Lies Told In Silence (13 page)

Chapter 16

September 1916

Early September was hotter than usual. In the morning, Mariele picked a few slugs out of the garden while Helene loosened the earth around their vegetables. When Monsieur Doucet stopped by with a basket of eggs, he grumbled that the warmth would make the harvest more difficult. Mariele nodded and offered him six freshly baked buns to take home.

She was proud of her little Beaufort family, for that was how she thought of the four of them. Each had risen to the challenge of living under difficult conditions made worse by the ever-looming question of whether the front lines would hold. Helene was a woman now, capable of looking after the house and at ease with her maturity. She thought nothing of working all day and sewing or knitting all evening. Her granddaughter displayed a quiet beauty with her rich auburn hair and wide grey eyes and a face sculpted by hardship. Like many young women, Helene was sacrificing her youth to support the family, and with Lise away, she was in charge. Of all of them, Helene had changed the most.

Lise was different too. Nothing had prepared her daughter-in-law for life in a small town under conditions of war. Hers had been a spoiled upbringing as the daughter of a wealthy Parisian family with a mother who spent more on perfume and face powders than
most families earned in a year. When Lise had first married Henri, Mariele had worried that her young daughter-in-law would follow that example, but motherhood had changed her, and now that Lise was assured of Henri’s love, she had become decisive and willing to speak her mind.

Lise and Helene were more than family: they were Mariele’s dearest friends.

Jean shouldered many tasks that the man of the house would normally undertake, but he was still too young for Mariele to predict his character. He outgrew his clothes every few months, and she imagined he would be much taller than his father. Fuzzy whiskers had begun to sprout, and she knew he was embarrassed by his gangly body and the emerging evidence of manhood. Every night, Mariele prayed the war would end before her grandson could enlist.

She prayed for them all: Henri, who struggled with government burdens; Guy, who would soon return to duty; Lise, who was so close to the front an errant shell could find her; Helene, who looked far too weary for her age. She worried about her other children
too, and three more grandsons who had enlisted in 1915. Dr. Valdane told her that so much worry was a strain on her heart, but she kept that to herself.

“Grandmere! A letter from Maman,” Jean shouted as he e
ntered the kitchen.

Mariele insisted that her grandson use the side door and leave his boots on the steps since she was tired of cleaning up after him. Now that he was older, he made even more mess, and she often shook her head in dismay at his filthy clothes. She had him scrub his fingernails before every meal, but they still looked dreadful. Mariele wondered what he did to get so dirty.

Jean thumped upstairs to change while Mariele opened the letter.

My dear family,

Guy is walking by himself, although his leg is still rather stiff. His arm is fully healed, and the doctors say that his left eye may
yet improve further. This is my good news. The bad news, which I knew was inevitable, is that Captain St. Laurent has given Guy his orders. He will leave Verdun and be deployed to a new location. I have another few days with him before he returns to duty, and, as you can imagine, I am making the most of it.

Monsieur and Madame Lerouxel have been so wonderful, trea
ting me as they would their own daughter. Every evening they have a hot drink waiting and we often sit talking by the fire now that I can leave Guy at night. I am very fortunate for their kindness and will have to think of a gift to send them.

I miss everyone very much and hope you will have many stories to tell me when I return.

My love to you all,

Maman

* * *

“Maman will be home soon,” Mariele said, passing the letter to Helene.

After reading her mother’s news, Helene folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. Since the war had begun, they saved every letter inside an old chest that previously held silver cutlery. One day, Maman had brought the chest from the dining room and announced its purpose. Helene imagined her mother’s decision to keep each letter as tangible proof of the love she bore her husband and son and her thankfulness for others who kept in touch. She dreaded the thought of her mother reading them over and over should either her father or Guy be killed.

For five weeks, she had acted in her mother’s place, taking charge of shopping, speaking to Gaston about repairs to a broken window, arranging for Monsieur Doucet to cut down a tree struck by lightning. Grandmere did the cooking, but Helene organized everything else. Her fatigue showed in thin cheeks and eyes that were re
d from worry and lack of sleep.

She almost wished Guy’s wounds were severe enough for him to permanently leave the army. Instead, he would return to his duties, and they would return to the daily strain of waiting and
hoping. As she lay in bed, pipes groaned, stairs creaked and the stove sputtered with uneven heat; a house in sympathy with the family’s unsettled mood.

* * *

In mid-September, after her mother had returned, a long line of troops approached Tante Camille’s. Helene saw them from a second-floor window and called to her mother. Together, they watched in silence as the soldiers came closer and closer, each man holding a rifle in one arm, the other arm swinging as they marched. The drumming of their hob-nailed boots made the hairs on Helene’s arm prickle.

“Who are they?” she whispered.

“Not French,” her mother replied. “Not German either. But I can’t tell from this distance.”

Through the trees, they saw them rounding a bend in the road. Two heavily loaded wagons followed the column of men.

“Must be well over a hundred of them.”

“I’ll see what I can discover when I go into town this afte
rnoon,” Helene said. She saw the look of fear on her mother’s face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

Maman gripped her arm. “I’ll come with you.”

When they arrived, Café Pitou’s narrow wooden chairs were occupied, round tables cluttered with an assortment of beverages. A group of older men clustered by the bar listening to Father Marcel, who seemed more animated than usual. Conversation centred on news of the troops who were billeted on the far side of town. Canadian troops—part of the British army. From Madame Suras, the owner of Café Pitou, they learned that Monsieur Galliard had offered his home as a command centre.

“Do we know why the soldiers are here?” Helene’s mother asked.

“Not yet,” said Madame Suras.

“Bound to mean trouble of some sort,” said Raoul Seguin, Beaufort’s deputy mayor. “I wonder if they’re going to establish a training base or perhaps a new headquarters. Whatever the reason,
a large group of soldiers brings attention to Beaufort. Possibly German attention. We certainly don’t want that.”

“It could mean some sort of action is being planned,” said an older man who wore a thick knitted sweater despite the day’s warmth.

“Well, as I said, they’re bound to mean trouble,” said Monsieur Seguin.

After checking for mail at the post office, Helene and her mot
her purchased flour and cheese along with a small piece of fish for dinner. With their large garden, her grandmother’s baking and provisions from Andre Doucet and Monsieur Garnier, Helene’s family had become largely self-sufficient; however, on rare occasions her mother bought fish as a change from pork and chicken. Their diet was simple but adequate. No one complained.

“Monsieur Seguin has me worried,” Lise said as they walked back to Tante Camille’s.

“I agree, Maman. That man in the sweater said there might be an action planned. What if it’s something big? Don’t you think we should return to Paris?”

“Papa would tell us to return if he thought it wise.”

“I suppose,” Helene said. “But Papa wasn’t right about Paris and Beaufort when the war began, and if we’d stayed in Paris, we wouldn’t be so close to the fighting here.”

“Helene, that’s your father you’re talking about. We’ve never been in danger. Paris is threatened even now. Paris is our capital. It will always be under threat.”

Helene saw worry in her mother’s tight face and fatigue in her drooping shoulders and decided to say no more. “You’re right, Maman. I’m sure we’ll be fine here.”

Chapter 17

September 1916

Hoisting a basket of wet laundry onto her hip, Helene grabbed the bag of clothespins as she went outside. She set the basket down on a small wooden bench and began the task of methodically pinning each item and spinning out the line until their shirts, underclothes, sheets and towels stretched across the yard, colours dancing in the breeze. She looked at her chapped hands and broken fingernails; there were days when she felt as haggard and worn as a woman twice her age.

She had little time for beauty, though an imaginative man would see beyond the tightly bound hair and simple clothing to the curve of full breasts, slender figure and high cheekbones. But few men visited their house outside Beaufort, and she knew her mother thought this was just as well, fearing that some vagabond soldier would pass by and capture her daughter. Three women and a teenage boy would be easy prey for the wrong kind of stranger.

As she hung the last few pieces of clothing, Helene
thought of how different life would be without war. Opera, ballet, dances, expensive clothing from Maman’s favourite shops. For a moment, images of elegance and privilege transported her away from backyard chores into their earlier life and a memory of her mother and father, dressed in evening clothes, greeting guests for a spring soiree. She paused with her arms in the air and a clothespin clutched between her lips and wondered whether she would ever have a chance to fall in love.

“Helene, we’re going now.”

Maman’s voice came from the front of the house, interrupting her musings, and she hurried around to see her mother and brother off.

“Grandmere and I will make dinner. Don’t rush.”

“I hope we can find some new clothes for Jean. He’s outgrown everything.”

Helene watched her brother, his arms and legs out of propo
rtion. His voice cracked when he spoke, and she knew it would soon deepen. Jean steadied the bicycle for his mother, who would ride on the back.

“Maman, stop wiggling,” he said as they set off.

“Bye-bye. Have fun.”

Helene stood until they were out of sight then returned to the backyard to collect her basket. Hot sun and bulging white clouds made the day seem idyllic, chasing away thoughts of war, and she sat for a moment, watching a bee hover around the mouths of Russian sage blossoms, dipping again and again for sustenance. Tall grasses waved at the edge of their garden, which looked ragged despite the hours of care Helene and her mother devoted to trimming and weeding. The breeze died and their clothes hung limply.

Faint puffs of smoke marked the eastern horizon followed by the crackle and echoing booms of artillery. After a brief pause came a rush of answering guns. They often heard the sounds of artillery, but Helene thought these blasts were closer. She shivered despite the warmth and ran inside.

“Grandmere, I can hear artillery again.” She found her gran
dmother in the salon, knitting another in the endless stream of socks for soldiers. “I think they’re closer than usual.”

Her grandmother lifted her head. “I’m sorry, dear. I was coun
ting stitches. What’s closer?”

“Guns. The sound of guns is louder than usual.”

Artillery sounds always made Helene think of Guy. Maman thought he was near Albert, but they were never really sure, and Albert was in the Somme, where heavy fighting was underway.

“Oh, dear. When you were in town, did anyone say that our troops are nearby?”

“Only the Canadians.”

Helene sat down opposite her grandmother. “What do you think we should do?”

“Let’s wait a bit. Sound travels very far you know.”

Helene listened to the rhythmic
click-click-click
of her grandmother’s knitting needles.
How can Grandmere just wait
?
What if we are in danger
? Helene’s eyes scanned the room for something that would distract her from the muffled rumble outside.

“Why don’t we make a
cassoulet for dinner? I’ve already soaked the beans,” her grandmother said.

Grandmere always knew when she needed a diversion. In fact, they had all perfected the art of distraction. Otherwise the listening, the waiting and the wondering became too much.

Grateful for something to do, Helene followed her into the kitchen and began to chop vegetables while her grandmother prepared pork shoulder and a small piece of bacon, both supplied by Monsieur Garnier. Soon the sizzling smell of bacon, onions, garlic and fresh herbs filled the kitchen, and her tension eased.

“I find cooking very soothing,” said her grandmother as if reading Helene’s mind.

“Three years ago, I would never have imagined doing this together. Our lives are so different now, aren’t they, Grandmere?”

“In a good way?”

“Good and bad. The war is bad, of course, but being together is good.”

“I never expected to be so close to my granddaughter,” Grandmere said.

“Oh. Was I so terrible?”

“No,” Grandmere laughed, “just our circumstances were so different.”

“If we were still in Paris, I would probably be going to dances and soirees. All dressed up, likely with Marie.” Helene sighed.

“Perhaps you would have a young man?”

“Perhaps.” Helene could not imagine that life. “But I would not have learned how to make cassoulet.” Turning to smile at her grandmother, she saw with horror that Grandmere held one hand to her chest and was beginning to gasp for breath, her eyes frantic.

“Grandmere! What is it?”

Helene put her arms under her grandmother’s shoulders and lowered her to a kitchen chair then rushed to get a wet cloth and a glass of water. She bathed her grandmother’s face and held the glass to her lips, but the water merely trickled out from the sides of her mouth.

“My heart tablets,” Grandmere whispered.

“In your bedroom?”

She nodded. Helene raced out of the kitchen, threw herself up the stairs and quickly found the tablets on the bedside table. Back in the kitchen, she squeezed one tablet into her grandmother’s mouth and tipped up the glass of water. “You have to swallow, Grandmere. Can you do that?” Her grandmother nodded.

Seconds and then minutes passed as Mariele continued to gasp, clutching her chest. Helene knelt by the chair until her grandmother breathed more easily.

“Does it feel better?”

“A little.”

“Let’s rest here for a bit and then move you to the sofa so you can lie down. Don’t talk, just breathe slowly.” Helene tried to remember something useful from a first aid course she took when the war began, but the instructor had focused mainly on how to make a splint and clean a wound. “You scared me. Are these the pills you get from the pharmacy each month?” Grandmere nodded. “Are they for heart problems?” Another nod.

Helene thought it would have been useful to know that her grandmother had heart problems before now, but it was too late for recriminations. She held Grandmere’s cool hands in her warm ones and was relieved to see her lips were now faintly pink rather than tinged with blue.

The house was quiet; only the ticking of the mantel clock and an occasional far-off rumble marked the passage of time. Helene thought she should wait a little longer before attempting to
move her grandmother; she could not lift her on her own. She smiled to reassure them both.

Thirty minutes later, Helene tucked a light blanket around her grandmother and sat on the leather hassock pulled close to the sofa. Grandmere reached out to touch Helene’s cheek.

“I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said.

“Don’t be silly. We’ll just sit and relax. Shall I tell you about the letter I received from Marie?” Her grandmother nodded. “Her family is still in London since her father’s posting has been extended, and she has attended several debutante balls, which she says are more modest than usual because of the war. Apparently, her mother refashioned two of her own dresses so Marie would have something to wear, although neither of them is white. Why is white the colour of choice? Perhaps it’s thought to be virginal?”

“I think so.” A brief twinkle lit Grandmere’s eyes, and Helene found that encouraging.

“She says that Englishmen are not at all like Frenchmen, much more pompous in her opinion. Oh, and one of the dances was a masquerade held outside beneath a striped marquee lit with red, white and blue lights in honour of both the English and French national flags. Too much extravagance in the midst of wartime, don’t you think, Grandmere? Marie says she prefers to go to the theatre or the ballet than suffer through these balls. I think she’s just trying to make me feel better. I shall write to her again and tell her that I want to hear all the details.”

Helene noticed Grandmere’s eyes were drooping. “I’m going to go next door to see if the Doucets are at home. Perhaps they can fetch the doctor. I’ll be back in a minute. You continue to rest, Grandmere.” She squeezed her grandmother’s hand.

Helene slipped away and ran past the pond and across the field that separated the two properties, but there was no answer at the farmhouse or in the barns, and she did not want to leave her grandmother alone for long. When she returned, Grandmere was
sleeping, so Helene went into the kitchen to finish the cassoulet, first testing the pork for tenderness then sautéing chopped celery and carrot in the bacon drippings. When the vegetables were softened, it was time to add broth, wine, tomatoes, bay leaves and white beans, each ingredient measured carefully as her grandmother would do. Every few minutes as she cooked, she checked on Grandmere. Finally, Helene put the heavy pot full of cassoulet in the oven and returned to the salon.

Her grandmother slept, occasionally twitching but otherwise hardly moving, her face calm—almost serene, her chest rising and falling, its regular rhythm restoring Helene’s confidence. Deep rumbles and cracks drew her outside to listen to the far-off sounds of war, and she stood there, silent, still, watching, waiting. A hawk circled overhead, wings spread wide and majestic.
He must have found something,
she thought as the hawk plunged towards the ground and rose a few moments later, clutching its wriggling prey.

I should check on Grandmere.

Helene returned to the salon and stopped short at the sight of her grandmother’s slack mouth and dangling arm. She knew in an instant that Grandmere was gone.

* * *

Grandmere, how could you leave me?

Helene asked this question repeatedly during the days that followed. Every moment, she expected to catch a glimpse of Grandmere’s fine white hair or hear her working in the kitchen or her slow footsteps on the stairs. As Helene drifted about the house, she carried on a silent conversation with her grandmother.
What will we do without your cheerfulness and calm good sense? How will Maman cope without you to lean on? Who will indulge Jean’s moods?

When her mother and Jean had returned from Beaufort that afternoon, they found Helene sitting on the floor, head nestled against her grandmother’s lifeless body. Maman knelt beside her and listened as the story emerged between bouts of tears and then cradled Helene as though she were a child, rocking back and forth,
humming soothing phrases while Jean slumped in a nearby chair. Only the smell of burning cassoulet claimed their attention.

Despite having a mug of warm milk, Helene never slept that night. Instead, she relived the years in Beaufort, gathering memories of her grandmother as if quilting a blanket of comfort from favourite scraps of fabric. Each memory came with some wisdom her grandmother wished to pass along. After awhile, Helene pulled out her diary to capture these bits of wisdom, worried that they too might disappear. The purpose of individual growth is to share with others; put communal needs before personal desires; human relationships are by their nature inco
mplete; the way to hold on to those you love is to let them go; love can be at the centre only if we keep it there. Some she understood better than others, and Helene wondered if, eventually, when the pain of Grandmere’s death eased, she might discuss their significance with her mother.

As dawn lightened the room, she realized that her mother and brother would also be in pain.
And Papa will soon know
, she thought, getting out of bed to draw back the curtain and peak through the window. She tried to imagine losing her mother, a possibility even more dreadful than her grandmother’s death.