Lies Told In Silence (12 page)

* * *

The Tonneau bounced along narrow country roads, lurching from side to side whenever its wheels found a deep rut.

“General Pétain won’t let those
Boches
succeed,” said Gaston. “General Joffre handpicked him for the job. A very good man.”

Lise had no idea whether Pétain’s efforts could help Guy in any way, but she appreciated Gaston’s kindness and calm exterior, for her anxiety was dreadful, hanging over every moment like a thick black shroud. She tried to smile.

“What do you know of Nivelle, Gaston? I believe Guy used to be under his command.”

“Yes, and now he’s taking over at Verdun.” Gaston stopped talking as he steered the vehicle around a large boulder. “I wonder how they do it?”

“Do what?”

“They fire without being able to see their targets. Did you know they rely on frontline officers to tell them if their guns are reaching the right spot? And airplanes, I think.”

Knowing that Guy was in charge of large artillery guns, Lise preferred not to think about such things and remained silent. Thankfully, Gaston said nothing further.

The countryside was marked with signs of summer: trees heavy with ripening fruit, wheat turning to gold. In fields that were not left fallow, stalks thickened and plants grew tall. The sun was so warm Lise removed her jacket. They were travelling mainly south to avoid congested routes serving the front. Since Gaston preferred quiet back roads to the main roads, from time to time they encountered deeply rutted sections, which made Lise cringe, fearing that the Tonneau would become stuck. Only once did they have to seek help, and they found a group of willing young boys who pushed and pushed until the Tonneau rushed forward with a slurry
of splashing mud.

Along the way, they passed a series of small villages—Barlin, Servins, Capelle-Fermont, Avesnes-le-Comte—each curiously quiet, with only the occasional old woman or young child on the streets, each marked by churches and the fresh graves of their cemeteries. Some reduced to rubble by German bombardment. When they reached Lucheux at midday, they stopped to rest in the town square and eat the lunch Mariele had prepared.

“Everything looks so old here,” Lise said, taking in the grey stone buildings with elaborate, scalloped rooflines and the tall belfry that dominated the square.

“It’s a medieval village. Used to have a surrounding fortress wall and a large chateau, but most of that’s in ruins now.”

Lise had not realized how hungry she was, and they ate in companionable silence for several minutes.

“How is Monsieur?” Gaston asked.

“He’s working very hard. I haven’t seen him since New Year’s.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “How long have you known him, Gaston?”

“Since he was
un petit garçon
. They came to visit Mademoiselle Camille every summer, and I was her hired man. He was full of mischief then.” Gaston chuckled then popped a large piece of cheese into his mouth. “Rather like Jean, I think.”

Lise smiled. Jean’s antics were almost the only thing that still made her laugh, but he had been growing moodier as each month passed.
The inevitable shift from boyhood into the ungainly limbo of neither child nor man
, she thought,
just like Guy
. Her smile disappeared.

“We should be on our way again. Who knows how long it will take for me to get a train.”

“
Oui
, Madame. Just let me refill the gas before we leave. I have four tins in the backseat. And don’t ask me how I got it.” Gaston chuckled as he crossed the road.

* * *

Cresting a hill south of Lucheux, the scenery changed. Damaged orchards, pockmarked fields, remnants of trenches and crumpled bridges spread before them. A sentry stationed at one end of a bridge demanded their
feuille bleu
, examining the blue paper Lise handed over as if his life depended on it before wordlessly waving them through. Beyond the bridge was a small town full of roofless, three-walled houses covered with tarpaulins or gaping boards to provide some shelter for those who remained. Old bricks, twisted stove pipes, fallen gables and broken furniture lay in heaps along the road, and little children, their faces thin and solemn, stared as the Tonneau drove by.

Closer to Amiens, they joined the main road, jostling for pos
ition amongst army trucks, marching soldiers and horse-drawn carts piled high with scraps of wood and metal or bales of straw. Those on foot kept to the grassy verge. Gaston slowed the Tonneau to a crawl, and as the minutes ticked by, Lise gripped her hands tighter and tighter.

“Not far now,” said Gaston as they crossed a wide bridge that would take them closer to the town centre.

Beneath the bridge, Lise saw a row of narrow skiffs waiting to pole passengers up and down the river. Wide sidewalks flanked the river, and flower sellers were packing up for the day, hauling large wicker baskets onto wooden carts or into one of the skiffs and tossing remnants of brightly coloured flowers into large metal cans. They were mainly women in jobs previously done by men, and they talked constantly to one another, occasionally calling out to passing friends, smiling wide, raw-boned smiles as if momentarily released from the day’s burdens.

“Selling flowers in wartime?” With so much death and destru
ction, Lise felt the profusion of colour almost obscene.

“Life goes on, Madame Lise. Weddings, funerals. There is much need for flowers with so many dying. And young men going off to war want to leave something for their sweethearts.”

“You’re right, Gaston. I suppose I’m just worried about Guy.”

Farther on, the Tonneau crossed several canals where water drifted quietly and narrow houses leaned one against the other, shutters closed to retain what limited cool remained inside.
Pathways barely wide enough for a single person separated these houses from the canals.

“I wonder how often someone falls in?” Lise pointed at the canals.

Gaston snorted. “No doubt frequently, especially when they’re drunk.”

Throughout their journey, the rumble of far-off explosions made Lise shudder. But now the artillery was silent, and instead she listened to the sounds of a city attempting to live so close to major action: the tramping of a regiment, the roar of passing motorcycles bearing goggle-clad officers, the clop-clop of weary horses, the clang of a streetcar, the cries and laughs of children at play.

“The station is at the end of this street,” said Gaston as they turned left following a Red Cross ambulance.

Lise let out a deep sigh. “Do you think I will get a train quic
kly?”

Gaston shrugged. “Who knows, Madame Lise?”

At the station, Lise was disappointed to discover that she would have to travel to Paris first before heading towards Verdun, as rail lines going east from Amiens went through German-held territory. Once in Paris, the ticket seller explained she would find a train to Vitry-le-Francois or perhaps Chalons-en-Champagne. From there, she would have to find other transport. Lise stiffened her back.

“Paris, please. On the first possible train.” She thrust a pile of francs through the wicket.

An hour later, Gaston swung her bag onto an overhead rack while Lise took a seat next to a thin, grey-haired woman. The car was crowded, blue-coated soldiers jamming one end, jostling and joking with crude gestures and loud voices. Lise wiped a layer of soot from her window and noticed a group of soldiers patrolling the tracks, bayonets glittering. Stale smells of sweat and urine made her wrinkle her nose. Signs pasted on the windows admonished travellers to beware—the enemy might be listening.

“Thank you, Gaston. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Tell Guy to get better fast. I’ll stop in to see Madame Mariele each week while you’re away.”

“Monsieur and I are forever in your debt.”

He squeezed her shoulder briefly. “
De rien
, Madame Lise.
Bonne chance
.”

Back on the platform, Gaston waved his cap in farewell and then disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter 15

August 1916

Lise could hardly hear herself think. After another full day of waiting and travelling, she was finally nearing Clermont-en-Argonne, less than ten kilometres from Verdun. Explosions came from all directions, booming barrages, louder than anything they had heard in Beaufort. A squadron of airplanes buzzed overhead, banking sharply west to head for safety. Smoke filled the horizon, and from time to time the rapid burst of rifle fire let her know how close the enemy was.

She had been lucky when disembarking the train at Chalons-en-Champagne to attract the attention of Captain Ferrand. When she showed him Henri’s letter, he insisted that his driver take her to her destination.

“We will go to the reserve sector first, where I must debrief with my officers. Lieutenant Valois will take you from there.”

Ferrand was short with a thick neck and narrow moustache that curled at each end. He spoke in a clipped but kind voice, giving instructions to the lieutenant, who stood with his hand raised in salute until the captain had finished, then opened the rear door and waited while Lise and Ferrand climbed into the vehicle.

At every crossroad and railway bridge, they encountered a sentry box, and although Lise had imagined such boxes to be small wooden structures, on the route to Verdun they were made of mud and straw and pine branches and leaned against the bank beside the road. While one guard peered into the motorcar, another checked the lieutenant’s papers then lifted his rifle to motion them forward. Lise held her breath each time they passed the sentries.

Along the road French citizens were fleeing in the opposite direction, herding flocks of sheep and cattle, pushing wheelbarrows with squealing, pink-nosed pigs, carrying bundles and sleepy children and small cats or dogs. A part of Lise wanted to flee with them, and she was grateful to the lieutenant, whose occasional smiles and encouraging words gave her hope.

“You should find Captain St. Laurent here,” Lieutenant Valois said as they drew up in front of a three-storey house, a cluster of flags by the front door announcing its importance.

Lise thanked him profusely and entered the house, feeling acutely alone once again. Inside, soldiers hurried from room to room, their boots clumping amidst the jangle of telephones and the clatter of typewriters. Intense voices rumbled from behind a closed door. Cigarette smoke and sweat permeated the air.

When he finally arrived, Captain St. Laurent checked three separate lists before telling her that Guy was in Evacuation Hospital Four.

“Is he all right?”

“I don’t know his exact condition, Madame Noisette. It’s impossible to keep our records up-to-date.” His smile was more of a grimace. “I will take you. This way.”

The hospital was in a converted factory, each of two storeys partitioned into wards, large stoves keeping the
drafty building as warm as possible. As Lise entered, she saw three nurses in peaked caps and long white dresses huddled together on the far wall while two others rushed down the middle aisle in response to loud moaning that seemed to come from an area surrounded by curtains. Except for the moaning, the lower floor was quiet, full of bandaged men on narrow cots, many sleeping while a few whispered to one another or hummed a vacant tune.

Captain St. Laurent pointed to the far end, where bright lights
shone behind a wooden enclosure.

“The operating theatre,” he said. “Many operations are done in clearing stations closer to our lines, but some can wait until the men are evacuated to hospitals like this. Guy is on the second floor.”

After two long days of travel and worry, Lise felt almost faint with relief and steadied herself briefly on the Captain’s arm as they climbed the stairs. To hear his name and know that he was still alive pushed away her fear. She blinked to control her tears.

“Guy?” The captain touched Guy’s shoulder. “Lieutenant
Noisette? Your mother is here.”

Groggy eyes op
ened and closed. “Maman. It’s wonderful to see you.”

Guy’s voice was so thick and slurred Lise could hardly hear him. His left leg was swathed in bandages and suspended from a pulley, and his right arm was in a cast. Only one eye was open, the other wrapped in white gauze. Drained of colour, he looked like a ghost. It took all her self-control to keep smiling.

She knelt beside her son and touched his face. “I’m here to look after you, Guy. Papa told me where to find you, and I came immediately.” Although Guy blinked his one uncovered eye, he did not answer. Lise smoothed the hair from his brow and laid her other hand on his shoulder. Seeing him and being able to touch him eased her anxieties a fraction.

“The chart says he’s been in and out of consciousness,” said the Captain peering at a rough piece of cardboard attached to the bedrail
with string. “Probably a blessing given his wounds. Can I leave you here?” Lise nodded. “The nurses will help get you settled.”

After securing a wooden chair for her, the Captain was about to depart.

“Would you be kind enough to come by this evening, Captain, and collect a letter for my husband? He is very worried about our son.”

“I’ll send it in the evening pouch. God willing, it will be in Monsieur’s hands within a few days.”

Lise removed her hat and sank onto the chair to watch over her son. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. She whispered to him, told him stories about Jean and Helene, held his hand. She brought a cup of water and coaxed him to take small, frequent sips. Each time his body twitched or he moaned in pain, Lise wondered whether she should seek a nurse. She remained at his side all night.

In the morning, a young nurse with pale blue eyes checked Guy’s condition.

“Madame, you must get some rest. You will be no help to your son if you get sick.”

Lise gave a weary smile. “Can you recommend a hotel?”

“No, Madame, the hotels are used for our military. But let me talk to a family I know. They might have an extra bedroom. I will be back later, Madame. Impossible to say exactly when.”

In the early evening, Nurse Marcoux returned wearing a brown woollen cape over her uniform. Lise was relieved to see the woman, whose kind eyes and slender figure reminded her of Helene.

“The family has a room for you. They’re very kind, but you should know that one of their sons died last year, and the other is a German prisoner.”

Lise nodded, picked up her small suitcase and followed the nurse downstairs. Outside, she pulled her jacket tight against the thick night fog. Nurse
Marcoux led the way along a mud-caked boardwalk. Shops beside the road were shut, their windows curtained such that only thin dribbles of light illuminated the way. Narrow streets perpendicular to the main road disappeared into darkness, and she jumped when a dog growled from an open doorway and footsteps slapped the ground in reply.

“Are you all right?” the nurse said.

“Yes. The sudden sounds scared me. It’s so foggy I can hardly see anything.”

“Few people are out this late because of curfew, only military men or hospital staff. No vehicles are permitted after nightfall. But I have a pass code if we’re challenged.”

The thought of needing a pass code made Lise even more nervous. “I’ve not experienced such conditions.”

“You get used to it. This close to the front, there’s danger of spies. Our soldiers caught one two months ago, and I heard he was persuaded to provide information. I didn’t want to ask for details.”

“Why is it so quiet?”

“Shelling often stops at night. I suppose the artillery needs to rest. I try not to think about it. Here we are.”

The nurse stopped in front of a house with a steep roof and gabled windows, one of which was boarded up. She lifted the brass knocker and rapped twice. A curtain drew back, and a round, plump face peered out. When the door cracked open, Lise and Nurse Marcoux stepped quickly inside.

* * *

Guy opened his eyes and spoke clearly for the first time five days later. During those anxious days when she feared he would never wake, Lise observed the rhythm of the hospital, times for bathing, for meals, for light exercise, times for napping, for doctors’ rounds, for the parish priest. When the priest hurried by with candles and a small bottle of oil to perform last rites, she made the sign of the cross as a mark of respect.

She was pleased when Guy’s pasty grey pallor was replaced by hints of pink, and he conversed more easily. The doctor, a thin, long-boned man with bushy black hair, was cautiously optimistic.

“Guy will soon start to mend. He had shrapnel in his leg,” he told her, “and a bullet through his arm. The eye was infected, likely from lying on wet ground for hours until stretcher bearers found him and then waiting more than a day for treatment.”

“Why did it take so long?”

The doctor turned at the sound of a shout from the ground floor. “Ask one of the nurses to explain,” he said as he hurried off down the stairs.

Lise sought out Nurse Marcoux. Sitting together near one of the warming stoves with a cup of hot tea, the nurse explained that wounded soldiers were sorted into groups depending on their condition. Those in severe shock were sent to a resuscitation tent,
others were operated on at the clearing station and still others went by train to the hospital for treatment. She said the doctors must have thought Guy could wait. The nurse reached over to pat Lise on the knee as if she were the mother and Lise the child.

“I’m sure he will heal. He’s in much better physical shape than many of our wounded.”

The hours ebbed and flowed with almost no definition. Lise sat with Guy when he was awake, often saying little, merely offering the comfort of her presence, a soft touch on his brow, a straightening of his blankets, a spoonful of broth. She read to him when he seemed more alert and told him stories about Beaufort. Once a fever took hold of him, and he thrashed about on his bed so much she thought he might tumble out. Finally, the doctor said Guy’s leg could be released from the pulley, and he would be able to try sitting up once a day.

“Maman, will you do something for me?” After being so ill, Guy sounded like a croaking frog.

“Anything I can.”

“Will you write a letter for me?”

Guy’s blush alerted her that this was no ordinary letter. “Let me get my writing paper out,” she said.

“It’s a young woman I correspond with. She will be worried that I haven’t written. Her name is Renee Derain.”

“Is her father Paul Derain?” Guy nodded. “I think Papa knows the family. When did you meet?”

“I met her in 1914. Not long after you went to Beaufort. I should have told you about her,” he said with a sheepish look.

“These aren’t normal times, Guy. I’m sure that in other circumstances you would have told us. Is she special to you?” Guy nodded again. “What would you like me to write?”

When she went to bed, Lise lay awake thinking about her family. Guy was in love with a woman she had never heard of while Helene handled fears and responsibilities beyond her years
, Henri worked day and night, and her mother-in-law was increasingly frail. It made her sad to realize that Jean was growing up without his father’s guidance, and Helene had neither young men courting her nor any expectation that she soon would. It had been eight months since Henri’s last visit, and she longed for the reassurance of his arms, his lips, his body. Nothing about their life was normal. Nothing at all. But at least Guy had survived.