine. They had gone in to give it a rare dusting. As they worked, Sylvie told the story in the confiding tone Régine remembered her mother using. Because of that tone, Régine listened in silence.

At the back of the room was a tall cabinet with a glass door. It was filled with plates, glasses, old photographs and other knickknacks. Sylvie opened the glass door and carefully removed all the items one by one, handing them to Régine for dusting. Régine wiped each item with a damp cloth before setting it on the big round table. It took a long time to empty the tall cabinet. Régine examined each piece and was especially
interested in the photographs, which were old but well-preserved in heavy frames.

There were photos of Sylvie’s nephews and her niece. Her sister, she said, who lived near Liège, had six boys and a girl, and sometimes in summer they all came to the farm for a visit. There were also photos of Pierre’s nephew, Victor, who lived in the nearby village of Limont. Victor helped out at harvest-time because he had a horse.

The last item that Sylvie pulled from the cabinet was a jar which had been hidden behind the last of the picture frames, the biggest and fanciest with an elaborate gold trim. The frame carried no picture.

The jar held some sort of liquid and Régine was surprised to see it in the glass cabinet which was reserved for family mementos. It seemed out of place among all the precious items, but Sylvie held it as if it were a treasure. She did not hand the jar to Régine. She held it up to the light and turned it on its side to show Régine what floated in the liquid. Régine leaned forward to take a closer look but could not guess what it was. But she sensed its importance as Sylvie wiped the jar with a damp cloth and placed it gently at the back of the glass cabinet.

“This is the baby I never had,” she said.

Régine did not understand.

The mystery only deepened when Sylvie added with great sadness: “It would have been a boy.”

In later years, as Régine remembered the pain on Sylvie’s face and the sad voice, she understood the significance of the jar and the empty picture frame. Although Régine did not understand at the time, she realized that Sylvie had told her something deeply personal and delicate. Probably even Pierre did not know about the hidden jar. It was something you could only tell another woman. From that day on, Régine felt
more like a friend to Sylvie. She also felt more grown up and less of a stranger.

Soon it would be Régine’s turn to have a secret revealed.

B
Y EARLY 1944
, the Allies were bombing Europe almost daily. They were doing well in Italy and the Russians were pushing the Germans farther west. But nothing had changed in Belgium. The Germans were still very much in control. Régine’s three months on the Wathieu farm were nearing an end but she heard nothing about being moved. Would the man from
Aide paysanne
be coming to get her? Where would they send her now?

Spring was on its way, even though the air was cool. The day began as usual. Régine was awakened by the crow of roosters and hopped off her high bed as the sunshine broke into her room. She looked out the window and saw Pierre head off on his bicycle. Downstairs, Sylvie sat alone at the table. Marquis lay at his usual spot on the floor, and wagged his tail when Régine appeared. “Pierre had to go to to Esneux today,” Sylvie said. “He’s gone to the
maison communale
to get the ration cards renewed.”