The Fires of Autumn (26 page)

In August, Thérèse saw that the children were getting worse, so she sold her winter coat. It was twelve years old and made of grey squirrel, one of the rare gifts Bernard had given her. Next winter, she would have to see. Perhaps it would not be so cold? She must not think of the future, just deal with what was most urgent. Furs were selling well; she got enough money for her coat to rent a small country cottage, about two hundred kilometres from Paris. She settled in there with the two children and Madame Jacquelain. It was so peaceful! There was a small garden, a bench on the lawn, a little stream that flowed through a meadow. For the first time since the start of the war, since Bernard had left and her son had died, she felt almost happy. Her happiness was tinged with sadness, but she was calm and confident. She had worked so hard; she had given so much of herself that she had atoned, or so she felt, for all of Bernard’s sins. Her love was not blind:
emotions felt with eyes wide open are the most deep-rooted and the most painful. She had not forgotten her suffering, how he had abandoned her, but she forgave him, and with all her heart. He too had suffered. She imagined his nights in the stalag, and his thoughts. He would come home. But what would be in his heart?

‘It’s just that we don’t have enough time to start our life together all over again,’ she thought. ‘If I were twenty years younger … But at our age, the furrow has already been marked out; we have to follow it to the end, whatever the cost, and too bad if the earth has been poorly prepared and is full of pebbles. Too bad; it’s too late. The bread we eat will be hard and bitter. Too bad for us. We did not sow our fields well.’

She knew, though, that she had nothing for which she could reproach herself, but she accepted the mysterious fact that in marriage, the innocent person must often pay as dearly as the guilty one. But she also had faith; her own efforts, her tears, the death of Yves would not be in vain; they would bear fruit. Perhaps in the near future? Perhaps only for their children, when she and Bernard were gone? She did not know. Such thoughts ran endlessly through her mind. She was a woman whose face was tired, whose hair was turning grey, but she was always calm and smiling; no one could have guessed that she still had so much passion within her. One day, she found a photograph from the past among some old letters. It was a group photo of Martial, Bernard as a teenager, Renée and herself; it must have been taken around 1911 or 1912. Her entire past, all her old memories swept through her at once. She called her daughters to show them the picture: ‘Come here, come quickly and see your Papa when he was young!’ Her eyes were shining, her lips trembled, but she smiled.

‘You were so pretty, Mama,’ said the little Geneviève, ‘and you’re still pretty.’

Thérèse glanced at the mirror and thought that, in fact, she was still quite attractive. Then she smiled sadly. Alas, that was
not enough … For she could not imagine that Bernard had aged, that Bernard had changed as she had. But whatever he looked like, she loved him.

It was autumn. The house was rented until the 1st November. Thérèse sometimes wondered if she would not be wiser to stay in the countryside all winter. She would be able to get food and keep warm more easily than in Paris, but what would Bernard say if he came home?

The children were now well again; they ran through the fields, played on the road and went to fetch eggs from the henhouse. The nights were starting to get cold. In the morning, they picked icy peaches; the juice flowed into their mouths as cold and sweet as sorbet. Little Colette picked up a dead bee she found in the centre of a dahlia. People were starting to light the first fires: in the little tiled rooms in their houses, the kind of fires that give off the smell of smoke and roasted almonds, a sweet perfume that lingers in the air; and fires, in the fields, that burn the weeds and prepare the ground for the next harvest. All around Thérèse, in the town, on the roads, in every house, a woman was waiting for her prisoner of war to come home. There were so many of them, and Thérèse had listened to their hopes and disappointments (more often than in Paris where she never saw anyone and where everyone talked only about food and how expensive life was), so often that she almost lost the confidence and faith she had felt at first. So many wishes, so much love, so much work … all in vain … Here, a child is born who does not know his father. There, an ill, old woman realises she is going to die without ever seeing her sons again, prisoners of war. And elsewhere, people have worn themselves out trying to keep a little farm going; the women’s health is suffering; their youth is fading because of having to take on work that is too hard for them. It was announced that soldiers who fought in the last war would be shown clemency; some men had already come home, but so many others were still missing,
far away. People talked about them, kept their memory alive, but in spite of everything, little by little, their features became blurred in the mind, like the faces of the dead. Every now and again, the ones back at home got used to being alone. From time to time, even Thérèse imagined something she would never have believed possible a few months before: another winter without him, another summer, perhaps … She had to live. She had survived after Yves had died. She would perhaps end her days far away from the only man she had ever loved. She was approaching the hardest moment to be faced when separated from the one you love, the moment when you finally get used to your pain, and then, you are only half alive, because that pain meant you were still fully alive. It was a bleeding, gasping kind of life, but now even that pain had disappeared, leaving nothing but a sense of mournful resignation.

It was a day like any other. It had rained a bit in the morning. The children had gone into the woods to gather chestnuts. They wore clogs and the prickly green shells cracked beneath their feet, making the smooth, shiny chestnuts spring out, as if from tiny catapults. They found foxglove in the forest as well, on long stems, and the last ceps of summer and clusters of greyish mushrooms that looked suspicious but which tempted Geneviève.

‘Are you sure they’re poisonous, Mama?’

‘Quite sure, darling.’

Colette secretly took off her shoes; she left her socks on and put her little feet down on the soft, spongy moss. The two little girls shook the branches of the trees and a light crackling shower of rain and golden leaves fell down on to them.

At midday, because they were far from the house, Thérèse suggested that for lunch they make do with the snack she had brought just in case, some bread and butter and goat’s cheese. Then, for dessert, and the best treat of all, they would roast some chestnuts. She soon managed to light a fire between two flat stones.
The children watched the fire for a long time, fascinated by the beautiful colour of the flames in daylight, a coppery pinkish colour.

‘This is nice, Mama,’ said little Geneviève. She let out a contented sigh and curled up against her mother’s threadbare skirt like a cat. They ate the chestnuts, then explored the forest to its edges, right up to the place where the fields began, the wide, dark purple fields, all furrowed and undulating. They fascinated Thérèse. She could not say why. Soaked with rain and sweat, this fertile land reminded her of her own life.

They spent the whole day in the warm woods where there was still a gentle torpid heat; it felt as if the branches, the grass, the dead leaves had soaked up and kept bits of sun and light, while the October wind blew through the rest of the vast countryside.

The smell of smoke reached Thérèse. There were fires everywhere, those purifying pyres of autumn. When Thérèse and her children finally headed home, the sun was already setting; the clear, reddish sky was a sign that the next day would be cold. The crows were cawing. The road seemed long to their tired little feet; Thérèse had to carry her youngest daughter in her arms. Pools of mud shimmered, all pink. Colette soon fell asleep, her head on her mother’s shoulder. She was a sweet burden … but a burden nonetheless. ‘To tell the truth,’ Thérèse thought sadly, ‘I’ve always had to carry them alone.’ It was dusk; it was cold. She felt tired and weak. She listened vaguely to the children’s babbling; she replied to them without thinking. She continued with her thoughts; a kind of internal pulse beat within her; one question, always the same, obsessed her:

‘When will he come home?’

Perhaps it was because of the physical fatigue, or hunger (for she had eaten almost nothing so the children could have most of the lunch), but she suddenly gave in to a feeling worse than despondency: for the first time in her life, perhaps, she was overwhelmed by black despair. Yes, for the first time … 
Yves … She had found consolation in the nobility of his death, by her faith in eternal life and by her conviction that so many young lives could not be sacrificed in vain. But she had never before experienced a despair so deep, so darkly seductive. ‘It’s all over,’ she thought. She would never see her husband again. And besides, what was the point? She had always been a fool. She had been betrayed and abandoned. Her son had died for nothing because France had been beaten. Even if he came home, Bernard would not look twice at this woman with her grey hair, a woman he had not loved even when she was young. As soon as he was back on his feet, he would start seeking out life’s pleasures. My God, could he actually be right …? What was the point of so many scruples, so much suffering? No one would thank her for it. She felt abandoned both by God and man. So many prayers, so many tears … All in vain … The war had been going on for ages, and was still going on. Her husband would not be returned to her.

She raised her eyes towards the heavens in an instinctive gesture of supplication.

‘If you have not abandoned me, Jesus,’ she whispered, ‘give me a sign, just one sign! Do not test me any more.’

But the reddish sky continued to sparkle, pure, icy, brilliant. The wind was growing piercing and cruel. Perhaps, after all, this silence and this indifference were the signs she had asked for?

She put Colette down on the ground:

‘Come on now, walk for a while. There’s the house. I can’t any more.’

Surprised by her mother’s tone of voice, normally so gentle, Colette looked up at her, said nothing and trotted along behind her, head lowered. Geneviève, who was always full of energy, ran on ahead. They pushed open the little grey gate; its bell made a soft tinkling sound. They went into the house. Thérèse saw her mother-in-law sitting at the table, her head in her hands.

‘She’s sleeping,’ said the little girls.

Thérèse walked over to her; the old woman was not asleep. She turned her trembling face towards Thérèse; she was crying.

‘My God, what’s wrong?’

‘Bernard … Bernard …’ stammered Madame Jacquelain, ‘he’s coming back … He’ll be home tonight … He’s been released … The telegram … it’s been waiting here for you since eleven o’clock, my poor child!’

The hours that followed were like a dream. Everyone was excited, rushed around, got dressed, tried to organise a car (the station was a few kilometres away). It was already dark when the two women and the children stood on the open platform in the wild, blustery wind. The stars shone and shimmered; the railway tracks gave off a pale light. Their four faces looked out into the distance with the same expression of joy, disbelief and anguish, for, to those who have suffered, happiness seems so inconceivable, at least at first.

The little girls, who had forgotten their father, wondered if he was kind, not too strict, if he would play with them, buy them presents. Madame Jacquelain felt as if she had travelled back twenty-five years and would see a young man appear suddenly, stepping briskly off the train, a young man with a bold look in his eyes, the Bernard of the past. And Thérèse … Thérèse alone thought nothing, remembered nothing. Her entire being was filled with expectation and love.

They heard the sound of the train, like whispering carried on the wind; then harsh, metallic noises, the wheels of the train hammering the bridge. Finally came the roar and the smoke of the engine. People stepped off … women carrying wicker baskets … children …‘My God, where is he? Where is Bernard? I must have been dreaming …’

Then a voice spoke, very close to her:

‘Don’t you recognise me, my dear Thérèse?’

She looked up. No, she did not recognise this pale man with very deep-set eyes, walking so slowly, who came towards her and kissed her.

‘Bernard,’ she whispered, and it was only when she felt her husband’s lips against her cheek that she understood it was really him, and she burst into tears. She also understood (one glance was all it took, a sigh, one brief sob that Bernard tried to stifle as he kissed her), she understood that he had changed, he had come back more mature, a better man and, at last, he was hers, and hers alone.