Hymn From A Village (3 page)

The tip of his rifle lifts the cloth that covers the cakes. He bends down and takes a sniff and makes the international noise of contentment.

His gloved hand reaches in and when it emerges, there’s a custard cone inside it. He puts it down in the sentry- box. Thanks them and opens the gate.

At the fork they stop for a moment and watch the train pull in.

It’s long and black. The windows are misted and covered in dirt from the engine’s smoke. The scene’s almost peaceful, like the night train arriving in Warsaw.

“The end of the line,” Anna says. The girls hug. Anna takes the left path, Monica the right.

A huge hiss escapes from the engine as it stops. Like an animal exhaling before falling asleep. The sound is the only thing that will be escaping.

For a moment all is quiet.

The silence is smashed by the opening of the carriage doors.

Dogs bark and people scream and shout. Both of the Dubinska girls put their fingers in their ears.

Anna sits at a long wooden table, watching.

She’s always surprised at how resigned they look. How thin and wasted. Like there’s nothing left inside.

The room is as crowded as the bakery on the days the shelves are full.

On the table-top the arrivals place watches and jewellery, money and Stars of David.

It’s hard watching them part with their precious things, but better this than her sister’s job. Monica will be sorting through bodies. Taking gold from teeth. Removing wooden arms and legs and throwing them onto the pile.

In front of Anna a man places a watch and a ring. His fingers are long and thin and, in spite of the dirt, she can see how soft they must be. The nails are perfectly manicured. A doctor, she thinks. Or a banker.

The man’s other arm is around a girl.

The girl has something that she hasn’t seen here in months – fire in her eyes. Spirit. Life. Her skin is like porcelain. Her features sharp. Hair dark and long.

Anna notices the shape of the girl’s hand. A loose fist. Can’t blame her for trying.

Anna bangs the table.

A soldier looks over. Follows Anna’s gaze and pushes the young girl over.

The fist remains closed.

Anna reaches over and grabs the girl’s arm. Holds it tight.

The girl tries to pull away. Leans back and pushes from the floor. She’s a feisty one alright.

With her free hand, Anna pulls at the girl’s fingers. Takes them one by one until the contents spill onto the table.

It’s a hand-cranked music box. Anna hasn’t seen one for years. Perfect for melting and re-shaping.

Her father reaches down to pull his daughter away. She fights him all the way, crying and screaming.

The soldier moves in. Slaps the girl hard.

Amidst the commotion, Anna slips the music box into her pocket instead of into the tray of metal behind.

The girl keeps screaming. Until the soldier clamps his hand around her mouth and carries her off.

Monica finishes her shift. Brushes herself down to get rid of the clippings. In a matter of hours she has shaved the heads of 100 women. Collected the hair in a small hill of blond and silver and mouse-brown.

She wraps herself back up in her shawl, picks up her empty basket and takes the first steps towards home.

Through the wire fence she can see the children staring. They huddle together in groups to keep warm.

One girl stands out from the others.

She’s reaching through, pleading. Dried blood is crusted at her nostrils. Her eyes seem to plead.

Without thinking, Monica steps off the path and goes over. Takes the hand of the girl and strokes it. Feels the softness of the skin and the strength of the bones.

The girl says something over and over. Monica can’t be sure, but she thinks she can translate the words as “Father. My father.”

Monica looks over her shoulder.

Smoke bellows from the chimney stack. It fills the air with a stench to which she has become accustomed. The girl’s pleas remind her that it is the stink of burning flesh.

There’s nothing to be done.

Monica reaches into her basket. Pulls out a handful sweets from the bag she traded with a German officer in between shavings. The officer took off his wedding ring before they completed the transaction, as if it made a difference.

She puts it into the hands of the girl. “Happy Christmas.”

The girl holds on to the sweets and Monica hurries on her way.

At the fork, where the paths meet, the sisters come together. Without speaking, they head for home to make the best of the celebrations for their own.

The two families sit by the fire.

Rose opens the bag and sees four sweets in the bottom. She knows she’s luckier than many. Hugs her mum and settles back to watch her cousin.

George opens his package in front of the burning fire.

The sight of the music box takes his mind from missing his father.

He turns the handle. Nothing happens.

He thinks again of his father and tears spill onto his cheeks.

Anna reaches over. Takes the box from his hand. Puts it down on the table.

“Now try,” she tells him.

As he turns the handle the air fills with music. ‘The Blue Danube Waltz’. High pitched notes come faster as he speeds up his winding. Louder and louder. Almost cover the whistling of the train arriving at the camp along the road.

D
ee. Four days in Paris and still a virgin. Tried the trick with Victor Noir at Pere Lachaise. Judging by the shine of his crotch am definitely not the first. Hope it worked for the others. Left a kiss for Oscar and a cigarette for Jim. Fingers crossed. Love you lots, Lisa xxx

I’d been looking forward to the holiday since January when Dee and I made the pact as our New Year’s resolution. No matter how delicious the blokes we dated, ignoring whatever itches we got, we’d save ourselves for a couple of dishy Frenchmen, let them take us all the way and all the way back again.

Almost blew it with Robert after the prom. Even when I told him Aunt Flo was visiting he didn’t stop. Only took his hand from under my dress when I mentioned getting blood on the car’s upholstery. After that he didn’t even want to kiss.

Dee stopped dating altogether.

Sitting on the café terrace writing postcards, I missed her terribly. If she hadn’t broken her femur while schooling one of her horses, she’d have been sitting right next to me soaking up the atmosphere and helping me keep an eye on every man who stepped into range.

She’d have loved watching the passers-by as they were caught unawares by the over-watered window-box on the other side of the Rue Beaurepaire.

I really owed it to her to get my knickers off as soon as I could, and at Chez Prune I could practically smell the testosterone mingling with the heat and the aromas of coffee and tobacco.

The nicest looking customer wouldn’t have been out of place on display at the Louvre. Only problem was that he was busy. Kept stroking his girlfriend as if leaving her alone for more than a few seconds would cause her to spontaneously combust.

Behind me a group of students were setting the world to rights. Words poured from their mouths like they were in competition, their voices lyrical as the water of a fountain. As for the things they said, it was more like someone pissing into the gutter.

“Course I wouldn’t kick her out of bed,” one of them said of me. “But look at those calves. If my dad shaved his legs they’d look better than that.”

“And those shoulders. Perhaps she works in the fields.”

“Or milking cows.”

“Still, she’s not bad for an American.

“We’ll see. If nothing better comes along...”

Dee would have sorted them out right away. Me, I was going to take my time. Wrote another card instead.

Mom. You were right about French men. All the charm’s on the surface, like frogs turned into princes. There are some nice English girls at the hotel. Tomorrow they’re taking me to the Orangerie and for lunch. Jet lag gone. Eating the vitamins you packed. Next week Rome. How exciting. L xxx 

If it hadn’t been for the waiter, I might have been upset about what the boys were saying.

He hadn’t stopped watching me since I’d arrived, even when he was serving other customers. When I couldn’t see him I could sense him checking me out, felt my body blush under the cotton dress I’d chosen for the evening, the pink one you can see through when the sun’s bright.

He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but had one of those interesting Parisian faces - deep set eyes and a bent nose that suggested he’d seen a bit of life and knew how to kick back when it gave him a knock. I liked him.

When he ran out of things to do, he came to lean on the post-box to smoke and watch me write.

After his third cigarette, he disappeared inside for a moment then arrived back at my table with another glass of kir.

“On the house,” he said in English, his accent making me tingle. “And now,” he winked at someone inside, “it’s time to bring some romance to the evening.”

Above us strings of bulbs lit up in an array of colours, bright against the dusk, just like Eiffel’s tower.

I smiled at him in appreciation, dealt Dee’s card to the top of the pile and turned it sideways. Picking up my pen I wrote:

post script -  am wearing lucky pants.

When the lights came on, I’d pretty much decided. The waiter could take me after his shift. Show me some of the ropes he obviously knew so well.

I smiled at him again to let him know and stood up.  As I did so, I bent over right in front of those sewer-mouthed boys. Let my dress fall open while they watched. Shut them up for the first time in an hour. I was pleased that I’d decided against my lucky bra after my shower. When I felt they’d seen enough, I headed into the cafe to the bathroom so I could check myself over.

Chez Prune has one of those quaint bathrooms where men and women share the sinks and mirrors, the kind of thing that reminds you how chilled the French are about such matters.

I put on lipstick, brushed my hair, checked my teeth for stray bits of salad and blew myself a kiss.

When I got back to my table and the fresh air, there was someone new to check out kneeling on the opposite side of the road.

It was as if he’d been plucked from my own imagination, like he’d been painted into the scene while I’d been away.

The beard he wore was practically a work of art, neatly sculpted to pencil thin so that it lined the edge of his angular chin. A pendant dangled from a chain that fell from his unbuttoned shirt and his ponytail was kept neatly in place by a perfectly tied black, velvet bow.

It didn’t even matter to me that he was wearing rectangular shades in the half-light of dusk.

I’m not sure even to this day whether it was because I’m fickle or because I was getting cold feet, but I didn’t sit back down at my table.

Instead I picked up my glass and carried it over to where the young man worked, sketching busily on the floor.

“Funny time to start.” I was becoming a lot more confident about speaking French. Hardly had to think about what I wanted to say anymore.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“There aren’t many people passing this time of night,” I tried to explain as I took a look over his shoulder.

The outline he’d drawn was of a man lying sprawled face down between the canal and the road.

The hands of the artist worked quickly, selecting pastels from his box and rubbing and shading with paper-towels.

It wasn’t long before he’d finished the trousers, with creases and folds immaculately placed at the bend of the knee.

“So do you come here often?” I was hoping he’d see the funny side of the question.

Didn’t bat an eye-lid.

“Forgive me,” he finally said. “Time is short.”

He stood to check his work and knelt again. “I must finish by 10:47. Then I can talk.”

Typical of me to start a conversation with a nut job I thought, only I wanted to see how the picture turned out almost as much as I wanted him to get inside me. I wandered over to the canal bridge and sat on the steps. Came close to telling him I needed to get laid by 10:56 to see if he could fit me in.

Didn’t.

He set to work on the feet, shading the pink of a sock that showed itself between the trouser turn-up and a brown leather shoe to the left, and on the right making it all sock, even drawing a hole over the big toe.

“Tell me about yourself,” I urged. “You’ll finish on time.”

He looked at his watch and began to talk.

“I’m from a long line of crocheteurs,” he said as he sketched a shoe in the middle of the road, stepping back every so often to let a scooter or a car go by. “Pickers, I mean. Rag-and-bone men.”

“Rag-and-bone men?”

“Two centuries ago, my ancestors raked through the Paris garbage every night. What they found they sold at the city walls.”

He drew a few coins here and there cool as you’d like, then got back to the main body of work.

“But you’re not looking through garbage.” I looked up at the waiter across the road. Gave him a little wave. He opened his hand, gestured at the lights and went over to take an order from the boys.

“True, but things change. We evolve. The jobs your children will do are yet to be invented.”

“I don’t have children.”

“You will.” If it was a chat-up line, it wasn’t the best I’d heard. “The other name for what they did was ‘pecheurs de la lune’.”

“Fishermen of the moon,” I said in English just to hear the beauty in the phrase. “So that’s what you are.”

“Correct.” He wiped his hands quickly and started work on the drawing’s shirt.

The picture reminded me of someone. I tried to shake the thought from my head on account of the way the limbs were twisting.

“The time please?” he asked, too busy to check for himself.

I looked at my watch. “Three more minutes.”

He stopped talking and I stopped asking him things.

The shirt he drew was white. Clean and crisp like it was fresh on. From the cuffs, hands jutted as if they were clawing the ground.

The artist lit a cigarette, filled the air with exotic curls of Gauloises.