The Silent Hours (24 page)

TRISTAN

They arrive in the village at just after lunch.

Papa has been away in Paris ‘tying up loose ends’, which I think is some kind of business talk. Mother has been getting rather tired of just us for company – you can tell because she has snapped at Luc twice today, and she never snaps at Luc, really. Dimitri and I have been keeping out of harm’s way by playing hide-and-seek around the house.

We both know Maman is in the front room and we won’t hide or look there but we haven’t told Luc as it is quite funny when he gets snapped at. Eléonore is off at some girl’s birthday party. I imagine it will be deadly dull, but Dimitri does point out they will probably have goodies there and we are both secretly hoping Eléonore will bring us back some treats.
I bet she won’t
, I think, scowling. I would for her.

I hear the call from the attic. I was about to hide in the trunk – Luc never finds me up in the attic. He’s too much of a baby to come up here, ever since I told him about the ghost who haunted it – an old farmer who had shot himself a hundred years ago. Dimitri wasn’t scared when he heard my story: he doesn’t believe in ghosts and ghouls. ‘I am a scientist,’ he announced, puffing out his chest importantly and sniggering as Luc wailed at my words. He told him it was all nonsense but Luc just looked between both of us with worried eyes, unsure which older brother might be lying. Best not to test, best to simply stay away from the attic.

I lean out of the top window to hear what’s going on, pushing on the window and cringing at a row of shrivelled flies, their little corpses all lying still on the windowsill, their tiny legs sticking up. The town crier is calling the whole village out onto the green; he’s ringing his bell in the high street.

I hear Maman call us all from downstairs. Luc calls back to her and Dimitri must have appeared from his hiding place in another part of the house, as I can hear footsteps running down the stairs.

I climb down the old wooden ladder that hangs from the attic space and quickly brush the dust from my trousers away – Maman doesn’t like us playing in the attic. I race downstairs.

‘Not so fast, my darling,’ Maman says, handing me my coat. She is carrying Luc, his arms round her neck. Dimitri is standing by the door.

We leave the house in a huddle, Maman shooing me to hurry up. I have my arm stuck in my jacket though, and I nearly trip over the edge of the pavement trying to keep up and get my arm in.

It’s strange seeing this many people in the village at the same time. Even when we go to church there doesn’t seem to be this many people hurrying along. Through a group of people nearby comes André. He looks odd, all wide-eyed. His mother is nowhere to be seen. I stop, wiggle my hand through my sleeve and wait for him to catch up.

‘Pssst, Tristan!’ He beckons, running into a little side street off the pavement. I don’t want to lose Maman, but André is signalling to me. I can see Maman making her way to the edge of the village green – she has stopped to talk to that bore, Monsieur Renard. Mademoiselle Rochard is standing near them. She is holding her baby in her arms, whispering to him as he rests against her. His name is Sebastien; she told me once at school in the playground.

I make my way over to André.

‘Come with me,’ he urges.

‘I can’t,’ I reply.

‘I’m not going up there,’ he says, nodding his head at the village green.

‘What? Don’t be silly! Everyone’s going.’

‘I won’t. It’s the Nazis – I’m not going. Don’t go,’ he says, pleading with me.

‘I’ve got to.’

‘I’m not going,’ he repeats. ‘It feels like in Alsace the last time. I’m not.’

There’s an awkward pause. I don’t know about Alsace and I don’t know what to say. André is still looking at me. I peer down at my shoes mumbling, ‘I should go to Maman.’

He doesn’t say anything back.

‘Well …’

Still André doesn’t say anything. ‘I’ll … see you at school,’ I say, turning.

I leave him in the shadow of the side street and find my way through the people, back to my mother.

‘Thank God,’ she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, drawing me to her side.

I look back at the side street but André has already gone.

There are so many soldiers. They are standing in their uniforms, the sunlight glinting off the buttons on their coats. Their boots are gleaming. Papa once said that they are so clean they must eat off them. I think he must have been joking although when he said it he didn’t smile. Dimitri is staring at them too. We haven’t seen many soldiers in the village before now – just one or two outside the hotel, with drinks. They seem very tall close up.

Maman is looking at the crowds of people for Eléonore. I see the girls before I see Eléonore – two of them are still wearing party hats, and I am sure one of them is holding an apple tart in her hand. Eléonore’s eyes find Maman and she comes running over, hugs her.

‘What’s going on, Maman?’

‘It’s an identity check, my darling.’

I wonder what that is. It’s busy and confusing as we wait. Everyone is looking for someone. One of the officers is giving orders to his men in German and signalling to the various groups of people. One soldier is speaking into the town crier’s ear. ‘Will the men and women please separate,’ the crier translates. ‘Children are to go with their mothers.’

There is movement and I am glad Maman has a good hold of me. A woman nearby starts making a high pitched sort of noise. I squeeze my eyes shut, hope the sound goes away. The crier repeats the command: ‘Will the men and women please separate. Children are to go with their mothers.’

People are getting out their identity papers and kissing each other on the cheeks, like we’re all preparing to get on a train.

Maman is herding us over to a group of women and children. I scan the crowd for my friends. Michel is too far away – he is looking solemnly at his father, who has kneeled down to talk to him. They hug each other. I want my papa but he is in Paris, and we are being bustled about and Maman is talking in a low voice to Luc. Eléonore looks a little pale and I have a sudden urge to hold her hand.

The soldiers have surrounded our group and we are walking in lines to the church. The men are left on the green. I see the old postman, who Maman always invites in for a morning
café au lait
, half kneeling on the ground. A couple of the younger men in the village are surrounding him, looking concerned. A soldier nearby is shouting something in German at them. I can’t hear. The postman is clutching his chest.

Mother pulls me towards her. ‘Come on, Tristan.’ Some of the children are singing as we walk. ‘Come on.’

The heavy wooden doors of the church are open and we are pushed inside. There is noise everywhere now. The soldiers shout things to each other and a couple of the women are clutching at them. Wives are crying for the husbands they have left on the green, asking to be with them. Michel’s mother is sobbing, Michel pulling her away from the soldiers.

I think of André, and wish I had run down that side street with him.

Maman sits us all down in the corner; the stone floor is cold and uncomfortable. I want to be outside. Luc is whining and Maman tries to soothe him. I stand up, trying to see what people have started pointing at.

A black box, a strange thing with long wires coming out of it, has been placed in the middle of the church. People are pressing themselves into corners, staring at it. It starts smoking and there are screams and cries.

I cry out as well, take two steps back, bump into a woman I don’t know. She’s staring at it, too. People run around the pews, finding their children, calling out for grandparents, friends. The soldiers are leaving, and the big doors are being pulled shut. Women start flinging themselves at them.

We are being locked in.

Maman turns to us. ‘Tristan, Dimitri, Eléonore. Sit down.’

We look at her blankly. We are all looking at the box in the middle of the church.

‘Tristan,’ she beckons, pulling me onto her lap and drawing Luc closer. ‘Stay with me here.’ She is calling to Dimitri and Eléonore too. ‘Come on, my darlings.’ We are like tiny ducklings, all keen to get close to her.

Her voice is a familiar sound – that voice has told me tales of knights in shining armour, soldiers going into battles, great wizards who have done amazing spells.

‘Listen to me, darlings,’ she says.

In the distance I hear cracks, like a string of loud pops. Maman makes a strangled sound. We clutch her. Moans go up from the women. Another round of popping, and the shouts in the church grow louder. The black box is still smoking and everything is hot and blurry. Yet another round of pops and people fall silent. Where are the men? What is happening outside?

The black box starts to pump out thick, black smoke and I cough, watching people race to escape, my eyes stinging. Fists bang on the doors. People claw the stone walls. Mother wraps her arms around us. ‘Eléonore, keep your brother safe.’ Eléonore looks like she is in a dream, but her arm reaches round my shoulders. I lean into her.

We all move closer to each other, Maman is still speaking, still asking us to listen to her. I can hear Eléonore’s heart beating, so quickly, drumming, and her skin is all hot. We look desperately at Maman.

A girl drags herself up to a narrow window behind us. Other people are trying to climb out of other windows by the altar. We follow the girl’s every movement. Maman stops talking. The girl, about Eléonore’s age, is nearly out – she’s dangling through the window, then she pushes her way through the gap. She is going to make it, she is leaving this place.

A burst of popping and her body slumps forward.

‘Eléonore, look at me,’ Maman says firmly. ‘Tristan, Luc, Dimitri … boys, please listen.’

Luc has stopped whining and is looking at her, his eyes huge.

‘Tristan,’ Maman repeats.

My eyes are still on the girl in the window. Her foot is twitching.

‘Tristan, please,’ Maman says.

I curl into her arms and she speaks to us all in a low voice.

‘Close your eyes, all of you,’ she says. ‘Come on, all of you – eyes closed, no cheating.’ She laughs a little, as if we are back in our bedroom, as if she is about to tell us another fairy tale.

I close my eyes. It is a relief from the stinging of the smoke.

Maman’s voice continues. ‘Imagine you are sitting on the bridge over the stream,’ she says. ‘Can you see yourselves there, my darlings? Luc, can you see yourself with your big brothers? Dimitri, can you see yourself? You are reading, mouthing the words the way you always do, and Eléonore, you are bathing in the sun. Luc, Tristan, you are both sitting on the bridge, dangling your feet in the river,’ she explains. ‘Can you see yourself there?’ she repeats.

I open my eyes, looking up at Maman.

‘Darling, close your eyes,’ she pleads gently.

I obey.

‘I’m there on the bank, sitting on our old blanket, eating the first strawberries.’

A scream pierces through our daydream and she hugs us tighter.

‘Can you see me?’ she whispers. ‘Try, darlings. Can you see me there?’

‘Yes, Maman,’ we croak, almost at the same time. Eléonore whispers it; I think only I hear.

‘Luc, Tristan, you are both there on the stream with your rods and your little pot of bait and you are watching the silvery fishes darting just below the surface.’

The noises in the distance seem to dim, seem to join with the sound of crickets in the long grass, the gentle plop as we toss the end of the line into the water.

‘Your father is there, looking so handsome in his suit, and you all run over to him and he sweeps each of you up into his arms, and twirls you around.’

A woman is crying nearby and I open one eye, but Maman is focused on our faces, looking at us as she says, ‘He holds you close, and he hugs you tightly and tells you he loves you and that you are good children.’

There is an explosion from the corner of the church, and Maman rocks Luc gently, an arm around Dimitri. It is getting hotter.

‘Darlings, can you see it? Can you see us all by the river?’

I squeeze my eyes shut and I focus on the scene, picture Papa’s laughing face, my mother smiling at us. We are all there. It’s summer.

‘I can, Maman,’ I say. ‘We’re by the river.’ I can smell the freshly cut grass, I can taste the strawberries, I can see Papa and Maman on the blanket. They are laughing.

A massive noise, a burst of hot.

I am sitting with Luc on the bridge over the stream, holding our rods and looking at the silvery fishes that are darting just below the surface. I turn and see Maman, Papa, Dimitri and Eléonore. They’re on the blanket and they are laughing.

ADELINE

1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France

I remember. I remember it all.

The town crier, who doubles as the smith of the village, a man who always looks as if he has missed his last meal, is beating his drum in the high street. I can hear the muffled sound through the walls. I move across the landing to my bedroom, pushing open the little window by my dresser to peer out. I hear the call the moment the window is open. He is calling everyone to leave their homes and bring their papers to the fairground.

At the same moment, Isabelle is calling the same message up the stairs from the shop.

I look down to see the tops of people’s heads moving towards the green. There are soldiers in the distance and I feel a sudden coldness clutch my chest. Paul is out somewhere with Vincent – a walk after lunch – and I move quickly down to Vincent’s study to collect our papers and make my way down to the shop.

Isabelle and I shut the shop quickly. Sebastien is sleeping in the back room and Isabelle decides to carry him rather than take the pram. The whole village seems to be moving in a swell towards the green, and I am looking around for my husband and my son.

There are a huge number of soldiers on the road and, as we reach the green, we can see dozens of them in different groups: some on the edge of the green; some in the high street, ushering people out of their homes. Everywhere they are telling people to get their papers for an identity check.

A few vehicles arrive with people they must have picked up from outside the village. I recognize Madame Thomas as she steps down, a bright ray of colour in a lilac sundress, sunglasses perched on the top of her head. She has a book in her hand, as if she forgot to leave it when they told her to come.

The soldiers are wearing camouflage uniform, many of them are young, Paul’s age, and look bored, hot in the sunshine in their uniforms. A few moments later the doctor, about the only man in the village to still drive a car, is directed to park on the edge by the main thoroughfare. He gets out and his identity is checked; I can see him talking to the soldier who is scanning the papers he is handed.

I can see Vincent looking for us and put up my arm in a half-wave, calling to him at the same time as other voices do the same to their loved ones. Vincent’s eyes light on us and he starts to make his way over, Paul in his wake, talking to the elderly Monsieur Renard, or being talked at – you can never be absolutely sure. I feel instantly lifted that they will be with us, waiting, and kiss both of them on the cheeks when they appear with the same questions on their lips as everybody else.

Paul is nervous, quiet, as he reaches out to stroke the sleeping Sebastien. I imagine the proximity of the soldiers is unsettling for him and I see a glimpse of the man he must have been these last few years – his eyes have momentarily lost their light as he wraps one arm protectively around his little sister. I smile at him and he returns it.

Vincent is a little more relaxed, looking over at a few of his friends who are standing in a group, puffing on cigarettes as if they are still sitting around a table in the bar, about to challenge one another to a game of backgammon. Many look untroubled by the noise and chaos around them and, looking at them, as I imagine Vincent feels too, quells the unease a little.

The baker approaches a group of soldiers as we wait, many eyes swivelling towards him as he asks if he can go and check on the loaves he has put in the oven – he doesn’t want them to spoil. A nearby soldier answers, ‘We will see to it,’ and I frown as he moves back to his family, a slight shake of his head at his wife who rolls her eyes.

‘What did he say?’ Isabelle whispers.

My answer is cut off by the arrival of a parade of children, who have all come from a party of some sort. They’re in high spirits. Their voices – curious whispers and squeals on seeing their parents – add to the noise. Families reuniting, complaints from those waiting, questions on everyone’s lips. Some worried looks, others soothing. We are all gathered, waiting for the check.

A gaggle of girls – four Lauder sisters – dressed in neat, matching clothes, are whispering to each other nearby. The eldest daughter holds the hand of Renée, who turned six only the week before. She announced it proudly in the shop, showing off a new yellow ribbon that her mother gave her as a present. The two middle daughters are talking quietly to each other as they stare with a mixture of curiosity and alarm at a group of nearby soldiers. Their mother prowls their little circle, looking warily at the foreign men.

We have been on the green for nearly an hour. Paul is holding Sebastien, circling his back with his hand. Isabelle is talking to Monsieur Renard, who came into the village this afternoon to pick up his tobacco ration. I assure him I will be back in the shop serving him when the identity check has been completed.

The soldiers eventually begin to separate us into men and women and children. We have never had an identity check before and I allow myself to be herded. Paul and Vincent are blocked from view as others come between us and soldiers move through the crowds directing everyone. I briefly see a look on Paul’s face that makes my breathing quicken and then remind myself to stay calm. I don’t want to upset Isabelle.

The whole process takes a while and I watch as Paul and Vincent move to one side of the green and Isabelle and I move nearer the high street. I am glad they are together. I can see them talking as they are asked to sit and wait on the edge of the green.

When we are instructed to join another group, my heart freezes as I hear, in accented French, a soldier say, ‘We believe there is ammunition and weapons in the village …’

Some people swap looks and my stomach plummets again.

‘… we will be searching the village …’

More whispers.

‘… it would be better if the woman and children wait in the church while this goes on.’

We are swept along in a tide towards the church at the bottom end of the high street. Madame Garande is still carrying her bags and the two Dubois girls are arm in arm – Claudette seems so thin compared to her sister, who is about to give birth any day now. I am craning to look back over my shoulder at Paul and Vincent but the crowds are in the way and I can’t see them. Isabelle calls to me, Sebastien woozily awake in her arms, and I hurry along to be by her side once more; my hand reaches out to rest on her arm. My own growing fear shows on her face and I swallow.

Some of the soldiers up ahead have encouraged the children to sing and as we make our slow progress to the church, leaving the men behind while the soldiers search the village, their sweet voices unite, lifting everyone as we step into the church, out of the day’s heat and the light.

We make our way through the clusters of groups in the church as more and more people file in. It is crowded and whispers fly around the echoing space. The singing has stopped, some people are crying and one woman is pleading with a nearby soldier. She wants to be with her husband – he has been ill, she explains, she is worried about him. She is pushed roughly and I watch the expression of the soldier who has done it harden as he looks at her.

The look sweeps through my body as if he has looked at me in the same way: uncaring, cold. I start to take big breaths.

More and more people flood in and Isabelle and I are pushed further into the body of the church; we are near the choir stalls when I hear people call out.

Soldiers stand at the entrance, stopping us leaving, even though some women are begging to be let go.

There is smoke. It’s in the air, making me cough. I move with Isabelle towards the altar, Sebastien in her arms, a sea of other woman and children around us both. There are hundreds of us. I try to peer around at what is going on. People are moving against the walls, behind the altar, anywhere, filling every hole. The window above me throws light down on the crowd, I can see the blue sky through the panes of glass. We are bustled and shunted beyond the pews, crammed to the sides as still more come. There are shouts now, the soldiers angrily swapping exchanges with the women who are beseeching them in a language they can’t understand.

Some soldiers drag a box further into the nave – it’s this that is letting off the smoke. They move back down the aisle and then, with no warning, there is a loud bang. Everyone screams in unison. Sebastien is crying, growing red in the face.

Smoke, heat billows, panic. The noise. Where are the men? Where is my boy? Shots from outside. Even in this madness, in the church people fall silent.

More shots. Closer now. Fired into the church. Women start falling, others curve over their children. I move Isabelle towards the back of the altar, against the wall. The smoke keeps coming, worse now, we are crouching on the floor, the sides, anywhere to breathe the air. I keep shouting to Isabelle to get out, we have to get out. The doors are shut, they have locked us in. Isabelle’s eyes are huge; through the smoke, I can see her clutching Sebastien closer to her chest.

‘Hush, hush, hush.’

We have to get out.
It’s my only thought.
We have to get out.

I start to look around us, at others clawing at the thick stone walls, clambering over the wooden pews, calling out familiar names. Isabelle stands fixed to the spot as I look about, see a small ladder, picture the ankles of the chaplain as he stretches to light a candle. I blink, start to drag the ladder towards a window at the back of the altar. It’s within reach. Children are crying so hard their faces have turned bright red, as if their lungs are bursting with their cries.

This is hell. This is what hell will be like.

I clamber onto the stool, call for Isabelle, beckon her to me. ‘I can reach the window,’ I insist, hitching my skirt up, forgetting any decency. Isabelle stares at me, already lost to another place, her arms wrapped around her baby. Sebastien’s cries now blend with the rest.

I can’t think.

The glass of the window is smashed and I can feel the hopeful hint of a breeze on my face as I heave my body up to the gap. There are blasts from the centre of the church, and great belches of black smoke make my eyes sting as I turn to help Isabelle up. I see people everywhere, a room of women and children half-obscured in the smoke. Some have picked up a long pew, trying to ram the doors open. Flames have begun to lick the opposite wall. A young girl tries to get out of another window.

She is shot.

The shots in the village continue to ring out beyond. Fists pound on every surface of the church. Endless faces below me, distorted with wailing. Children clinging to their mother’s legs, women I have known and schooled with, women I have worked with, dined with, served in the shop.

And my own daughter standing below me.

‘Isabelle!’ I call, one leg now half out of the window. ‘Climb up,’ I urge.

I have manoeuvred my whole body onto the edge of the window frame and can make out the ground below. I will surely break a leg jumping.

‘Isabelle, come on,’ I repeat, preparing myself for the leap.

Isabelle looks up at me as another blast explodes, puts a foot on the first rung. My face burns.

‘Isabelle,’ I cry. Everything has slowed down, sounds far away.

Isabelle is holding Sebastien up to me.

‘Take him,’ she says.

I look at her, at the baby just out of my grasp. The smoke, their faces, my tears, the screaming in my head.

‘Maman, quickly, take him!’ she screams, lifting the little body an inch higher. He is so close me. I am half dangling out of the window. The gentle air of our French summer is wafting around my legs, my upper body is still in hell.

‘Take him.’ She is trying to scramble up the rungs; others have noticed this exit. The ladder sways.

I stare at her face, and then I turn to the ground below. I look back one last time. It is so hot in there, she has to follow, we have to get out now. Our eyes meet. A look.

I jump. I jump and while I am falling, all I see is that look.

As I land awkwardly outside the church something bites into my leg. That look.

The smooth walls of the church loom before me as I stare up at the window I have escaped from. I hold one hand out to the cool stone. The window is high above me. I can’t get back up. There is another explosion from inside, bigger this time, and smoke pours out of the gap. The screams and the wails are dying down on the other side of the stones.

Her face. That look. The next blast throws me away from the wall, the stones crumble in front of me. I stagger, move quickly, there is mud and bushes and I am fumbling, covering myself with dirt, burying myself in the darkness.

That look.