Lies Told In Silence (15 page)

Chapter 20

January 1917

Early January was harsher than usual, biting cold and drifting snow often preventing them from leaving the house except for essentials like shovelling snow from the roof and chopping wood. Laundry was difficult as their clothes would not dry outside, and they could spare no wood to heat the drying hut, so once a week, Helene and her mother strung the salon like a gypsy caravan with wet shirts, socks and underclothes.

Late one Saturday afternoon, damp snow fell and scowling clouds hung like a friar’s hood across the horizon; the salon was dark, a single lamp casting shadows as her mother wrote a letter. Helene got up to stir the fire, sending a burst of flame towards the chimney, then stood by the window, barely able to see the old oak that marked the turn of their driveway.

“Don’t poke the flame, Helene. It makes the wood burn too quickly. You aren’t the one who had to chop it.” Her brother stood near the door to the kitchen.

“Humph. I did it yesterday,” she said.

Maman
lifted her head with a frown, pen poised above her letter. “Jean, where were you all day?”

“Oh, just out with friends. Then I walked into Beaufort.”

“You’ve been out a lot lately.” Maman dipped her pen in the inkwell and held it aloft, waiting for Jean’s response.

“Hmm.”

“Maman is worried about you, Jean. You should be more considerate. She might have needed you to do something.” Helene was annoyed with her brother’s new technique of answering a question with no answer at all.

“I don’t need another mother, Helene.” Jean elongated her name into three syllables. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“That’s not what—”

Jean ignored her. “Maman, I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

He hunched his shoulders like a young bull ready to charge and left the salon. They heard him thump up the stairs and slam his door.

“Helene, you really shouldn’t scold him.
Your brother’s at an age where he’s maturing and restless, he’s with women too much of the time. I remember Guy at the same age, always on edge.” Her mother lifted her head again. “Your father would know how to handle him.”

“But Papa’s not here, and I can tell you’re upset when he doesn’t come home.”

Helene continued to worry about Jean the rest of the evening. On Thursday, Germaine had mentioned that more troops were gathering but when pressed for details would only say that she had spoken to one of the officers. Despite being engaged to Jacques, Germaine enjoyed flirting with some of the soldiers who came to Beaufort, but Helene had not teased her friend; instead, she worried that Jean’s absences were somehow connected to the presence of these soldiers. Jean was obsessed with soldiers.

The following day after church, Helene and her mother r
emained for tea at Café Pitou, enjoying the chance for conversation as a succession of people, including Madame Suras, stopped at their table. News was plentiful.

Sylvie, the daughter of Doctor Valdane, had moved to Aire, just north of Rheims, for work at a factory manufacturing items like covers to hide guns, camouflage netting and observation posts that looked like trees or parts of trenches. The doctor was amazed
at the ingenuity of such items and mentioned proudly that Sylvie had taken an oath of secrecy and could not reveal any details. His wife confessed that their home felt deserted without Sylvie and their two sons, who were in the army. No one mentioned the son who had died.

Madame Lalonde told them at length about Beaufort’s new hospital, soon to open in the town hall.

“It’s really a branch of the military hospital at Amiens,” she said. “The Villeneuve family made a large donation to honour their son who fell at Verdun. We’ve collected money for linens as well as used beds and blankets, and now we have two hundred beds. Much more to offer than the existing facility where you and I volunteer, Lise.” Madame was particularly animated as she related the details. “The wife of our mayor is the directress. Sister Marie and Sister Noelle and four nurses from the Red Cross will care for the soldiers.”

“Do you think this new hospital has anything to do with the Canadian troops who’ve been in the area?” Helene’s mother said.

Madame Lalonde nodded. “Yes, but we’re not to gossip about it. I know I can trust you, Lise.” Madame Lalonde’s distressed look turned into a smile. “We will need more volunteers.”

“I can take on more hours. I’m only doing two afternoons a week right now, and Helene manages the house so well,” Lise added.

While Helene nodded at her mother’s comment, she worried that the advent of a hospital combined with Germaine’s tale of further troop buildup implied future military action. As they sipped a second cup of tea, they heard about a dogfight over Lille involving a German Taube attacked by a British plane, the Taube spiralling out of control in a cloud of smoke while citizens cheered from below. When the storyteller finished, Maman checked her watch.

“Heavens, we should go, Helene. It’s already past one o’clock.”

As they said their good-byes to Madame Suras, Helene put on her long wool coat and snug scarf then pulled a red tam over her ears. Sunshine softened the sting of cold air, but still they walked quickly to keep warm, talking about the people they had seen and stories they had heard.

Helene became quiet.

“What are you thinking about?” her mother said.

“The story about the German plane. Are acts of war so co
mmonplace that we calmly recount them like any other gossip? Shouldn’t we stop to consider that German pilots are people too, with families who will mourn their passing?”

“You’re right, sweetheart. I hadn’t thought of it like that. We shouldn’t cheer any death, should we? Although I can’t help thinking that German losses will be to our advantage.”

“I agree, Maman. We can wish for them to lose and hope that our efforts are superior to theirs, but cheering a falling plane makes me ashamed of my countrymen.”

“When did
my daughter become so wise?”

They linked arms and walked in silence. The wind had died, and melting snow beside the road produced a slick of brown mud that dribbled into narrow rivulets before accumulating in rutted tracks. A flock of geese travelled across the horizon, maintaining a v-shaped pattern as they swooped low, banking to turn west.

“Will you be all right if I take on more hours at this new hospital?” her mother said.

“But what else could you do, Maman? You’re not a nurse.”

“There are many tasks that don’t involve nursing. I saw that when I was with Guy.”

“Wouldn’t it make you sad?”

“It might. But it might make me feel like I was contributing more. At Tante Camille’s, I often feel so helpless.”

“Hmmm. I feel restless.”

“I’ve noticed. That’s why you go into Beaufort so often, isn’t it?”

“Is it that obvious?” Her mother nodded. “You know there are troops in the area. Germaine’s told me. She met one of them. More Canadians, she said.”

“Germaine seems to have a lot of freedom to come and go.”

“Maman, we’re almost nineteen. Not children anymore, howe
ver you might wish otherwise.” Helene saw sadness creep into her mother’s expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Her mother hugged her arm. “It’s all right,
chérie
. We’re all tense with worry these days. What are you hearing from Francois?”

“He mentioned having leave to see his family for a few days. And he always has a story or two about the men he leads. It’s strange that he writes to me, isn’t it? When he started, he was stationed not far from here, but I don’t know where he is now. He sounds cheerful enough.” Helene said nothing about Francois’s descriptions of the battles he experienced. Her mother would be horrified.

As they approached Tante Camille’s, a wave of smoke drifted from the chimney, making the house look snug and inviting. They knocked the snow from their boots and entered by the back door. Helene hung her coat from a wooden peg and piled her scarf and hat on top.

“Jean’s boots aren’t here,” Maman said. “I wish I knew where he went. Half the time I don’t believe what he tells me, but when I question him, he becomes so surly.”

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

Helene had not disclosed her theories about Jean’s absences; her mother had enough to worry about. Instead, she planned to confront her brother. Before dinner, as Helene and Jean cleared the paths around the house of accumulated snow, she demanded an answer.

“Someone needs to know where you are, even if you don’t want to tell Maman. Madame Lalonde has told us of the new hospital, and I know there are troops in the area. There must be an action planned. Is that what you’re doing? Watching them?”

“Watching who?”

“The soldiers. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It might be dangerous.”

“All right, all right. I’ll tell you tonight, but you have to pro
mise not to say anything to Maman.”

Helene’s mother went to bed early, taking two hot water bottles
with her, grumbling that she would be warmer in bed than in the salon. “Don’t stay up too late,” she said.

While Helene waited for Jean to return from checking the chicken coop, the house settled into nighttime sounds, and she watched the dying fire glow, its dancing flames long since diminished. They were lucky to have firewood; coal had not been available for ages, and many families scavenged for every stick of wood they could find. A week ago, she and her mother counted logs. They estimated that their supply would last until the end of winter only if used sparingly, so Helene added no more wood and continued to read sitting next to the only lamp they allowed themselves to light at night. She lit a candle as well to ease the strain on her eyes. The mantel clock chimed nine times, each chime resonating with gloom, and when Jean finally returned to the salon, Helene set her book down, interlaced her fingers and stared at him.

“You don’t need to look at me like that; I said I would tell you.” Jean sat on the footstool with his back to the fire. “I’ve been watching the Canadians for weeks,” he said. “You won’t believe what I’ve seen.”

His eyes were so intense. Helene leaned forward to listen.

Jean told her he had been climbing the hills in December, following the same path Helene often took to her thinking stone. When he had reached the summit, he sat on that very same stone, sheltered from the wind and warmed somewhat by the sun. Instead of green fields, a blanket of white had stretched across the plain, ribbons of smoke marking farmhouses in the distance, and a river cutting across one corner of his view. Idly, he had made a snowball and tossed it down the hill, watching it disappear. After he had bent over to scoop up more snow and was preparing to throw again, something odd had appeared.

“That’s when I saw them,” he said.

Jean told her of watching the long line of soldiers emerge from behind a stand of trees and progress slowly along the road far below. At first, they moved like one connected body, but as the line drew nearer, he could distinguish steel-helmeted men, packhorses and black wagons winding through the white winter landscape, moving in a silent, almost colourless world. He tried to estimate how many soldiers marched across the plain, but the line seemed endless, and he soon lost track.

“There could have been a hundred thousand, Helene. It was incredible.”

“Where did they go?”

“I couldn’t tell where they went that day; they just kept mo
ving.”

“And . . .”

Jean grinned. “I found them eventually. Near Mont-Saint-Éloi. You won’t believe what they’re doing.”

“What?”

Helene leaned forward again. By now, the fire merely pulsed a dull red, giving off little heat, and her candle flickered as wax trickled down the candlestick.

“They’re building. Railway tracks, roads, tunnels, an ammun
ition dump. I can’t figure out everything, but the scale is enormous. Supply trains arrive every day, and the goods are sent on by large trucks or small trams; sometimes mules are loaded with heavy packs on both sides. There are pipes and wood planks and large spools of wire. I’ve seen them lift huge artillery shells off the trains. There are horses and cattle and tents set up. And they’re digging, using the rails to haul away carts full of dirt. It’s amazing, Helene.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“No.” Jean shook his head several times; his eyes widened as if recounting the experience suddenly made him appreciate the gravity.

“That’s good. I’m sure it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“But with so many of them, how can they possibly keep it quiet?”

“I don’t know. Germaine met one of the soldiers.”

“She did?” Jean’s eyes grew wider.

“You can’t keep going to watch, Jean. Someone might see you.”

“But I—”

“I won’t tell Maman if you promise not to go again.”

“But—”

“Promise me. It’s too dangerous.”

Jean’s face look mutinous, but he finally muttered his assent.

Helene was not the least convinced that Jean would keep his word. In fact, she was almost positive he would sneak away again, but as the next two weeks progressed, he dutifully came home after school and remained near the house on both Saturday and Sunday, so she relaxed her vigilance a fraction.