The Silent Hours (15 page)

ADELINE

1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France

It has been hours, days, and I am dreaming again of the shallow waters of the Glane, longing for it. My mouth is dry, ragged, the earth in my mouth makes me want to choke. I have to be quiet. The noises have died down and I feel alone, in this patch, my skin now part of the soil. I reach up, feel earth fall away like sand as I reach for one of the pods, snap it off and raise it to my chapped lips. Push the little rounded balls into my mouth desperately. Hard as I bite into them, they release a fraction of water. I suck at it, snap another from above me, repeat, pause to listen through my layers for sounds, snatch again. They are not enough. My throat is earth, my tongue sticking in my mouth. I think of the river, the water flowing cool, clear over the smooth pebbles, too far for me, or I would crawl there, reach from the side and with cupped hands swallow the water, push my head beneath the surface, drink in the water until my mouth, ears, hair and lungs fill with it, until just the chill of the water overwhelms me and I can be free.

Taking a great breath I gasp, struggle to sit up, a hand to my chest; scuffing at the sheets, trying to get them off me like they are the soil that sticks to me in sleep. I see the grille, the greyish still of the room, the crucifix.

My chest rises and falls, slower now.

The greyish still of the room, the crucifix.

Wearily, I shift my leg over the edge of the bed, wincing as I push at the scar: my mouth lifts a little. Sister Marguerite will be along shortly and I stand, move across to wash myself, gasp as the water from the jug splashes over the edge of the bowl onto my bare feet. As I sponge my face, the water drips into my mouth and remnants of my dream return. I hold the water in my mouth and then, closing my eyes, plunge my face into the bowl, open my eyes to see the bottom, a wash of blues and creams: just a bowl.

SEBASTIEN

The last train to Oradour has gone but I must find a way there. With the rain, great puddles are already forming. The streets are empty of people, lights are on in the first floors in many of the houses, people upstairs in the dry and warmth, all together.

My resolve fades and with a heavy sigh I turn and trudge back up the road. The rain eases off, as if congratulating me for my choice. I pass a smart house and notice a bicycle resting against some railings outside. I waver.

Most people are quick to put away their bicycles; so many thefts since the start of the war. Before I can change my mind I seize the handlebars and wheel the bicycle out into the road. It rolls off the pavement with a bump. I swing my leg over, knees sticking out at the sides as I place my feet on the pedals that are a little too high for me. Keen to get as far out of sight of the house as possible, I start to pedal. The bicycle is only borrowed, I assure myself.

The rain starts up again, punishment, and everything becomes a miserable effort, every incline a struggle. My leg, unused to the movement, is jerky and unwilling, pain searing through me. Sweat merges with the rain and the tyres bump over the uneven road as the light fades.

Hours later, every limb aching, the village of Oradour rears into view. The high street is deserted. I drag my feet on the ground either side of the bicycle to stop a little way from Isabelle’s shop. My legs nearly fall away from me when I get off. Shaking myself out like a wet dog, I wish I looked more presentable.

I rest the bicycle on a lamppost and, with Father’s words ringing in my ears, I push my way into the shop, limping slightly as my knee protests with every step.

A middle-aged woman dressed in a rather drab brown dress looks up as I enter, frowning as I traipse pools of rainwater into the first aisle. She has the same shaped face as Isabelle, the same startling eyes. Her mother. At that moment, a door at the back is pushed open and a blonde head appears. Using her foot to keep it open, Isabelle backs into the room holding a crate of tomatoes. I watch her turn and stop and look straight at me. The crate wobbles in her hands and I rush over to help her.

Isabelle looks stricken, glancing first at me then her mother then back at me again. Her mother does not know about us. I try not to let that thought fester, she will have her reasons.

‘Thank you,’ she says, in a formal way.

‘I must talk to you.’ My whispered words clash with hers and she merely nods a quick response. ‘Not at all,’ I say, louder.

Her mother is watching us. Isabelle is not going to introduce me. I pretend to browse the aisles and wait until her mother is serving another customer before daring to try and get her attention once more.

Isabelle crouches on the floor, as if to do up a shoelace – despite the fact that both are neatly tied – and whispers, ‘The alley down the side of the house, the gate on the left.’ She straightens up and disappears through the door from which she came.

Isabelle’s mother looks over at me and smiles briefly. I scoop up one of the tomatoes and a newspaper.

Her mother looks at me as I produce my money. She is too polite to make any comment. I must look ridiculous – drenched, red-cheeked.

Her eyes burn into my back as I leave, pushing the bike down the alley with one hand, tomato and paper in the other, the print already running.

There is a gate on the left and their garden is beyond. Isabelle is there, waiting for me.

‘Sebastien, what is it? Why are you—?’

‘I can explain.’

She slips past me. ‘Come on. I know where we can go.’ She beckons me to follow her further down the alley. ‘Leave the bicycle here,’ she says, pointing to a narrow break in the alley. Dense foliage creates a perfect spot for hiding it from view.

I hurry to keep up with her as we burst into the wide expanse at the end of the alley, the fields beyond and the sliver of the moon up ahead in a deepening blue sky. It has stopped raining and the air smells damp and earthy. The grass shimmers with raindrops as Isabelle guides me towards a tree in the corner of the meadow. A curtain of leaves shields us from view and she ducks beneath it. I follow.

‘What?’ she interrupts, disbelieving, as I start to gush an explanation. ‘You cycled all the way here?’

I nod. ‘I had to see you.’

Even in the failing light I can see her smile.

I can’t put off this moment any more; I have to tell her.

‘When you left, Father, he … the thing is that …’

‘He refused to let you see me any more,’ she says. ‘So did mine. He says it is not wise because’ – she looks at the ground, faltering – ‘of these times.’

Tears sting the back of my eyes. ‘We’re leaving,’ I say, my voice cold.

‘Leaving?’ Her eyes widen. ‘When?’

‘Imminently.’

‘Why? I told him he was being silly. I don’t want to stop seeing you. Where are you going?’

In a softer voice I say, ‘I wanted to ask … I mean, I thought, perhaps, when our families met and …’

Her eyes have lost their usual glint. She looks so forlorn as she wraps her cardigan tightly around her.

‘Well, I can’t ask but I will come back to you. I promise, Isabelle. I promise I will come back to you,’ I repeat.

She looks at me then, nodding slowly. ‘I believe you.’Tentatively, she moves towards me, closer, so close I can see tiny gaps in her eyelashes and the flecks of colour in her eyes, feel her breath on my face making my heart race so fast I think it might jump out of my chest. Her hand reaches for mine and I close my fingers around hers, close my eyes to stop my head spinning. I breathe in the smell of her, the earth, the hint of spice on the air. The river running past us provides a gentle backdrop to our scene. The moment is made for this and I pull her towards me, kiss her.

A little moan in my ear practically ends me there and then. She whispers words, encouraging, and I allow her to take over. She guides my hand down her body, all the while whispering in my ear and coaxing me to continue, welcomes me. Peeling off her stockings I look up at her and she nods, her legs sliding apart, an invitation. My head is screaming that I must stop but my body has long since taken over and shut it out. I am hers and she is mine and here under this tree, in this little patch of another time in another world, we lie down on the earth together.

Afterwards we lie there, breathing heavily. What have I done? Have I taken advantage of this girl? I won’t forgive myself. I rear up on one elbow, startling her. ‘I wanted to ask – I’m asking you now. Will you marry me? Please wait for me …’

She leans up and kisses me softly. ‘Yes, I will – I will, of course.’

And I settle back down beside her, feel her head nestling under my chin, her hair tickling my face as I hold her. She will wait for me and we will be together and we will marry and have children: we have a future.

PART THREE

ADELINE

1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France

His steps on the flagstones outside my room are familiar to me by now. He moves into the room, glancing quickly at my bedside table. The notebook he gave me during his last visit is there by my side, next to a little kerosene lamp and a half-empty glass of water. It sits there, and he must see that I have thumbed through it – its pages look as if they have been turned over on numerous occasions, its spine is wrinkled with these efforts, a pen rests by its side. Does he imagine I have written my story out in a neat hand? That he can just read it and unlock the secret?

I have battled with the notebook, knew I owed it to them to try. This was different to making notes, brief requests. The blank first page stared accusingly back at me for days and I hadn’t known where to begin. So I recorded the fragments, the thoughts, some memories as they came. At times a rush, at times painstakingly. I knew the answer was not yet there.

‘How are we today?’ he asks, his voice filling the room as he drags the stool over to the bed. ‘I’ve been doing a little research and there is a doctor in America who had a case study who responded well to a new treatment for your sort of condition. These Americans always seem to get there first. Well, aside from in a war, and then they sweep in at the end.’ He stops to chuckle at his own joke, but I’m too distracted by his talk of treatments and conditions.

He pats at his hair, flattening the strands that had once covered the crown of his head. ‘I’m making more enquiries. There is a chap in England I have been in touch with who seems keen to come across and visit you. He’s quite a forward-thinker, involved in researching new ways of helping someone in your position. He does something that involves electric currents’ – a pause to cough, did he see my head snap up at this? – ‘but rest assured, it sounds quite safe.’

He is hasty today, distracted. There is a little mark on his tie, as if he missed his mouth with his toothbrush this morning.

‘Today, let’s try to stimulate some of those old feelings, prompt a noise. You must try and focus on the feeling and perhaps then you will be able to respond.’

I don’t want treatments, fuss. I don’t want people coming over from England. I don’t want people talking about me in America. I don’t deserve this special treatment. My foot moves away from him and he catches it and rests it on a cushion.

‘There now,’ he says, wielding a little rubber hammer. He gently strikes the sole of my left foot, peering over at my face, as if his hit might instantly cause my mouth to open, might make words come pouring out. I can always see it in his eyes:
Today might be the day.
That he might be the man to open the box, to listen and learn.

He finishes with my feet and rummages in his bag for the next prop, drawing out a long feather as if he is unsheathing a sword. He moves a little uncertainly to the end of the bed once more and starts to stroke the underside of my foot. When that fails to get a reaction he moves the feather up my lower leg, pausing just below my knee. I know a blush has crept up my neck at the same pace as the feather has moved up my leg. I stare at the ceiling, noticing every crack, every fleck of dirt on its surface. My leg twitches at the light touch and the doctor himself has become a little uncomfortable, coughing at sporadic moments as he trails the feather higher up my leg.

‘Worth a try, I suppose,’ he says, returning to his bag. Feathers, hammers – nothing ever works. My voice will not return; it belongs to another time. I am a shell, the insides scratched out. The scars are thinner now, a part of me as, over the years, my body has tried to heal. There are gaping holes inside me and yet still I breathe in and out and in and out.

Breathing wasn’t always so easy.

I hold my sleeves up to my face, covering my mouth with the cloth, sinking to my knees to find the gap in the floor where the oxygen still flows, trickles, along the stones. Noise piercing, every pore raging, filled with it, the fiery sounds and haze of panic. The floor, a thread of air still there, and I am moving, not thinking of anything else, my lungs filling with it.

My dreams and memories have merged and I know the next part.

The reason that I am silent.

There are no explanations, no excuses, just the weight of guilt and shame and memory taking another scrape of my insides so that soon my skin will be paper-thin and then I will finally crack and die.

I force myself to think again, flinching as I feel another strand splicing, stretching me even thinner.

Where is she now? Is her step as light, her smile as wide, her hair as golden? I wonder whether Vincent still writes, dreams, whistles when he walks. Whether they both glow from the inside out. Does Paul miss me as I miss him? Do they wander through their own memories, sifting and holding up what is dear to them, clutching it to try and keep out the cold and the dark? I hope there is light and joy and happiness for them, as I have always hoped.

PAUL

Dear Isabelle,

I’ve read your last letter about ten times now, I want to read it again so thewords form pictures and I am with you all in the village. I miss the small things –a cider with Father in the garden, lazy dinners, kicking a football in the meadow by the river, bringing in the harvest, sitting on the back of Old Renard’s cart, the scratch of hay at my back, hands blistered, back aching, gripping the side as we jostle along, watching the sun sink behind a bank of cloud, streaking the sky with pinks and reds.

We have been moved again. The officers in the Stalag sent us to a different Kommando and we are in a factory, an hour’s walk away from the main camp. We sleep in a long room next door to the machines that sit silently in the darkness. Outside the guards patrol the courtyard contained within a barbed-wire fence, sowe are truly hemmed in. This lot seem bigger than the last, barking rather than talking. Mocking everything we do, so we feel laughed at and pathetic.

The everyday seems smaller and greyer now that we are in the middle of this mesh of buildings. I miss being able to see into the distance, not wonder at what is behind a blank wall or a fence. We can’t see the horizon, only patches of sky through grimy, high windows in the factory where we work, making out distant vapour trails and feeling a shudder as something drops too close. We’ve been in the city now for a few weeks and the work is colourless and never-ending. Worse, I feel that we really are now part of the machinery of war, that we are helping them.

There is talk of escape as we lie on stained bedclothes above an alley that seemsto always be piled high with festering rubbish, breathing through our mouths. Rémi isn’t sure, he wants to sit tight and wait for it all to be over but I don’t want to sit and wait for a war that might take years to end, to lose my life on the whim of someone else. We hear stories – it has been done before, and successfully too. Eventalking about it makes my heart hammer harder, pumping blood to my limbs, making a foot twitch, hand resting on my thigh stopping it rise and fall, rise and fall. Father would not want me to sit here, he would want me to fight, to stand up and bloody a man’s nose.

I know I can’t post this now, will no doubt have to destroy it – another reminder of my submissiveness, and I shouldn’t worry you about these thoughts anyway, but I will try to get out. I will not just sit on my hands and nod at them. That is not me. I am not sure what the future holds for me but it can’t be here. I hope Rémi can be persuaded by others; I don’t want to leave him behind but I will go—.