HOSTILITY TOWARDS THE GERMAN OCCUPIERS was silent, but as time passed they were proving more and more difficult to hate. They were tactful, unobtrusive even. No houses had been searched. No foreign flags of occupation fluttered over the village. Lieutenant Weissmann seemed as good as his word. The two communities existed side by side separately, ignoring each other respectfully. Some of the soldiers came to church on Sundays, Lieutenant Weissman amongst them. Father Lasalle loved to play the organ and it seemed that Lieutenant Weissmann shared his passion. Father Lasalle was only too pleased to let him practise on the church organ. Many of the soldiers came to the café in the evening but even there they sat apart, at first anyway. It soon became apparent though that two or three of them had fought at the Battle of Verdun in the First World War and it was not long before ancient enemies were exchanging reminiscences across the café, and with no rancour on either side. On the contrary their shared suffering seemed to banish mutual reserve and suspicion.
Jo wouldn’t have believed it possible had he not witnessed it himself but even Grandpère was drawn into a moment of nostalgic self-indulgence. Jo was coming out of school one lunchtime when he caught sight of Grandpère outside the café. He was deep in conversation with a German soldier. He towered over Grandpère, a great tree of a man. He had stripes on his uniform, a Corporal, Grandpère had said. Besides Lieutenant Weissmann, the Corporal was the only soldier who spoke good French and he lost no opportunity to practise it on the children with whom he had already become a firm favourite, mostly because he seemed to have an endless supply of sweets. He had offered one to Jo only a few days before. Jo had taken it but then his conscience had got the better of him and he spat it out around the corner, something he immediately regretted as he watched Rouf enjoying it instead.
The Corporal smiled at Jo as he saw him coming and Grandpère looked somewhat shamefaced. On the way home he explained.
‘It’s hard to believe,’ he said, ‘but that Corporal and me, we were very likely shooting at each other at Verdun.’ He shook his head. ‘Just sixteen he was then. Invalided out same as me.’ And then he caught Jo’s eye and was silent.
This reunion of old soldiers broke the last of the ice and thereafter the village settled and adapted to the new normality of being occupied.
Hubert had seemed more resentful than most at first, and because he had no inhibitions was by far the most daring. He was always blowing raspberries at them in the street but the Germans simply laughed and blew raspberries back at him. It became a tit-fortat game that Hubert enjoyed and they enjoyed. Before long they all knew his name. They would give him chocolate and they let him groom Lieutenant Weissmann’s horse. Hubert was happy, and whoever made Hubert happy struck a common chord with the spirit of the village.
Jo had never much liked Armand Jollet before he shot the bear and he liked him even less now. With the arrival of the Germans his shop was doing well, very well. The soldiers had money to spend and nowhere else to spend it but the café and the shop. The Jollet family owned them both. No one else in the village stooped to fawning except Armand Jollet. He would always accompany the soldiers to the door of his shop and open it for them. He would bow and scrape in a manner that made Jo cringe to watch him; and these days Jo was often in the shop to pick up Widow Horcada’s provisions. Twice a week it was now, in all weathers, he climbed the hillside, his arms aching under the weight of the baskets. There were eight children up there now Widow Horcada told him. Jo had never set eyes on any of them except Léah and he hadn’t seen her for some time. He longed to sneak into the barn and take a look but he knew he shouldn’t. It was Benjamin who usually came to the door to take the baskets from him. He was still hobbling on his bad ankle. Jo was always invited in but he was never allowed to stay for long in the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Your honey, Jo,’ the Widow would say, pushing it across the table towards him. ‘And here’s the list for next time.’ And then he’d find himself out in the yard again facing a closed door. He knew why he could not stay. Being inclined to repeat herself she had told him several times. ‘You’ve got to remember, Jo,’ she’d said, ‘to everyone in the village you’re just an unwilling delivery boy for the Black Widow. God knows who’s watching your comings and your goings, but that’s just what you must do, come and go. We don’t want people asking questions do we? It’s best that way.’ Jo knew she was right but it hurt him just the same; and questions were beginning to be asked anyway, questions he could not answer.
One afternoon that winter, Monsieur Jollet caught him by the arm as he was leaving the shop: ‘You know what she’s doing with all this food?’ Jo looked away. ‘She’s up to something isn’t she?’
At that moment the door opened and the Corporal came in, his moustache white with snow. ‘Jo, isn’t it?’ he said, stamping the snow off his boots. ‘Whenever I see you, you are carrying those baskets. You have a big family?’ Jo said nothing.
‘It’s for Madame Horcada, Corporal,’ said Armand Jollet. ‘Jo does her fetching and carrying for her. She lives on her own but there’s food enough there for a family of ten. I think she’s storing it up for the winter, like a squirrel.’ And he laughed a high-pitched, nervous laugh. ‘And how can I help you, Corporal?’
‘Cigarettes,’ said the Corporal and then he turned to Jo. ‘One minute, Jo, I’ll give you a hand. It’s slippery out there.’ The Corporal paid for his cigarettes, Armand Jollet counting out his change rather too meticulously and finishing with a flurry of thankyous before showing them out.
The snow floated down in huge flakes. The Corporal insisted on carrying both the baskets. He had his head back and his tongue out to catch the snowflakes. He caught several before he got one in the eye and broke into laughter. ‘It makes me feel as if I am at home,’ he said. Jo walked along beside him searching his mind for some way of extricating himself from the situation.
‘This Widow,’ said the Corporal, ‘where does she live?’
‘Up in the hills outside the village,’ Jo said and he reached for the baskets. ‘I can manage, honestly I can.’ But the Corporal would not let him take them.
‘How far?’
‘Three, maybe four kilometres.’
‘That’s not so far,’ said the Corporal and they walked on. ‘Bavaria, you know it?’ Jo shook his head. ‘In Germany, in the south of Germany. It’s where I live, in a village like this, like Lescun. There are mountains all about just like these. I’m a forester, Jo, so for me you understand this is like home.’
Jo was desperately trying to think of a way to get rid of him. ‘If she sees you,’ said Jo, ‘I won’t get my honey.’ It was weak but it was all he could think of.
‘Honey?’
‘She pays me. Widow Horcada, she pays me in honey, and if she sees you carrying the baskets for me she won’t pay me.’
‘I haven’t had honey since I left home,’ said the Corporal. ‘Acacia honey and apple blossom honey, that’s what we have at my home. My wife, she makes it. Of course the bees make it but she looks after the bees. And my children, they love it. They eat it so fast I am lucky if they leave me the spoon to lick. They’re all girls, my children. Three of them. Can you imagine that, Jo? Four girls in one house and me? No honey and no peace.’ His face was suddenly serious. ‘I never thought I’d miss them so much. One of them, she has gone to Berlin to work the telephones. She’s the clever one.’ He stopped and put down the baskets. ‘These baskets, they are heavy. There is enough in here to feed the five thousand.’
Jo saw his opportunity and picked them up at once. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I can take them now.’
‘Very well,’ said the Corporal, ‘but one day, one day I must taste your honey, yes?’ He looked up through the falling snow at the mountains around them. ‘I am like a bear,’ said the Corporal laughing. ‘I like honey, and I like mountains. I like snow. We have bears in my mountains too you know; and eagles, we have eagles.’
‘So have we,’ said Jo.
‘I know,’ said the Corporal. ‘I have seen them, and vultures too. Have you ever seen eagles through binoculars, Jo?’
‘No.’
‘In the spring, Jo, we go up the mountains together, you and me; and we look at eagles with my binoculars, yes? With binoculars you can see an eagle close as your nose, just like you can reach out and touch it. It’s a promise, yes?’ And the Corporal turned and walked away.
Once inside the warmth of the farmhouse Jo did not want to leave, and for a change they did not seem to want him to either. They sat him down over a bowl of hot soup which he blew on to steam his face warm. He had almost finished wiping his bread around the bowl when he realised that no-one was saying anything. With his mouth still full of bread he looked from one to the other and waited. It was clear they had something to tell him.
‘Jo,’ said Benjamin, ‘I know you have done a lot for us already,’ and as he spoke he walked slowly over to the stove, leaning for support on the backs of the chairs as he went. He turned round and faced him, his face serious, ‘and we don’t like to ask you.’
‘Ask me what?’
‘We need money, Jo,’ said Widow Horcada. ‘We just haven’t got the money to go on buying food. There’s ten of them in the barn now. They’ve eaten me out of house and home. The cow’s gone dry so there’s no milk any more. I haven’t even got any honey left to pay you. I’ve got enough money to last another week and that’ll be the end of it.’ She sank back in her chair. ‘There’s only one thing we can do, Jo. I’ve got to sell my pigs. The children won’t eat them and Benjamin won’t eat them – it’s against their religion – and I can’t afford to go on feeding them. With the money they make we can go on for a few more months maybe. So they’ll have to go. But I’m not selling them to anyone, Jo. Those pigs, they’re like family to me. There’s only one other person knows enough about pigs in this valley and that’s Henri, your grandfather. Always used to keep pigs when he was a young man and he was good at it too. The trouble is he’s not going to buy them without seeing them is he? And that’s what I want you to do, Jo. I want you to bring him up here.’ Jo looked across at Benjamin. ‘Don’t you worry nothing about him,’ Widow Horcada went on, ‘he’ll be well out of sight, same as the children. Henri won’t know anything, and what he won’t know can’t hurt him, can it? So, the next time you come up here with the shopping – that’ll be next Wednesday afternoon won’t it? – I want you to bring your grandfather with you.’
‘What am I going to tell him?’ asked Jo.
‘Tell him I’m too old, tell him I can’t get about like I used to – that’ll be true enough. Tell him what you like, Jo, but get him here.’
‘Can you do it, Jo?’ Benjamin said.
‘I’ll try,’ said Jo.
And he tried that evening whilst Maman was upstairs putting Christine to bed.
‘What? All of them?’ said Grandpère, and he was frowning as he lit his cigarette and coughed the match out.
‘That’s what she told me,’ said Jo. ‘She told me she’s too old to go on.’
Grandpère shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense any of it. She’s always had pigs up there, and her father before her. She loves those pigs like her own children. She’d never sell them, not unless she had to, I know she wouldn’t. I tell you, Jo, if she gives up her pigs that’ll be the end of her. She’ll have nothing left to live for.’
‘Perhaps she needs the money,’ said Jo.
‘Well I’d like to know what for,’ Grandpère said, ‘after all, she’s only got herself to look after hasn’t she? She’s been careful all her life. I just can’t understand it. Still,’ he said, smiling through the cigarette smoke, ‘that’s the first invitation I’ve had from her in nigh on fifty years so I’ll go.’ He leaned forward and spoke low. ‘But don’t you go telling your mother, Jo. She doesn’t like her, and what’s worse she doesn’t like me to like her. There’s stories about me and the old Widow – not true of course – but if I know your mother she’ll start thinking her thoughts, so not a word, eh?’ Jo was quite used by now to keeping secrets. One more would not be that difficult.
Rouf followed them that Wednesday afternoon but Jo did not notice him until it was too late. He tried to send him back but he wouldn’t go. You could never make Rouf do anything he didn’t want to do. They were walking across Widow Horcada’s back yard when he saw Rouf sniffing along the barn wall towards the door. When he reached it he stopped, his nose thrust under the door and snuffling noisily. Then he began to scratch at it and whine.
‘What’s up with that dog?’ said Grandpère and then the door of the house opened and Widow Horcada was there.
‘I’ll take those,’ she said looking at Jo hard, and she almost snatched the baskets out of his hands. ‘You can take that dog home, Jo.’ She spoke sharply. ‘You know I don’t like dogs around my place.’ She looked at Grandpère. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Henri, come along in and shut the door behind you.’
It was all Jo could do to drag Rouf away from the barn door. He had to drive him down the hillside from behind like a sheep. Jo would have given anything to stay behind and listen to what was going on. He wondered where Benjamin would be hiding – in the barn perhaps, with the children, he thought, to keep them calm. If so, then Rouf’s snuffling must have shaken them all rigid. But wherever they all were they must have kept well hidden, and whatever money arrangements they came to inside the house must have been satisfactory for Grandpère was quite evidently delighted when he came back. He told Maman that evening that pigs would be in great demand now. The Boche eat a lot of pork. He could fatten them on the sheeps’ whey for practically nothing. He would hardly have to buy any feed for them, he said. ‘But they smell,’ Maman protested. ‘Pig smell, you can never wash it off.’ But Grandpère managed to persuade her it was a smell they could learn to live with. Christine was delighted with the idea – she’d never ridden a pig.
The next day as Jo came tramping home from school through the village he saw Hubert and Grandpère coming down the road driving the pigs in front of them, or trying to. It was all going fine until they reached the Square and the pigs set off at a trot. They went running off in all directions, squealing and grunting as they explored every front door and every drainpipe. It took half the village and a few of the soldiers as well to round them all up and drive them back to Jo’s house where they managed to pen them all in, all except one – a large determined sow with pink and swinging teats – that Jo had to chase all the way to the church and back before she at last gave up and reluctantly joined her friends.
Grandpère’s new pigs had become the talk of the village. After church on Sunday there were dark whisperings that Henri Lalande had bought the Widow’s pigs for reasons that were not entirely agricultural or commercial. There was much tutting and shaking of heads and some smirking mirth too. Jo overheard Madame Soulet in the street saying that Henri Lalande must be out of his mind. ‘At his age!’ she said. ‘At his age!’
At school Laurent snorted at Jo now whenever he met him, and ‘oink oink’ became the new greeting amongst the children until the joke wore thin. Maman declared that the sheep were giving less milk now that the pigs were about the place, but Grandpère just smiled and said that they’d soon settle down; and sure enough they did.
With the end of the snows the sheep were being moved each day to and from the pastures around the village and the sound of their bells in the fields heralded the first edelweiss and the first larks. You didn’t have to go out into the countryside though to know it was spring. When Father Lasalle left the church door open so that the sound of his organ playing could be heard all over the village, everyone knew for sure that Winter was behind them.
Monsieur Audap took advantage of the warming sun to lead the class out on the spring expedition. He did this once for every season of the year, and the children looked forward to it more even than a holiday. It was like a treasure hunt. They scoured the slopes looking for plants and insects, footprints and droppings. Everything they found was recorded and sketched. There wasn’t a plant Monsieur Audap could not name, nor a footprint nor a dropping he could not identify.
The great find of the day was a bear print in the muddy beach down by the river. It was Laurent who found it first – Laurent found most things first. Everyone thought it was another of his practical jokes. ‘A bear!’ he cried. ‘It’s got to be.’ And Monsieur Audap confirmed it. ‘A front paw,’ he said, ‘and a small one at that; but it’s a bear right enough, a young one I’d say. Look at the claw marks.’
‘What’s the matter, Jo?’ said Laurent clapping him on the back. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ They hunted up and down the river bank for more prints but they found none. ‘A one-footed bear,’ said Laurent hopping beside Jo on the way back that afternoon, but Jo found it difficult to enjoy the joke. ‘Cheer up Jo,’ he said. Jo smiled as best he could but it was not very convincing and he knew it.
They sang songs all the way back to the village, Monsieur Audap waving his hand above his head conducting them. As they came round the last bend in the road they saw a German patrol coming towards them. ‘Sing up, sing up,’ said Monsieur Audap, and they swung past the patrol in full voice. Jo enjoyed the moment, they all did. It was a little victory but even a little victory was better than none at all.
They were still in high spirits when they came into the village. Perhaps that was why Laurent put his tongue out at Madame Soulet as she was arranging baguettes in the window of her shop. She came rushing out after Monsieur Audap complaining bitterly and pointing at Laurent. After they got back to school Laurent was called into Monsieur Audap’s room and Jo noticed that when he came out he was only just smiling. Monsieur Audap had clearly said his piece – and he had a way of reaching his mark.
It was that interview that goaded Laurent into an act of revenge and for that he needed an accomplice.
‘I need someone with a deep voice, Jo,’ he said, ‘and that means you.’ It was never easy to say no to Laurent. Always good friends, with both their fathers prisoners-of-war in Germany, they had become even closer allies. Jo was left with no choice in the matter. ‘We’ll meet at my place,’ said Laurent, ‘just before curfew.’
‘What for?’ Jo asked.
‘For a bit of fun,’ Laurent said. ‘I’ll teach the old bat. I’ll teach her.’
Jo knew well enough which ‘old bat’ he was talking about but until he got to Laurent’s house that night he had no idea what she was going to be taught.
‘I can see her from my window. I’ve watched her,’ said Laurent. ‘She always comes out of Madame Robbé’s house between twenty past and half past nine. She walks across the Square and then back to her place, regular as clockwork. You know what you’ve got to do?’ Jo didn’t want to do it, not because he didn’t dare – there was nothing very daring about it – he just didn’t think they could pull it off; but Laurent ignored all his doubts and protests.
Laurent tested the torch and they crept out together into the dark streets. Once in place they crouched down behind a wall and waited. Jo had been rehearsed in his part but as the door of the Robbés’ house opened and he heard Madame Soulet’s shrill voice he found that his brain was suddenly frozen, that he could no longer remember his words. The door closed plunging the Square into darkness again. The moment had come. Laurent waited until the footsteps were just the other side of the wall and then he stood up, shining his torch directly into Madame Soulet’s eyes. Laurent had to kick Jo into action. Jo cleared his throat.
‘Halt,’ he said in his deepest voice. ‘Ihre Papiere bitte.’ And then in his best gutteral German accent, ‘Your papers please.’ Jo looked up from his crouching position under the wall. Madame Soulet was holding up her hand trying to keep the light out of her eyes and she was stammering with terror. She held out her papers, her hand trembling. Laurent took them, glanced at them perfunctorily and handed them back quickly. ‘Gut, sehr gut,’ said Jo as rehearsed. ‘Gute Nacht.’ And she hurried away whimpering into the dark, Laurent’s torch beam following her all the way to her door. When she had gone in Laurent bent over the wall and put his hands over his mouth to stop himself laughing out loud. Jo took the torch out of his hand and switched it off.
‘Did you see her face?’ said Laurent. ‘Did you see it? You were brilliant, Jo, brilliant.’ And then from the darkness behind them came a soft voice.
‘Ausgezeichnet.’ Jo’s heart leapt into his mouth. ‘A brilliant performance as you said.’ They turned and the torch beam hit their faces full on. ‘Ihre Papiere bitte,’ said the voice. It was Lieutenant Weissmann.
‘I haven’t got them on me,’ said Laurent.
‘Und du?’ The torch came full beam on Jo’s face. Jo shook his head. He could just make out a shadow behind the torch and the outline of a head against the sky. ‘Turn around,’ said Lieutenant Weissmann. They obeyed. ‘Hände Hoch. Hands up.’ He kicked Laurent first and Jo waited for his turn. When it came it was more than a playful kick in the pants. It hurt just enough to carry a meaning. ‘Do not do it again,’ said Lieutenant Weissmann. ‘You understand me? You have one and a half minutes before curfew. Schnell!’ They climbed the wall and ran home going their different directions. Jo did not stop until he’d shut the door behind him and even then his heart could not stop pounding in his ears.
Whenever Jo went up to Widow Horcada’s farm with the shopping now Benjamin would put on his shawl and come out into the yard to see him off. He would walk up and down to show him how much he was improving and each time he walked more easily. First the stick went and then within weeks the limp was almost gone. He even tried running on it but only for a few steps. ‘It won’t be long now, Jo,’ he said. ‘We’ll soon have the children away.’ Every time Jo asked how many children there were the figure increased.
‘We’ve sent word,’ said Widow Horcada. ‘Time and again we’ve told them not to send any more down the line but the children keep coming. There’s twelve of them now.’
And suddenly Benjamin was never there any more. For weeks, months, Jo never saw him at the house. Whenever he asked after him Widow Horcada would say he was in the barn with the children, or she would simply pretend not to hear; and when she did that Jo never quite dared to probe any further. He never saw any sign either of the children. Every time he passed the barn he longed to take a look inside; it was so difficult to imagine there were twelve children living in there.
They hardly saw anything of Grandpère these days. He’d leave first thing in the morning. ‘Off up to work on the hut,’ he’d say. Apparently there was a lot of storm damage, a great hole in the roof and all the shutters had to be replaced. It was the same every morning. ‘You’ll have to manage the sheep without me,’ he’d say. ‘I’ll be back before dark.’
Hubert was always there to help Jo with the milking. He caught sheep better than anyone Jo knew. He seemed to understand them, to know which way they were thinking of going. His timing was perfect, stretching out his long arm and catching a back leg with consummate ease.
One morning, with Grandpère gone up to the hut again, the two of them had finished milking the flock and were taking the milk to Jo’s mother in the kitchen when they heard a knock on the door. Jo answered it. A German soldier was standing there and there was another behind him.
‘Orders of Lieutenant Weissmann,’ he said, looking over Jo’s shoulder into the house. ‘We are searching all the houses.’
‘What for?’ said Maman coming to the door. Jo wasn’t sure if the soldier understood or not for he did not reply.
‘Entschuldigung,’ said the soldier and he walked past them into the kitchen and up the stairs, his boots heavy on the boards above them. There were sounds of furniture being dragged across the floor. Hubert looked alarmed. Maman put a hand on his arm and held it. ‘It’s all right, Hubert,’ she said. ‘It’s all right. We’ve got nothing to hide.’ The soldier came down the stairs again and went through the kitchen into the barn. Jo followed him. The sheep took fright and packed against the far wall.
‘I’ve got to take the sheep out,’ said Jo pushing past the soldier. The soldier shook his head. He clearly did not understand. Jo spoke louder, pointing. ‘The sheep, I must put them out. They must eat.’ The soldier shrugged his shoulders. Jo had only one thought. Somehow he had to get up to the Widow Horcada’s house and warn them. All the houses, the soldier had said, they were searching all the houses.
The sheep moved infuriatingly slowly out of the village that morning and Rouf was proving even more lethargic than usual. Several times they came to a complete halt bunching tight together in the streets. Only Hubert’s loudest whooping managed to shift them and it was some time before the sheep were up in their pastures and grazing. As soon as they were settled Jo left them with Hubert and Rouf and made for Widow Horcada’s farm, running. Half-way up the hillside he paused for breath and looked back down towards the village. A soldier on horseback was riding along the road towards where Hubert was sitting on the rock. Lieutenant Weissmann, it had to be – he was the only one who ever rode the horse. There were two soldiers walking along behind him. Jo ducked into the trees, he’d have to keep under cover all the way to the farm. It would take longer but he had no choice. He did not stop again until the back of the house was below him and he was sure he could not be seen from the road below. He raced down across the yard and threw open the door. Widow Horcada was sitting in her chair, her mouth gaping. Her eyes flickered. There was someone behind the door. Jo turned to look. Grandpère was standing there, his arms raised above his head and there was an iron in his hands.