11.
THE JOY THAT HAD carried Fabienne through Christmas had faded by the first week of January. The beginning of 1944 had arrived in a blizzard, followed by more snow and a constant bitter wind. By the time spring arrived in early March, rations had been reduced again, as a punishment for the German army failures, and the citizens of Erstein were simply trying to survive long enough to see the warmer months arrive.
Any hope of being able to propagate crops and vegetables early in the year to support their meagre diet had already been thwarted by the lousy weather. The German soldiers were angrier and more aggressive than ever, and it was as if the few rules that might have once kept some men’s behaviour in check had been revoked, making the Boches even more unpredictable.
Fabienne sensed the danger more acutely and she did all she could to stay invisible to the German patrols, and especially to Hauptmann Müller. The latter was proving more difficult since he had taken an instant dislike to her and continued to do everything in his power to make her life both harder and more miserable. She didn’t doubt that, if he had the chance, he would take her life in a heartbeat. However, she planned to get to him first. It was just a matter of picking the right time.
She finished the disgusting acorn coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink, wondering why she bothered with it at all. Habit, she supposed – the comfort that came from going through a familiar process of making it, even if the taste or the effect wasn’t the same at the end.
Mamie looked wearier today, her body nothing more than loose skin and bone after the harsh winter. The clothes that had once hugged her now hung limply from her fragile frame. They had all suffered from the lack of rations, of course, but since she’d started working for the Neumanns, Mamie had lost the spark that had once radiated her passion for life. Now, she moved around the kitchen as if every joint rubbed bone on bone, hesitantly and slowly. She reached for her cup of coffee and toppled it over.
“Damn. I am so tired, chérie.”
Fabienne’s fatigue was bearable. Mamie looked frighteningly defeated and Fabienne worried she might be losing her. Her stomach twisted at the thought. “Sit down. I’ll take care of it.” She cleared the mess and made a fresh cup.
“I need to get to the house, or the captain will be cross,” Mamie said.
“You must try not to be alone with him,” Fabienne said, repeating the message she gave Mamie daily.
Fortunately, it appeared Frau Neumann was equally concerned for their safety around the officer as she often turned up while he was watching over them and told him to go elsewhere. Still, the kommandant’s wife couldn’t be in two places at the same time, so there were occasions when he would stand over one of them too closely. Fabienne touched her ribs, where the newest bruises he’d inflicted were still tender. By the way he eyed her breasts and thighs, she knew it was only a matter of time before he tried to take advantage of her. When he did, she would have no choice but to stop him, no matter what it took and no matter the consequences.
Mamie drank in silence.
Nancy came into the kitchen and slumped at the table. “I don’t want to go to school.”
Fabienne handed her a plate with a slice of bread on it and a cup of water. “You’re funny. Of course you are going to school.”
“Astrid doesn’t go to school.” She took a bite out of the bread.
“I’m sure she would probably love to go to school,” Mamie said. “Sadly, she has no choice and she has no friends here.”
“I could be her friend,” Nancy said. “We could play in the garden.”
Fabienne stroked Nancy’s hair. “She’s not allowed to play with you.”
Nancy looked up at Fabienne, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with me?”
Fabienne studied her cousin’s heart-shaped face, the confusion in her deepening frown and the sadness in her eyes. How could someone so young understand this folly? She kissed the tip of her nose. “There is nothing wrong with you, Nancy. There is something wrong with the world right now, and hopefully someday soon all the madness will be over, and then you will be able to play with Astrid and anyone else you choose.”
“I still don’t want to go to school,” Nancy said. “Can I stay at home, please? I want to play with Leo and Cleopatra.”
Fabienne bent down and straightened the collar on her cousin’s pinafore dress. She would feel happier with Nancy staying here and playing with the kittens, but that would be an admission that she feared for her safety at school. She had to keep those concerns to herself, or she would frighten Nancy even more than she already was. “Do you have your books in your bag?”
“Please, Fabienne. Mamie. I promise to do some reading and writing.”
Fabienne rubbed a crumb from her cheek and kissed her forehead. “Absolutely not. You have one week until the Easter break and it’s good for you to be with your friends.”
Nancy gazed up at her. “But I want to be friends with Astrid if she has no friends. It’s not fair on her.”
Fabienne’s heart ached. Astrid was just a kid and no different from her cousin but for the birth rights she had been afforded being the daughter of a kommandant during a world war in which the Germans were in ascendency. How could Nancy fully understand the complexities and the constraints that had been forced upon them. Astrid was a good kid too, and Fabienne would love for them to be able to play together, but that was forbidden. “Your friends are at school.”
Nancy finished eating the bread and drank the water in silence, her mood evident by the heavy thud of her glass on the table and sharp scrape of the chair legs on the tiled floor as she stood up.
Fabienne grabbed Nancy’s coat and held it out so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. “Pick up your bag and let’s get you to school or we will be late.”
Nancy grumbled to herself as she slung the bag over her shoulder and started towards the door.
Fabienne turned to Mamie. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” She held her gaze, reinforcing the message to be careful around Müller, then followed Nancy to the van.
“Want to sing a song?” she asked as she started the engine, hoping it would distract her cousin from the strop she was wallowing in.
“I don’t feel like it,” Nancy said, her eyes remaining glued to the house across the yard as Fabienne drove towards the main road.
Fabienne drove the rest of the way in silence.
Nancy climbed out of the van and walked up the path towards the school. She dropped her bag in the playground and started skipping with a group of girls. Hopefully she would quickly forget about being friends with Astrid.
Fabienne was sick of being the one to say no to her for things that should be normal and fun.
She drove into town and parked on the street just a short walk from the church, her breath visible in the cold air. She tucked the collar of her jacket up around her neck and lit a cigarette. She turned off the street and walked through the graveyard. Three new graves had been dug since the previous week: two more men and another child from the village who had lost their lives for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She crossed herself as she passed them, stumped out her cigarette just short of the door, and entered the church. The place was adorned with candles that flickered in the constant draught, and the pews were empty but for an elderly couple at the front of the church and Madame Guillaume, the butcher’s wife. They acknowledged each other briefly. There were marks on her face that didn’t belong there. She held her swollen belly, which was not given to her by her husband since he had been serving on the Eastern front for over two years, and she winced as she moved her right arm to light a candle.
A chill passed across Fabienne’s skin and the pungent smell of musty, damp cloth lingered ominously. A sense of untimely death haunted the place. She blew into her hands, took a spot at the pew closest to the confessional, and kneeled to pray for the three newly lost souls, her parents, her uncle and aunt, and Madame Guillaume.
She rose and sat with her back against the hard wood and glanced around. She should put her faith in God, and she wanted to, but it was hard to trust the living, let alone the abstract. The only thing that would change the war was the actions of those who would get retribution for victims like Madame Guillaume and defend the people of France.
She wondered about Frau Neumann. She was sure she felt the same way as Fabienne about the futility of war, the complete and utter wrongness of one country imposing itself onto another. Since that first evening when her husband had returned home late, the time Müller had left Fabienne with visible bruises, she had seen compassion in Frau Neumann’s eyes and felt the tenderness in her touch. She had seen how flustered Frau Neumann had become in Müller’s presence. And she’d witnessed enough times since, how upset or angry she got whenever she spent any time with her husband. Fabienne was sure she had witnessed in the kommandant’s wife the all-to-familiar sense of powerlessness that she too felt.
In the months since Christmas, Frau Neumann had changed. She’d become a little more guarded and harder to read. Fabienne understood why. Müller was a tyrant, and he wouldn’t think twice of informing the kommandant of an irregularity involving his wife. He was also smart enough to navigate Frau Neumann’s instructions to meet his own ends. He watched Fabienne from a distance and only struck her on her body where the bruises would remain hidden.
She hoped Frau Neumann was sharp enough to know what went on when she wasn’t there and strong enough to stand up and fight against her homeland, to save herself and Astrid when the time came. The latter was a big ask, and would be a massive risk, but Fabienne’s instinct told her it wouldn’t take a lot for Frau Neumann to do the right thing, providing she could do so without detriment to her daughter. And if she trusted Fabienne.
The confessional door opened, and a man came out. He put on his beret and shuffled out of the church with his head down.
She entered the booth and closed the door. The air inside smelled of sweat and fear. She sat and put her hands on her thighs. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a month since my last confession.”
“Good morning, my child.”
Fabienne turned towards the grille in surprise at the strange accent. Her heart thundered and her hands became clammy. “Who are you? Where is Father Michel?”
“Father Michel has been called to give the last rites to a senior German officer. Le pauvre.” His tone stripped the sincerity from his statement. “I have come from Stuttgart to support Father Michel for the foreseeable future. The number of sick and dying is increasing daily and he cannot serve the community alone.”
From what she had seen, the sick and dying hadn’t had the luxury of being read their last rites since the start of the war. Who the hell was this man? Judging by the accent, whoever it was on the other side of the screen wasn’t from this region and possibly not even from France. She had to keep calm, as she did when dealing with the guards at the dairy. “What is your name?”
“Father Paul.” He leaned towards the grille and whispered, “You should know that the swallows are returning early this spring.”
Fabienne’s stomach turned at the use of the code. This man with the unfamiliar accent was a member of the Resistance and was delivering a message to Fabienne. “Why are you telling me this?”
There was a noise outside the confessional and Fabienne remained silent.
“Tell me, child, how have you sinned?” he said, continuing as if he was conducting a standard confession.
“I have taken milk,” Fabienne said.
“And was this to feed God’s people?”
Fabienne inhaled deeply and leaned back in the seat. “Yes, it was to feed those who are suffering the most this winter, Father.”
“This is a difficult time, my child. We all find ourselves doing things we wouldn’t have expected in our other lives. If you are doing God’s work, there is no sin in that. Still, it pays to be vigilant of your neighbours. You should go and light a candle, in your search for clarity and comfort.”
Another coded message. “Yes, Father.”
She left the confessional and went to the opposite side of the church, to where the unlit candles were. She glanced around to confirm that no one was paying her any attention, then plucked a short thin candle from the box. To the side was a small block of wax with no wick. She picked it up and put it in her pocket. She lit the candle and placed it on the altar table, bent her head, and prayed for her family still living, then headed back to the cottage. She put the block of wax in the cupboard and went across to the house.
“You’re late,” Müller said as she entered the kitchen through the back door. He straightened his back and towered over the threshold to the dining room, his gaze intense.
Mamie’s hands trembled as she scrubbed potatoes in the sink. She didn’t look up.
Anger gripped Fabienne but she could not react to him. “There was a checkpoint on the road, Hauptmann Müller. I had to wait in line for a long time.”
He strode towards her, grabbed her hair, and tugged her head backwards. “Don’t lie to me.” His breath reeked from nicotine and stale alcohol. Her stomach roiled. He flung her backwards, smacking her head against the countertop. “Now get to work.”
She picked up the wood basket and went outside, her head ringing. She felt the swelling prickle at the roots of her hair. Putain. She took her time retrieving the wood, calming her anger.
When she returned, Frau Neumann was standing in the kitchen and Müller had gone. Mamie still didn’t look up as she worked. A tight knot remained in Fabienne’s stomach. “What can I do for you, Frau Neumann?” she asked as she stoked the stove.
“Could I get a coffee? I can make it myself. And a glass of berry cordial for Astrid. I made some earlier. It’s in the fridge.”
“I can make the coffee. Shall I bring the drinks through to the dining room?” She regretted the curtness in her tone that had nothing to do with the woman standing in front of her.
Frau Neumann avoided making eye contact. “Yes. We will be at the piano.”
As she left the kitchen, Fabienne turned to Mamie. “Did anything happen while I was away?”
Mamie turned to her, revealing the cut beneath her left eye and the blue-and-black bruising that had already blossomed across her thin skin. “I fell, Fabienne.”
Fabienne gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and froze. If she moved, she would hunt him down and do something stupid. “Putain de Boche.”
“Leave it, Fabienne. Don’t give him the satisfaction,” Mamie whispered.
“I have to do—”
“Yes, you have to make coffee and take in the cordial.” Mamie put her hand on Fabienne’s arm.
The halting sound of musical scales filtered into the kitchen and Fabienne took the drinks through on a tray. Astrid was practising, her tongue poking from her mouth, prodding one key at a time with her index finger. Frau Neumann watched her daughter, pride emanating from her warm smile.
Looking through to the foyer, there was no sign of Müller. “Where shall I put the drinks?”
Frau Neumann held onto the smile as she looked towards Fabienne, and they stared at each other until the discomfort registered and Fabienne broke eye contact.
“On the table, please.”
Astrid jumped down from the piano stool and went to the table. She drank the cordial without pausing. “Can I go and play with Lakritze now?” She put the glass back on the tray.
Frau Neumann nodded. “Just for five minutes and then you must get back to your studies.”
Fabienne waited until Astrid had left the dining room, and long enough to be sure that Müller wasn’t going to pounce on them. “She plays well,” she said, the anger still roiling inside her.
Frau Neumann gave a small laugh. “She tries hard, but she’s not a natural pianist. That gift I seem to have given my son, Ralf.”
She looked towards the photograph on the piano.
The image of Fabienne’s family came to her. “We have all lost things precious to us.”
Frau Neumann sipped her coffee and cleared her throat. “Yes.” She held Fabienne’s gaze. “What did you do before the war?”
Fabienne was thrown by the question. It was nice to be asked; it made her something other than the enemy or the house servant. It surprised her, cutting through the anger as it did. “I’m just a dairy farmer. The business has been, I mean was, in our family for three generations.”
Frau Neumann frowned. “It’s an important job. I’m afraid I come from an entirely different background. My early years were strongly influenced by the arts, music, theatre and nannies. You would probably call me entitled.”
Fabienne assessed her. She looked like someone she would associate with good breeding, a fine bone structure, high cheekbones, slender build, and pretty, blue eyes. She wouldn’t dispute the differences in their heredity or their upbringing, but she hadn’t ever thought of Frau Neumann as entitled. “Kindness and compassion are similar in all cultures, are they not?”
Frau Neumann lowered her gaze. “We might be at war, but we must never lose our humanity.”
“Is everything in order, Frau Neumann?”
Ice threaded Fabienne’s veins at the sound of Müller’s voice. She excused herself, picked up the tray, and headed back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner for the kommandant’s return.
Mamie’s cheek was swollen and her eye barely a slit by the time they finished work and headed back to the cottage. A tear leaked from it as she stood at the kitchen sink, and she wiped it away. Another came soon after.
Fabienne held her; she felt frail. “I have new instructions.” She released her and took the block of wax from the cupboard.
“I’ll make coffee. Do you want some?”
Acorn coffee was a poor substitute and serving the real thing to Frau Neumann had left Fabienne with a vicious craving that wouldn’t be satisfied by the bitter alternative. “I’ll have wine,” she said. She chipped at the wax to reveal the note buried inside.
Mamie poured them both a drink. “What does it say?”
“I need to decipher it.” She took their bible from the shelf, a piece of paper and a pencil from the drawer and sat at the table to work on the code.
Mamie stirred the pot of soup that would be their supper.
After half an hour, Fabienne looked up and shook her head. “We have to blow the bridge across the river on the evening of the seventh of April, to stop them transporting two hundred and thirty-six Jews to the German work camps.”
“That’s Good Friday.” Mamie made the sign of a cross against her body. “God help those poor people,” she whispered.
Fabienne put down her pencil. Her stomach turned at the thought of their plight. “They need our help, Mamie, not God’s.”
They had to succeed, free these people from a certain death, but how could they get them all to safety? She didn’t have an answer.