“He’s dying, Claudette, and asking for you.”
I didn’t answer.
“Claudette, tu comprends? He’s dying; he’s in terrible pain. He wants to make his peace with you before he dies. Can you not come, if only for my sake?”
“That isn’t fair, Simone, and you know it.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s my brother. I love him and I can’t bear to see him in so much distress.”
I hadn’t spoken to mon père for half a century. I still feared him, even at ninety-three and, apparently, dying. After all these years, my feelings should have changed, but he’d inflicted too many scars.
“Please, for my sake?”
I couldn’t refuse her. Without Simone my childhood would have been unbearable.
“I’ll come if I can get a flight and if I can stay with you. I’m not going to stay at La Fermette.”
Dear God, I didn’t want to go. I wanted him to die knowing I would never forgive him.
***
The warm sunshine of Bordeaux made a pleasant change from the rain that was flooding England and helped to ease the arthritic twinges that troubled me more with each passing year. I was greeted at the airport by my cousin Jacques, who lifted my spirits still further by showing his delight at my arrival in true French fashion. He kissed both cheeks twice and hugged me so hard my ribs were in danger of cracking
“Ma petite Claudette, it is too long. Why do you not give up your Englishness and remain here where you belong, in la belle France?”
His dark hair and eyes were typical of the Rousseau family. Simone, my father’s younger sister, had passed on her good looks to her son. I favoured my English mother, having inherited her delicate features and fair hair. There was little of my French blood showing. It was an added reason for my father to hate me. I’d reminded him too much of maman.
Jacques’ car headed towards the Dordogne.
“Is he really in pain, or is this yet another attempt by your mother to get us to make peace?”
Clearly surprised by my question, Jacques glanced at me and then looked back at the road.
“She would not do that to you, Claudette. He truly is in agony. The drugs are worthless now.”
I tried not to feel glad, but I couldn’t help myself. Good, I thought, let the bastard suffer. Let him be the one to feel pain for a change.
An hour and a half later we reached the fields that surrounded La Fermette. They were full with well-tended vines hanging heavy with dark red fruit and I thought of the old man and the dark memories that were about to be stirred.
“Have you ever told him you pay me a percentage of the harvest income?”
“No,” Jacques laughed. “Why should I enrage him more than is necessary? We both know the vines should be yours. So it is right that I share the profits. N’est-ce pas?”
Ten years his senior, I’d always loved his joie de vivre, his passion for living that was shared by all that side of my family, except my father. Not for the first time, I wondered what had happened to make him different.
“Should I take you straight away … into the lion’s den?” Jacques smiled, showing pleasure in his use of English.
I nodded. It would be best to get the ordeal over. I didn’t care whether my father lived or died, but I’d promised Simone I’d listen to what he had to say.
After the well-tended vineyards it was a shock to see how much La Fermette had changed. I realised how dilapidated the buildings were, the farm machinery had rusted beyond repair, so very different to when I’d left, swearing never to return. And yet here I was, once again crossing the courtyard of my father’s house. The shutters were closed against the sun. A stray chicken clucked, and unwelcome memories flooded in, transporting me back to the night of my mother’s disappearance.
***
It was a stiflingly hot night and I’d woken in my attic bedroom, whimpering with terror from a nightmare of the German soldiers who strutted the streets of our village. I called for my mother, but no one came and, fretful as only a child can be, I cried as if the world had ended. Normally maman or my father comforted me if I couldn’t sleep, but on that night the house was still. I must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing I knew it was morning. The house was silent, apart from the faint sound of sobbing.
It was barely light as I crept down the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door, wondering who was making such a strange noise, the sound of tears being rare in our happy household. I hardly recognised the man standing before me as my beloved papa.
“Where is maman?” I whispered.
“Gone.”
“Where? When is she coming back?”
I didn’t understand why he wept and it frightened me. He lifted the bottle to his mouth with shaking hands, but his sobbing continued and the strong smell of the cognac maman used in cooking filled the kitchen. I had never seen him drink before. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. At some point during the night the man who used to carry me on his shoulders, my huge father with laughing brown eyes, had turned into a stranger.
“I told you, she’s gone. She’s never coming back. Go feed the chickens. Your mother isn’t here to do it anymore.”
The pail holding the grain was almost too big for my five-year-old hands to carry. I struggled over to the chicken run and scattered the feed. When I returned, he was in the farmhouse throwing maman’s things out of the bedroom window. A framed photograph landed at my feet. The glass shattered and a fragment flew into my leg. As the blood ran from the cut I howled, but papa didn’t come running to my side as he normally did. He ignored my cries and continued in his task.
Eventually he came down to the yard and began to collect the debris into a heap. Clothes, photographs and broken furniture made a pile twice my height. Papa snatched up the petrol can and stumbled around the heap, pouring petrol like water. Nothing made sense anymore. Only the day before he’d complained about the shortage of fuel, how he might not have enough to run the tractor for the vendange. He threw the petrol can against the barn wall; the sunlight caught the spray and turned it into a rainbow. Papa staggered inside, kicking a chicken out of his path, and returned with matches. He saw me hiding behind the tractor and pulled me to his side. He hugged so hard it hurt. Then he looked down as if he’d never seen me before.
“You look like her,” he hissed and pushed me away.
That was the last time he held me in his arms.
He lit the pyre and inspected the rising flames, throwing on pieces of wood. Then he began singing the Marseillaise.
“Fucking whoring English,” he yelled at the end of each chorus.
By the time the fire died he’d destroyed all my mother’s belongings, every trace that she had ever lived. From that day on, my father refused to speak of her, or tell me what had happened on the night she vanished.
Soon after that terrible day, the Germans left our region and, for us at least, the war ended. But the recriminations were just beginning. I remember Simone and Papa talking about the women who’d been friendly with the Germans. Papa had donated sacks of chicken feathers to use in the punishments. Simone had been angry with him, saying old hurts are better forgiven so that France could heal, but Papa said a putain was a putain and should be treated as such. I had no idea what the word meant at the time, but I soon learned. I heard it often in the years which followed.
***
Jacques touched my arm, I left my memories and returned to my concern about the ordeal ahead of me.
“He has asked to see you alone, Claudette. He says he has something very personal to say; do you want me to come in with you anyway?”
I shook my head. This was something I had to face on my own. Jacques promised to remain within calling distance; ready to come to my rescue should it be necessary.
“But, I think you need not worry, ma petite. He is very ill. Maman says he will die soon. He is in such agony, he would welcome death.”
I stepped into the darkness of the house and stopped in my tracks when the smell hit me, stale tobacco and urine, mixed with something indefinable, surgical spirits perhaps. Was this the smell of death? I forced myself to walk up the stairs to his bedroom and the stench increased, making it almost impossible to breathe.
I opened his bedroom door and there he was, the monster of my childhood. His bones looked overlarge; like a skeleton, loosely shrink-wrapped in skin. The few strands of hair that remained were draped across his scalp, no longer the vibrant brown of his younger self, but faded to dirty white, yellowed with age and tobacco. He looked up and smiled as I crossed the threshold . There was no warmth in his eyes; the smile a mockery. Surely he was powerless to hurt me now, except with words? But then he’d always been good at that.
“Your mother was no heroine, she was a putain,” he said, and laughed as he had so many years before.
***
“But Madame Bouvier, why can’t I stay? Papa need never know.”
My teacher looked distressed as she repeated yet again the reason I was to be sent home before the unveiling took place.
“Because your father has forbidden it, ma petite. We cannot go against his wishes in this. Go home, ma chérie; you will see the monument tomorrow.”
Everyone was there; even the farmers from the outlying hamlets had made the trip into town. Families piled onto tractors, or walked in their Sunday-best clothes, to do honour to those who had given their lives for the Résistance. Only les collaborateurs stayed away, memories still being strong, even though seven years had passed. The village bar was full, and even the tables outside were not enough to provide seats for everyone. Many stood in groups in the sunshine and those who had lost a loved one held court, receiving many glasses of pastis to encourage the retelling of old stories. I walked past and the sound of camaraderie made me feel more alone than ever before.
Why couldn’t I stay? What was so different about me? Was it my Englishness that prevented me from standing with the rest of the school? These questions drummed through my brain as I trudged towards La Fermette. But then other questions came, even though I tried to block them out. Why was my father not attending the unveiling with the rest of the town? Was he one of the hated collaborateurs? I had to know the truth and my father would never tell me. I turned and sneaked back into town, scrambling up the giant oak which spread its arms over the square in front of the Mairie.
From my vantage point I could see my school friends shepherded into lines. Simone was there with my young cousin. I was tempted to throw an acorn at him, but feared it might hit someone else and I would be discovered. The bar emptied as the clientele took up their places before the monument, which was dignified by a purple velvet shroud.
The warmth of the day and the length of the speeches made my eyes heavy, and I drifted towards sleep. Maire Gireau began reading out the names of the heroes of the Résistance. On and on he droned, until I heard him say,“Monica Rousseau.” Stumbling over the strangeness of the English name, he pronounced it Moe-nee-ka. I started, wide awake, and nearly fell from my perch; surely he must mean my mother. Who else was there with her name? Stunned, I clung to my branch, wondering if my father knew.
When the shroud was pulled from the monument everyone cheered and I used that as my cover. I climbed down and ran back to our farm, convinced that if my father knew of her bravery, he would once again allow her name to be spoken. I burst into the kitchen and found my father slumped over the table, the familiar smell of alcohol hanging over him.
“Papa, did you know maman was a heroine?” I said, shaking him awake.
He opened one eye and looked up at me, then lifted his head and laughed.
“That’s the greatest joke I’ve ever heard. Your mother was no heroine, she was a putain like the rest of them,” he said.
“No, you’re wrong; her name is on the monument in town …”
His hand lashed out. It was the first time he’d hit me. I didn’t know then that it would become a habit. I staggered backwards and fell against the dresser. Plates tumbled to the floor and smashed into tiny fragments.
“Go,” he yelled. “Get out of my sight!”
I scrambled to my feet, cutting my hands on the shards of broken china, and ran to the safety of my aunt’s home on the other side of the village.
She came back from the ceremony to find me hysterical.
“Ma petite, what is it? But you are bleeding. How have you cut your hands so badly?”
Between sobs I told her what had passed between her brother and me. I called him her brother – he no longer seemed a father to me. She brushed a tear from my face.
“Your mother was no whore, little one. She was a very brave woman who gave her life for France. On the night she died she had taken a British airman to a safe house, but the Résistance had been betrayed and the Gestapo raided the house. Later they rounded up the others, too, none of them were ever seen again.”
“But then why does he call her a whore?”
“Because he was convinced she and the airman were lovers. The Englishman was injured when his plane crashed and he hid on your farm until he was well enough to leave.”
Simone’s words reminded me of maman, carrying a basket into the old barn and I asked Simone if that’s where he’d been hidden.
“Yes, in the granary. He and Monica spoke together in English, which was natural, but your father saw more in their laughter than was really there. They argued bitterly for days before she was captured. He won’t mention her name because he believes she betrayed him the night before she died. But you, ma petite, you must only feel pride. Your mother was a heroine.”
***
For another five years Papa had provided a roof over my head and food for my plate. As the years passed he became increasingly violent. If it hadn’t been for Simone, I’m sure the beatings would have been worse. But then I fell in love with Pierre, my first boyfriend. Papa caught us kissing in the old barn and he beat Pierre until he could barely walk.
From that day on my father no longer used my name, he called me la putain anglaise, the English whore, just like my mother. When I could stand it no longer I wrote to my English grandparents, begging them to come for me. I’d kept my letter secret from Papa and he was furious when they arrived to take me away.
“Leave now and you will be dead to me.”
I laughed. “I’d rather be dead than live under your roof.”
I was nearly seventeen, he couldn’t stop me from going, and I don’t think he really wanted to. My grandparents stood to one side, trying to follow the argument, but their French wasn’t good enough to catch the angry words.
“You know nothing of them.” My father gestured towards the strangers who stood wide-eyed as we screamed at each other. “You can’t even speak their language.”
That wasn’t true, as I’d learnt English at school, and also remembered some songs my mother used to sing. I’d tried to keep her language alive, to keep her alive in my mind. I spoke English badly, but I could make myself understood.
“You’re right, I know nothing of them, but they came to France because I asked them to. I know they will show me more love than you. You say I’ll be dead to you – good! You have been dead to me for years.”
Tears blinded me as I turned away to pick up my small suitcase. He shouted after me. Words of hatred, meant to hurt, and I was glad my grandparents could not understand them.
“Your mother was no heroine,” he yelled. “She was a whore and you’re just like her!”
***
I stood next to his bed, wanting to kill him as I heard those words again.
“I’m here because Simone said you wanted to make your peace with me. If that is all you have to say I shall leave.”
As I said the words his hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist. The strength in his old bones frightened me; I’d forgotten how quickly he was raised to anger.
“Do you want to know what happened the night the Gestapo took your mother?” he asked, so quietly that at first it didn’t register. Then, when it did, I didn’t understand.
“I already know. She was captured with the others when she delivered the English airman to the safe house. Papa, can we not, just this once, put our differences aside? Simone says you want to talk to me. If you’re going to talk of my mother then don’t call her names or I’m leaving.”
“I’ll say what I want about her. Your mother was a putain. An English whore with her English lover.”
His face was distorted with malice, eyes gleaming, daring me to contradict.
“She and that airman, I watched them. I gave him shelter until he was well enough to make the journey home and he repaid me by sleeping with my wife. They thought I didn’t know, but I heard them muttering in English, laughing together – laughing at me. He was going to come back after the war for the two of you; she was going to leave me. She deserved to die. I’ll tell you of her last hours, when I knew her for what she was.”
He laughed again, a cackle sounding like one of the chickens outside. He released my wrist. His breathing was laboured, whether with excitement or from the effort of talking, I neither knew nor cared.
“The night before she took the airman across the fields to the safe house she’d been dreaming of her lover and praying he’d return for her after the war. I sat on the bed and shook her awake. I begged her to tell me the truth, but she continued to lie, refusing to admit her affair. She told me if I continued to believe the worst of her she would leave. You hear me, Claudette? She was going to leave. I fixed her. I fixed both of them.”
The effort of talking was costing him, but nevertheless delight was etched on his hateful face as he continued.
“Have you never wondered how the Gestapo knew when and where to strike?” He wheezed with laughter. “I told them. I heard from the officers afterwards, she didn’t die straight away. It took them three days to break her. For three days they tortured her and she died in agony, but not before she gave them the names of her comrades. You still think your mother was such a heroine? She betrayed her friends in the end, Claudette. All of them.”
I looked at him with loathing, wishing he were already dead. His laughter was abruptly stilled when I snatched the pillow from under his head. I pressed the soft feathers down on his face, stopping the air from filling his foul lungs. I was vaguely aware that he wasn’t struggling and wondered why. Then I remembered the triumph in his eyes as he’d told me his story. Quickly, I lifted the pillow, clutching it to me.
“Do it,” he hissed, gasping for air.
Shaken, I threw the pillow to the floor, realising his treachery just in time. I spoke softly, the words barely breaking the silence punctuated only by his ragged breath.
“Oh dear Papa,” I whispered, leaning towards him. “Do you want me to take your life?”
He nodded, silently pleading for an end to his pain. I picked up the pillow again, and watched despair fall across his face when I threw it against the wall.
I went downstairs to find Jacques.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded. “Jacques, tell Simone I’m going to stay here at La Fermette. She was right. We needed to make our peace with each other.”
He looked at me as if I’d gone mad, but handed me my suitcase from the boot.
“Are you sure, Claudette? I didn’t think …”
“I’ll be fine. Go now. Papa and I have much to talk about.”
I kissed Jacques, and waited until he drove away before returning to the house.
Papa looked up when I went back into his bedroom, but I ignored him. I picked up the pillow and roughly lifted his head to place it underneath. Then I turned a chair to face the bed and sat down.
“Papa, I don’t think you have many days of agony left, but I’m praying you have at least three. Your putain anglaise is staying here to watch you suffer.”
Ends
