Part 25 (1/2)
”Will you come and say goodbye to me, Herr Lieutenant Herr Lieutenant? I'm going out, but I'll be back at six o'clock.”
The three young men stood up and clicked their heels. In the past, she had found this display of courtesy by the soldiers of the Reich old-fas.h.i.+oned and rather affected. Now, she thought how much she would miss this light jingling of spurs, the kiss on the hand, the admiration these soldiers showed her almost in spite of themselves, soldiers who were without family, without female companions.h.i.+p (except for the lowest type of woman). There was in their respect for her a hint of tender melancholy: it was as if, thanks to her, they could recapture some remnant of their former lives where kindness, a good education, politeness towards women had far more value than getting drunk or taking an enemy position. There was grat.i.tude and nostalgia in their att.i.tude towards her; she could sense it and was touched by it. She waited for it to be eight o'clock in a state of deep anxiety. What would she say to him? How would they part? There was between them an entire world of confused, unexpressed thoughts, like a precious crystal so fragile that a single word could shatter it. He felt it too, no doubt, for he spent only a brief moment alone with her. He took off his hat (perhaps his last civilian gesture, thought Lucile, feeling tender and sad), took her hands in his. Before kissing them, he pressed his cheek against hers, softly and urgently both at the same time. Was he claiming her as his own? Attempting to brand her with his seal, so she wouldn't forget?
”Adieu,” he said, ”this is goodbye. I'll never forget you, never.”
She stood silent. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears. He turned away.
”I'm going to give you the address of one of my uncles,” he said after a moment. ”He's a von Falk like me, my father's brother. He's had a brilliant military career and he's in Paris working for . . .” He gave a very long German name. ”Until the end of the war, he will be the Commandant in greater Paris, a kind of viceroy, actually, and he depends on my uncle to help make decisions. I've told him about you and asked that he help you as much as he can, if you ever find yourself in difficulty; we're at war, G.o.d alone knows what might happen to all of us . . .”
”You're very kind, Bruno,” she said quietly.
At this moment she wasn't ashamed of loving him, because her physical desire had gone and all she felt towards him now was pity and a profound, almost maternal tenderness. She forced herself to smile. ”Like the Chinese mother who sent her son off to war telling him to be careful 'because war has its dangers,' I'm asking you, if you have any feelings for me, to be as careful as possible with your life.”
”Because it is precious to you?” he asked nervously.
”Yes. Because it is precious to me.”
Slowly, they shook hands. She walked him out to the front steps. An orderly was waiting for him, holding the reins of his horse. It was late, but no one even considered going to bed. Everyone wanted to see the Germans leave. In these final hours, a kind of melancholy and human warmth bound them all together: the conquered and the conquerors. Big Erwald with the strong thighs who held his drink so well and was so funny and robust; short, nimble, cheerful w.i.l.l.y, who had learned some French songs (they said he was a real comedian in civilian life), poor Johann who had lost his whole family in an air raid, ”except for my mother-in-law,” he said sadly, ”because I've never had much luck . . .” All of them were about to be attacked, shot at, in danger of dying. How many of them would be buried on the Russian steppes? No matter how quickly, how successfully the war with Germany might finish, how many poor people would never see the blessed end, the new beginning? It was a wonderful night: clear, moonlit, without even a breath of wind. It was the time of year for cutting the branches of the lime trees. The time when men and boys climb up into the beautiful, leafy trees and strip them bare while, down below, women and girls pick flowers from the sweet-smelling branches at their feet-flowers that will spend all summer drying in country lofts and, in winter, will make herbal tea. A delicious, intoxicating perfume filled the air. How wonderful everything was, how peaceful. Children played and chased one another about; they climbed up on to the steps of the old stone cross and watched the road.
”Can you see them?” their mothers asked.
”Not yet.”
It had been decided that the regiment would a.s.semble in front of the chateau and then parade through the village. From the shadow of doorways came the sound of kisses and whispered goodbyes . . . some more tender than others. The soldiers were in heavy helmets and field dress, gas masks hanging from their necks. The awaited drum roll came and the men appeared, marching in rows of eight. With a final goodbye, a last blown kiss, the latecomers hurried to take their pre-a.s.signed place: the place where destiny would find them. There was still the odd burst of laughter, a joke exchanged between the soldiers and the crowd, but soon everyone fell silent. The General had arrived. He rode his horse past the troops, gave a brief salute to the soldiers and to the French, then left. Behind him followed the officers, then the grey car carrying the Commandant, with its motorcycle outriders. Then came the artillery, the cannons on their rolling platforms, the machine-guns, the anti-aircraft guns pointing at the sky, and all the small but deadly weapons they'd watched go by during manoeuvres. They had become accustomed to them, had looked at them indifferently, without being afraid. But now the sight of it all made them shudder. The truck, full to bursting with big loaves of black bread, freshly baked and sweet-smelling, the Red Cross vans, with no pa.s.sengers-for now . . . the field kitchen, b.u.mping along at the end of the procession like a saucepan tied to a dog's tail. The men began singing, a grave, slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust.
Appendices
APPENDIX I.
Irene Nemirovsky's handwritten notes on the situation in France and her plans for Suite Francaise, Suite Francaise, taken from her notebooks taken from her notebooks
My G.o.d! what is this country doing to me? Since it is rejecting me, let us consider it coldly, let us watch as it loses its honour and its life. And the other countries? What are they to me? Empires are dying. Nothing matters. Whether you look at it from a mystical or a personal point of view, it's just the same. Let us keep a cool head. Let us harden our heart. Let us wait.
21 June.*1 Conversation with Pied-de-Marmite. France is going to join hands with Germany. Soon they will be calling up people here but ”only the young ones.” This was said no doubt out of consideration towards Michel. One army is crossing Russia, the other is coming from Africa. Suez has been taken. j.a.pan with its formidable fleet is fighting America. England is begging for mercy. Conversation with Pied-de-Marmite. France is going to join hands with Germany. Soon they will be calling up people here but ”only the young ones.” This was said no doubt out of consideration towards Michel. One army is crossing Russia, the other is coming from Africa. Suez has been taken. j.a.pan with its formidable fleet is fighting America. England is begging for mercy.
25 June. Unbelievable heat. The garden is decked out with the colours of June-azure, pale-green and pink. I lost my pen. There are still many other worries such as the threat of a concentration camp, the status of Jews etc. Sunday was unforgettable. The thunderbolt about Russia*2 hit our friends after their ”mad night” down by the lake. And in order to [?] with them, everyone got drunk. Will I write about it one day? hit our friends after their ”mad night” down by the lake. And in order to [?] with them, everyone got drunk. Will I write about it one day?
28 June. They're leaving. They were depressed for twenty-four hours, now they're cheerful, especially when they're together. The little dear one sadly said, ”The happy times are over.” They're sending their packages home. They're overexcited, that's obvious. Admirably disciplined and, I think, no rebellion in their hearts. I swear here and now never again to take out my bitterness, no matter how justifiable, on a group of people, whatever their race, religion, convictions, prejudices, errors. I feel sorry for these poor children. But I cannot forgive certain individuals, those who reject me, those who coldly abandon us, those who are prepared to stab you in the back. Those people . . . if I could just get my hands on them . . . When will it all end? The troops that were here last summer said ”Christmas,” then July. Now end '41.
There's been talk here about de-occupying France except for the no-go area and the coasts. Carefully rereading the Journal Officiel Journal Officiel*3 has thrown me back to feeling the way I did a few days ago, has thrown me back to feeling the way I did a few days ago,
To lift such a heavy weight Sisyphus, you will need all your courage. Sisyphus, you will need all your courage. I do not lack the courage to complete the task I do not lack the courage to complete the task But the end is far and time is short. But the end is far and time is short.
The Wine of Solitude by Irene Nemirovsky for Irene Nemirovsky
30 June 1941. Stress the Michauds. People who always pay the price and the only ones who are truly n.o.ble. Odd that the majority of the ma.s.ses, the detestable ma.s.ses, are made up of these courageous types. The majority doesn't get better because of them nor do they [the courageous types] get worse.
Which scenes deserve to be pa.s.sed on for posterity?
1Waiting in queues at dawn. 1Waiting in queues at dawn. 2The arrival of the Germans. 2The arrival of the Germans. 3The killings and shooting of hostages much less than the profound indifference of the people. 3The killings and shooting of hostages much less than the profound indifference of the people. 4If I want to create something striking, it is not misery I will show but the prosperity that contrasts with it. 4If I want to create something striking, it is not misery I will show but the prosperity that contrasts with it. 5When Hubert escapes from the prison where the poor wretches have been taken, instead of describing the death of the hostages, it's the party at the Opera House I must show, and then simply people sticking posters up on the walls: so and so was shot at dawn. The same after the war and without dwelling on Corbin. Yes! It must be done by showing contrasts: one word for misery, ten for egotism, cowardice, closing ranks, crime. Won't it be wonderful! But it's true that it's this very atmosphere I'm breathing. It is easy to imagine it: the obsession with food. 5When Hubert escapes from the prison where the poor wretches have been taken, instead of describing the death of the hostages, it's the party at the Opera House I must show, and then simply people sticking posters up on the walls: so and so was shot at dawn. The same after the war and without dwelling on Corbin. Yes! It must be done by showing contrasts: one word for misery, ten for egotism, cowardice, closing ranks, crime. Won't it be wonderful! But it's true that it's this very atmosphere I'm breathing. It is easy to imagine it: the obsession with food. 6Think also about the Ma.s.s on Rue de la Source, early morning while it's still completely dark. Contrasts! Yes, there's something to that, something that can be very powerful and very new. Why have I used it so little in 6Think also about the Ma.s.s on Rue de la Source, early morning while it's still completely dark. Contrasts! Yes, there's something to that, something that can be very powerful and very new. Why have I used it so little in Dolce Dolce? Yet, rather than dwelling on Madeleine-for example, perhaps the whole MadeleineLucile chapter can be left out, reduced to a few lines of explanation, which can go into the Mme AngellierLucile chapter. On the other hand, describe in minute detail the preparations for the German celebration. It is perhaps an impression of ironic contrast, to receive the force of the contrast. The reader has only to see and hear an impression of ironic contrast, to receive the force of the contrast. The reader has only to see and hear.*4