Lies Told In Silence (16 page)

Late one Friday night, a soft thump woke her from the early drift of sleep. Unable to imagine what it might be, she got out of bed, opened her door and walked towards the kitchen, where she could hear the swish of cloth against cloth, and where she found Jean tiptoeing across the floor wearing his heavy coat and carrying his winter boots.

“Where are you going?” Helene said.

“Shhh. Don’t wake Maman.”

“You promised not to go there.”

“I’m old enough to take care of myself; you don’t need to worry about me.”

“This is crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m tired of spending all my time with you and Maman. Doing nothing for France. I’m just watching. There’s no harm in that.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Helene had blurted these words without thinking, and she paused. Did she really want to go with him? What if something happened?

“You’re a
girl
,” Jean said dismissively, and in an instant, Helene made her decision. “Wait five minutes,” she said.

In an old pair of Jean’s pants, a dark wool coat and rough work boots, and her hair pulled under her cap, she looked like another teenage boy. Without speaking, they tiptoed from the house, Jean leading the way across fields, scrambling over fences, walking along narrow paths, their only light a dying moon that cast little shadow and the pinprick of stars sprayed on a night sky. Helene conce
ntrated on maintaining the pace set by her brother.

After what seemed like most of an hour, they reached the crest of a long hill. Jean raised his hand to signal silence, crouched down and worked his way forward on his belly through a thicket of small shrubs until he could peer over the edge. He motioned for Helene to join him.

Her eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and when she looked down on the plain below, where the occasional oil lamp reflected against the snow augmenting the light of the moon, she sucked in her breath with a loud hiss. Beyond the sloping hillside marked by stout stone fences and leafless trees, hundreds—possibly even thousands—of men swarmed like ants around a yawning opening in the earth, hauling carts, stacking sandbags, unravelling wire. Some men shouldered pickaxes and disappeared into the entrance. Nearby, a long line of packhorses waited, frozen breath snorting as they tossed their heads. A few soldiers walked up and down to keep them calm with a smoothing pat or whispered word.

In the other direction, she saw a group of men manoeuvring an artillery piece into one of several wooden structures dug into the hillside and camouflaged with earth and branches. Dark shapes working in precision, a ballet of ominous proportions.

Jean and Helene exchanged glances. “
Mon Dieu
,” she whispered.

Chapter 21

February 1917

Henri sat at his desk, the scratch of his pen on paper and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock pricking the night silence. Hearing a
swoosh, swoosh
outside, which gradually built to the clumping sounds of marching footsteps, he lifted his head.
Soldiers
.
I wonder where they’re going at this time of night.

Wartime Paris was like an impressionist painting daubed in muted grey. Sombre clothing and black armbands blended with sandbags stacked against
precious monuments and buildings draped in soot. Limited lighting and the absence of any sort of street music added to a picture of bleak fortitude.

What Henri noticed, as he walked the streets beneath pale winter skies, was the shining glow of dedication from each face—young or old, man or woman, soldier or civilian. His fellow citizens would resist destruction regardless of sacrifice. Greed and self-interest disappeared despite restrictions and shortages that in other times would have caused bellowing rumbles of dissatisfaction. France was not afraid—Paris was theirs, Verdun had prevailed, the army withstood German assault all along the trenches. A halo of tenacity encircled the city.

In his encounters at hospitals, shops, restaurants, barracks and factories, it became clear to him that two indomitable traits had emerged: the physical courage of men and the moral courage of women. Inspired, he held his head high and resisted faltering under the weight of daily worries, knowing that Guy was in the midst of preparations for battle at Aisne, and Beaufort was less than fifteen kilometres from a major offensive planned for April.

When he had last seen his son, Guy had a two-day pass follo
wing action around the village of Clery near Guillement. Now he was with Nivelle again in what Henri feared would be a disastrous encounter with Germany. Hubert Lyautey, the war minister, had resigned to protest Nivelle’s strategy, leaving the ministry in disarray.

In the face of these concerns, Henri was frustrated by his own paper-pushing efforts as he continued to woo the Americans. He was to meet with the US ambassador for the second time in as many months; France needed money and munitions. They also needed America to join the Allies.

Fortified by a sip of brandy, he returned to his letter to Lise.

. . . and I visited one of our divisions last week, travelling first by automobile and eventually by mule–you must think with amusement of your husband on a mule, my long legs dangling as our path took us over open ledges then through kilometres of forest interspersed with tiny villages. Such beautiful scenery, especially in brilliant sunshine, that I almost forgot we are at war. Officers there are housed in log cabins, and the entire site bustled with life: men cleaning rifles, hauling wood, washing and mending clothes, smoking and gossiping, writing letters.

Henri did not mention that one of the officers took him higher up, where they dismounted and scrambled into a dense thicket that he soon realized was a thatch of branches woven to screen the muzzles of a dozen big guns. Peeking through, he saw French positions down the mountainside just a short distance from the German border.

In quiet tones, the officer told him that caravans descended the hill at night to distribute supplies to the fighting lines below.
Henri’s reply had been cut off by the deafening sound of an explosion from one of their batteries followed by the roar of German response. This exchange lasted almost twenty minutes, each howling crash of artillery fire followed by another explosion and its echoing reverberation from cliff to cliff. He had been forced to wait three days before leaving the area.

Guy has written that he is safely behind the lines again. He remains with Nivelle’s staff, and I have heard through other channels that he has distinguished himself in many ways.

Your letters indicate that you and the children are content in Beaufort. I am pleased that Helene helps you so readily and that she has overcome her sadness. Do not tire yourself out working at the hospital. I want you to return to Paris in the spring so that we can be together again. I miss you terribly.

Your loving husband,

Henri

As Henri sealed the letter and set it aside for the morning’s post, he imagined arriving unexpectedly in Beaufort to take his family back to Paris. His mother had died almost six months ago, and surely that was time enough for them to grieve her passing. Gentle persuasion had had no effect. Saying that she was needed at the hospital, Lise had resisted his argument that Paris was now safer, and for his part, Henri was bound by secrecy to say nothing about the battles planned not far from Beaufort.

* * *

Moonlight allowed them to see more prec
isely, and the late-March night was not so cold. Helene watched Jean scan the scene below with his new binoculars. They were co-conspirators now, neither willing to forego these midnight outings.

“Do you think Papa would
be so pleased with his gift if he knew how you use it?” she asked.

Jean ignored her question. “They seem to have finished their tunnels. I don’t see any more signs of digging.”

“I wonder how close the tunnels go toward the front?”

They had speculated before on the purpose of these tunnels, imagining different scenarios. It seemed most likely they were designed to take men and supplies toward the front lines given the equipment and troops being assembled in the valley below.

“The front is kilometres away. Tunnels can’t reach that far.”

The pace of night activities had changed over the weeks, and now more practice drills took place than construction. Again and again, they watched soldiers laden with full gear form into groups, execute mock charges and disperse in what appeared to be random patterns. Occasionally, artillerymen would roll out the big guns from beneath their camouflage huts and practice loading and unloading. Helene thought the shells must be very heavy as most of the gunners worked in shirtsleeves. She wondered how they controlled their fear in the midst of battle and how they kept their wits about them. An image of Guy working amongst these huge beasts of war made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

“I never imagined that war required so much preparation.” Jean handed her the binoculars. “Almost three months since I first saw them. What do you think is next?”

“Fighting. They can’t do all this work and not launch an attack.”

Helene’s words were matter-of-fact, but her insides churned. She was certain that all hell would soon erupt and began each day with the same question: Will this be the day?

“I wish we knew when and where.”

“I wish we knew how it will affect us. Papa has been pressing Maman to return to Paris.” She often wondered whether to tell her mother what they saw each night. If her mother knew, she would be angry, but the knowledge might hasten their return to safety.

“But I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to miss this.”

Helene thought he sounded like a spoiled little boy. “What if we’re in danger?”

“I know how to use a rifle.”

Though they were whispering, Jean made this statement with indignation, pulling his brows together into a frown that made him look remarkably like his father.

“Don’t be silly, Jean. You’re barely sixteen.”

An image of her brother running away flashed through her mind. Despite his age, his height and broad shoulders made him look older, and she had heard of boys enlisting by forging their fathers’ signatures.

“And Maman has too much to worry about with Guy in the army. Remember what she was like when his leg was wounded? It wouldn’t be fair to her if you did something foolish.”

Jean flopped from his front onto his back but said nothing. Helene continued to watch the action below as groups of men set up three tents, much larger than usual.
I wonder why they’re white
, she thought. Once erected, they brought in planking, and she heard a faint
tat-tat-tat
repeating again and again, then more planks and more
tat-tat-tat
.

“Do you think those are hospital tents?” Helene said.

Jean rolled back onto his stomach and grabbed the binoculars, scanning carefully. “Those trucks down there have red crosses on them. Definitely field hospital tents.”

“We have to go, Jean. It’s two o’clock.” Helene tugged on her brother’s coat until he put away the binoculars and crept back from their hidden perch.

* * *

An early spring cold forced Helene to stay away from the hill three nights in a row. During the day, she had little energy for anything but reading, curled up on the sofa as she listened to the rain drizzling outside. On the third night, a persistent knocking jarred her awake.

“Maman?” she said.

“No, it’s me.”

“Jean,” she whispered, “what are you doing waking me up? It must be well past midnight.”

Jean crept across the room and sat on the edge of Helene’s bed. “Something’s going on. Two nights ago, the pace changed. The shelling stopped, and instead of rehearsals, all I could see were
supplies moving in. Boxes and boxes of supplies. There was no way to tell what was in them, but I’ll bet it was ammunition.”

Pellets of snow peppered the window, and the oak trees that bordered the garden creaked as the wind gathered force. Now fully awake, Helene brushed tendrils of hair away from her face a
nd stared at Jean in the gloom.

“Do you think battle will commence tonight?” he said.

Helene and Jean had had endless debates about what would happen and when, bandying about theories as though they were generals making strategic decisions.

She bit her lip for a moment, considering Jean’s question. “I don’t know. Germaine came to visit today and told me that her Canadian friend would be away for a while. She didn’t suspect anything, but perhaps he’s in the tunnels with his troops.”

“If it’s not tonight, I bet it will be tomorrow,” Jean said.

“I’m feeling better. Tomorrow ni
ght, I’ll come with you.”

She always dreamed at night, vivid scenes of inexplicable events mixed with familiar and unfamiliar people, rushing towards something that never became clear. Since she began watching the soldiers, her dreams were even more urgent, and when she woke, she would recall snatches of chaos that faded almost immediately. That night was no different except as she ran, she was surrounded by loud booming that terrified her so much she forced herself to wake up. Uncertainty hovered like a fat black crow.

Since it was Easter Sunday, they went to church, braving the wind and snapping cold that caused eyes to water and cheeks to turn pink, avoiding ruts filled with ice on either side of the road. Helene was on edge, on edge and distracted. Maman’s voice seemed far away, and on several occasions, she had to ask her mother to repeat a question.

“Perhaps you should have stayed in bed another day,” Maman said as they passed the pharmacy, where a black cat sat on the window ledge licking one paw. “You don’t seem to be with us at all this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Maman. I’m still a little tired.” Helene forced a light note into her voice.

“Well, you can nap during Father Marcel’s sermon,” Jean said.

“Jean Noisette!” Maman said. “That’s terribly disrespectful. Really, Jean, what’s come over you? I think you should add that to your confession.”

“I’m sorry, Maman.”

Though she yawned all evening, Helene could not sleep, and at four in the morning, she stood by the window, staring at a night sky streaked with heavy clouds. Rain mingled with sleet, causing thick drops to slither down the glass and pool on the outside ledge.
Will this be the night? Are the Canadians waiting in this rain?
She strained to hear something, anything that might suggest an answer.

Her door opened a crack.

“I’m going to the hill,” Jean said. “I’m sure it’s tonight, so I’m going.”

He spoke with unaccustomed belligerence and she wondered if her brother was scared. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll come with you.”

She moved quickly around her bedroom, extracting clothing from a tall oak dresser, stepping over a hatbox full of letters dog-eared from frequent reading, then hanging her dressing gown from a large hook on the back of the door. She put on woollen pants, pulled a thick sweater over her head and pinned her hair into a knot with an urgent twist.

Dressed in heavy coats and knitted hats, t
hey left the house without a sound and ran, fear pounding with every step, following familiar paths, leaping across melting streams, scrabbling through ferns and bushes and as they approached the hill, she heard the opening roar, a deafening sound that shook her body. In an instant, a second crash followed, splitting the sky directly overhead, penetrating her world like a never-ending drumroll.

Helene and Jean clawed their way up the hill. The guns grew even louder, and a sharp, acrid smell filled the air. Her legs had almost given out when they reached their perch and stood with no need to crouch down and hide, for no one could possibly notice them given the furor of action rippling across the battlefield. Never
in her wildest dreams could she have imagined such a scene.