Chapter Twenty-Three
‘It’s our Christian duty to look after the poor little mites,’ Odile declared. ‘But where are they to live? You can’t have them all running around the chateau. And how are we going to feed them?’
‘Doctor Pailleau will help with that,’ Madame de Courcy said.
‘The mayor told me ration books will be provided, and we shall be given extra deliveries of milk and butter from the farms. As for accommodation: we’ll move them into the old servants’ block.
There’s a kitchen of sorts, so they can be self-sufficient, and two bathrooms. The girl Anna will keep them in order and a couple of the older boys seem sensible too.
If everyone pulls together, I think we can manage. ’
‘For how long, though?’ the maid Ernestine asked.
‘Who knows?’ the countess replied. ‘As long as necessary. We may be able to smuggle some of them away but the little ones are in no fit state to travel. Still, they should be easier to hide.’
When Madame had left to supervise the children coming down for breakfast, Odile whispered to Mathilde, ‘British airmen is one thing, orphans another. My Georges wasn’t happy about the previous situation but he won’t raise any objection to kiddies staying here; you can be sure of that.
And if he does, I’ll soon change his mind.
’ She glanced at Irène, chewing placidly on a rusk in her high chair. ‘There but for the grace of God . . .’
Mathilde felt a shiver of unease at the mention of Georges’ name.
He looked at her differently now, and there were plenty of pointed remarks such as, ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ and ‘Could you bring yourself to . . .?’ Clearly, he regarded her pregnancy as nothing more than a personal inconvenience and probably a moral failing on her part, too.
In some respects, it was a relief not to have to listen to his endless complaints but resentful silence was uncomfortable in a different way.
She squared her shoulders. There was plenty to be done, and no time to waste thinking about Georges Leclerc.
She and Ernestine went up the back staircase to move the children’s mattresses out of the attic.
At least half of them had wet the bed and the sheets would have to be washed, so the laundry girl was bound to find out about the new arrivals.
‘Clothilde can be trusted,’ Ernestine said. ‘Our mothers are friends.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ Mathilde replied.
The circle of those who would know about the Jewish children was ever-expanding: Clothilde, Georges and the garden boys, the dairy workers delivering extra milk, presumably whoever was supplying the doctor with forged ration books, and all the neighbours and acquaintances of those families who were sheltering children themselves.
It would only take one disgruntled person to betray them.
‘We’ll all rally round,’ Ernestine said, bundling up the sodden sheets. ‘You’ll see. The people of Les Roches are decent folk.’
And when Mathilde saw the children straggling into the kitchen for their bread and milk, looking as though they’d raided the dressing-up box, she knew the countess had acted in the only way possible. How could anyone with a shred of humanity have turned them away?
Over the next few weeks, the Jewish children became absorbed into daily life at Chateau Albertine.
The older ones helped with jobs around the grounds: collecting eggs, picking fruit, weeding the flower beds.
A German boy called Stefan seemed especially keen on gardening and worked alongside Georges’ lad all day.
He was fascinated by the vineyard, too, and asked Mathilde a hundred questions as he walked the parcel with her.
In those early days, the only time she ever glimpsed the youngest children was when she went to the former servants’ block with a delivery of milk or bread: pale faces at the window, instantly withdrawn.
She sometimes felt their presence: light, running footsteps; a swiftly stifled cry; a snatch of song in a clear, high voice.
Anna kept them under tight control and they seemed to respect her; at least, they did what she told them to.
Doctor Pailleau came to check them regularly and reported they were putting on weight, but they were still hard work; Clothilde was now coming every day to tackle the laundry.
It might have been Mathilde’s imagination, but she seemed to see sheets flapping from every washing line on her rare trips into Les Roches.
She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, unable to find a position in bed that allowed her to sleep, and she was plagued with heartburn.
She knew exactly when the baby had been conceived so there could be no doubt about her due date, about a month away.
‘First babies are always late,’ Odile said, so there was no point getting excited yet.
Dr Pailleau examined her, as well as the children, and told her everything was progressing as it should.
There had been no word from Yves and they never mentioned his name, though she thought about him constantly.
Didn’t he deserve to know he was to have a child?
Yet when she tried to imagine his reaction to the news, she felt sure she was doing the right thing.
If he were overjoyed, he would be distracted, and if he were horrified, she would hate him.
One morning, the countess called Mathilde and Georges together and said it would be a good idea if young Stefan worked with Mathilde in the vineyard, so he could help her now and take over some of her duties in the weeks following her baby’s birth.
Georges muttered about people not pulling their weight but Madame ignored him, her strictures against slacking seemingly forgotten.
Mathilde was delighted and relieved by the proposal.
Stefan was quick to learn and easy to get along with, and somehow he always managed to be cheerful.
He would sometimes sing as he worked when he thought no one else was in earshot; he had a lovely baritone that could make even the harsh German words sound beautiful.
She also found his presence reassuring. It was a comfort to have someone nearby she could call on in an emergency and although he was thin, he was wiry and strong; he could probably carry her down the hill if necessary.
Odile’s tales had made her nervous and she dreaded the thought of having to give birth by herself in a remote corner of the field.
Mathilde was increasingly preoccupied by the baby she was soon to meet, and watched Odile take care of Irène with new respect and interest. Odile was a good mother: competent but caring, endlessly patient.
She sometimes tucked up one or two of the smallest Jewish children on the kitchen couch, giving them a crust of bread to chew while they watched her work with dark, liquid eyes.
As the days went by, they were all relaxing their guard, absorbed in the creation of their small community and not looking beyond it.
Two of the older children came to the chateau to work in the laundry, while Madame de Courcy helped Anna devise lessons for the younger ones with books that had been her own children’s favourites. The days passed quickly.
Mathilde wasn’t going into Les Roches anymore and no longer picked up an underground newspaper from the café in the square, though she couldn’t avoid the news altogether.
Georges scoffed at Marshal Pétain’s call for volunteers to work in Germany, in exchange for French prisoners-of-war.
He certainly wouldn’t be going, not even if Fabrice de Courcy himself were put on the next train home.
Occasionally Mathilde listened to the Free French wireless broadcasts from London but their appeals no longer touched her in the same way.
She dusted off the old crib, dragged it beside her bed and filled it with blankets, washed some of the less ornate baby clothes the countess had given her and asked Stefan to kindly bring up a low-armed chair from the cellar, which she would use for nursing.
Odile told her she was nesting, which was perfectly natural.
Her world had shrunk; she let the chateau close its arms around her.
Late one afternoon, she and Stefan were thinning canes in the vineyard.
The light was fading and they should probably have stopped work but Mathilde wanted to reach the end of the row.
She’d slept particularly badly the night before – or rather, hadn’t slept – and felt more than usually uncomfortable.
Everything conspired to annoy her: sweat pooling between her heavy breasts, the first bats swooping frantically over the vines, ants crawling up her legs and over her fingers.
‘Why don’t you go indoors and I’ll finish here?’ Stefan suggested, after she’d snapped at him to take more care.
‘Because I can’t trust you to make a good job of it,’ she said. The poor boy looked so crestfallen she was about to apologise when she heard someone calling her name and looked down to see the bright flag of Paulette’s auburn hair. She’d dismounted from her bicycle and was waving frantically.
‘Run down and see what’s the matter,’ Mathilde told Stefan. ‘I’ll follow as quickly as I can.’
By the time she reached Paulette at the bottom of the hill, Stefan was already racing towards the servants’ block. ‘The Jew hunters are here,’ Paulette told her. ‘In Les Roches, but they’ll be searching this place next. There’s three of them, in a car, with authority from the German police.’
‘Do they know about our stowaways?’ Mathilde asked, trying to keep her head.
‘They’d have come here first if they did,’ Paulette replied. ‘But you must get those kids away, quick as you can.’
‘Stefan,’ Mathilde called after him, ‘I’ll meet you at the block! Wait there!’ And he turned to give her a thumbs-up. She started a lumbering run but stopped, wincing.
‘What’s the matter?’ Paulette asked.