Every day that long, hot summer, Vianne woke to a list of chores. She (along with Sophie and Isabelle) replanted and expanded the garden and converted a pair of old bookcases into rabbit hutches. She used chicken wire to enclose the pergola. Now the most romantic place on the property stank of manure— manure they collected for their garden. She took in wash from the farmer down the road—old man Rivet—in exchange for feed. The only time she really relaxed, and felt like herself, was on Sunday mornings, when she took Sophie to church (Isabelle refused to attend Mass) and then had coffee with Rachel, sitting in the shade of her backyard, just two best friends talking, laughing, joking. Sometimes Isabelle joined them, but she was more likely to play with the children than talk with the women—which was fine with Vianne.
Her chores were necessary, of course—a new way of preparing for a winter that seemed far away but would arrive like an unwanted guest on the worst possible day. More important, it kept Vianne’s mind occupied. When she was working in her garden or boiling strawberries for preserves or pickling cucumbers, she wasn’t thinking of Antoine and how long it had been since she’d heard from him. It was the uncertainty that gnawed at her: Was he a prisoner of war? Was he wounded somewhere? Dead? Or would she look up one day and see him walking up this road, smiling?
Missing him. Longing for him. Worrying about him. Those were her nighttime journeys.
In a world now laden with bad news and silence, the one bit of good news
was that Captain Beck had spent much of the summer away on one campaign or another. In his absence, the household settled into a routine of sorts. Isabelle did all that was asked of her without complaint.
It was October now, and chilly. Vianne found herself distracted as she walked home from school with Sophie. She could feel that one of her heels was coming loose; it made her slightly unsteady. Her black kidskin oxfords weren’t made for the kind of everyday use to which they’d been put in the past few months. The sole was beginning to pull away at the toe, which often caused her to trip. The worry about replacing things like shoes was never far away. A ration card did not mean there were shoes—or food—to be bought.
Vianne kept one hand on Sophie’s shoulder, both to steady her gait and to keep her daughter close. There were Nazi soldiers everywhere; riding in lorries and on motorcycles with machine-gun-mounted sidecars. They marched in the square, their voices raised in triumphant song.
A military lorry honked at them and they moved farther onto the sidewalk as a convoy rumbled past. More Nazis.
“Is that Tante Isabelle?” Sophie asked.
Vianne glanced in the direction of Sophie’s finger. Sure enough, Isabelle was coming out of an alley, clutching her basket. She looked … “furtive” was the only word that came to mind.
Furtive. At that, a dozen little pieces clicked into place. Tiny incongruities became a pattern. Isabelle had often left Le Jardin in the wee hours of the morning, much earlier than necessary. She had dozens of long-winded excuses for absences that Vianne had barely cared about. Heels that broke, hats that flew off in the wind and had to be chased down, a dog that frightened her and blocked her way.
Was she sneaking out to be with a boy? “Tante Isabelle!” Sophie cried out.
Without waiting for a reply—or permission—Sophie darted into the street. She dodged a trio of German soldiers who were tossing a ball back and forth.
“Merde,” Vianne muttered. “Pardon,” she said, ducking around the soldiers and striding across the cobblestoned street.
“What did you get today?” she heard Sophie ask Isabelle as her daughter reached into the willow basket.
Isabelle slapped Sophie’s hand. Hard. Sophie yelped and drew her hand back.
“Isabelle!” Vianne said harshly. “What’s wrong with you?”
Isabelle had the good grace to blush. “I am sorry. It’s just that I’m tired. I have been in queues all day. And for what? A veal jelly bone with barely any meat on it and a tin of milk. It’s disheartening. Still, I shouldn’t be rude. I’m sorry, Soph.”
“Perhaps if you didn’t sneak out so early in the morning you wouldn’t be tired,” Vianne said.
“I’m not sneaking out,” Isabelle said. “I’m going to the shops for food. I thought you wanted that of me. And by the way, we need a bicycle. These walks to town on bad shoes are killing me.”
Vianne wished she knew her sister well enough to read the look in her eyes. Was it guilt? Or worry or defiance? If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was pride.
Sophie linked arms with Isabelle as the three of them set off for home.
Vianne studiously ignored the changes to Carriveau—the Nazis taking up so much space, the posters on the limestone walls (the new anti-Jewish tracts were sickening), and the red and black swastika flags hanging above doorways and from balconies. People had begun to leave Carriveau, abandoning their homes to the Germans. The rumor was that they were going to the Free Zone, but no one knew for sure. Shops closed and didn’t reopen.
She heard footsteps coming up behind her and said evenly, “Let’s walk faster.”
“Madame Mauriac, if I may interrupt.”
“Good Lord, is he following you?” Isabelle muttered.
Vianne slowly turned around. “Herr Captain,” she said. People in the street watched Vianne closely, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
“I wanted to say that I will be late tonight and will, sorrowfully, not be there for supper,” Beck said.
“How terrible,” Isabelle said in a voice as sweet and bitter as burned caramel.
Vianne tried to smile, but really, she didn’t know why he’d stopped her. “I will save you something—”
“Nein. Nein. You are most kind.” He fell silent. Vianne did the same.
Finally Isabelle sighed heavily. “We are on our way home, Herr Captain.” “Is there something I can do for you, Herr Captain?” said Vianne.
Beck moved closer. “I know how worried you have been about your husband, so I did some checking.”
“Oh.”
“It is not fine news, I am sorrowful to report. Your husband, Antoine Mauriac, has been captured along with many of your town’s men. He is in a prisoner of war camp.” He handed her a list of names and a stack of official postcards. “He will not be coming home.”
* * *
Vianne barely remembered leaving town. She knew Isabelle was beside her, holding her upright, urging her to put one foot in front of the other, and that Sophie was beside her, chirping out questions as sharp as fish hooks. What is a prisoner of war? What did Herr Captain mean that Papa would not be coming home? Never?
Vianne knew when they’d arrived home because the scents of her garden greeted her, welcomed her. She blinked, feeling a little like someone who had just wakened from a coma to find the world impossibly changed.
“Sophie,” Isabelle said firmly. “Go make your mother a cup of coffee.
Open a tin of milk.” “But—”
“Go,” Isabelle said.
When Sophie was gone, Isabelle turned to Vianne, cupped her face with cold hands. “He’ll be all right.”
Vianne felt as if she were breaking apart bit by bit, losing blood and bone as she stood here, contemplating something she had studiously avoided thinking about: a life without him. She started to shiver; her teeth chattered.
“Come inside for coffee,” Isabelle said.
Into the house? Their house? His ghost would be everywhere in there—a dent in the divan where he sat to read, the hook that held his coat. And the bed.
She shook her head, wishing she could cry, but there were no tears in her.
This news had emptied her. She couldn’t even breathe.
Suddenly all she could think about was the sweater of his that she was wearing. She started to strip out of her clothes, tearing off the coat and the vest—ignoring Isabelle’s shouted NO!—as she yanked the sweater over her head and buried her face in the soft wool, trying to smell him in the yarn—his favorite soap, him.
But there was nothing but her own smell. She lowered the bunched-up sweater from her face and stared down at it, trying to remember the last time he’d worn it. She picked at a loose thread and it unraveled in her hand, became a squiggly coil of wine-colored yarn. She bit it off and tied a knot to save the rest of the sleeve. Yarn was precious these days.
These days.
When the world was at war and everything was scarce and your husband was gone. “I don’t know how to be on my own.”
“What do you mean? We were on our own for years. From the moment Maman died.”
Vianne blinked. Her sister’s words sounded a little jumbled, as if they were running on the wrong speed. “You were alone,” she said. “I never was. I met Antoine when I was fourteen and got pregnant at sixteen and married him when I was barely seventeen. Papa gave me this house to get rid of me. So, you see, I’ve never been on my own. That’s why you’re so strong and I’m not.”
“You will have to be,” Isabelle said. “For Sophie.”
Vianne drew in a breath. And there it was. The reason she couldn’t eat a bowl of arsenic or throw herself in front of a train. She took the short coil of crooked yarn and tied it to an apple tree branch. The burgundy color stood out against the green and brown. Now, each day in her garden and when she walked to her gate and when she picked apples, she would pass this branch and see this bit of yarn and think of Antoine. Each time she would pray—to him and to God—Come home.
“Come,” Isabelle said, putting an arm around Vianne, pulling her close. Inside, the house echoed the voice of a man who wasn’t there.
* * *
Vianne stood outside Rachel’s stone cottage; overhead the sky was the color of smoke on this cold, late afternoon. The leaves of the trees, marigold and tangerine and scarlet, were just beginning to darken around the edges. Soon they would drop to the ground.
Vianne stared at the door, wishing she didn’t need to be here, but she had read the names Beck had given her. Marc de Champlain was also listed.
When she finally found the courage to knock, Rachel answered almost instantly, wearing an old housedress and sagging woolen stockings. A cardigan sweater hung askew, buttoned incorrectly. It gave her an odd, tilted look.
“Vianne! Come in. Sarah and I were just making a rice pudding—it’s mostly water and gelatin, of course, but I used a bit of milk.”
Vianne managed a smile. She let her friend sweep her into the kitchen and pour her a cup of the bitter, ersatz coffee that was all they could get. Vianne was remarking on the rice pudding—what she even said she didn’t know— when Rachel turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Vianne stared at her friend. She wanted to be the strong one—for once— but she couldn’t stop the tears that filled her eyes.
“Stay in the kitchen,” Rachel said to Sarah. “If you hear your brother wake up, get him. You,” she said to Vianne, “come with me.” She took Vianne by the arm and guided her through the small salon and into Rachel’s bedroom.
Vianne sat on the bed and looked up at her friend. Silently, she held out the list of names she’d gotten from Beck. “They’re prisoners of war, Rachel. Antoine and Marc and all the others. They won’t be coming home.”
* * *
Three days later, on a frosty Saturday morning, Vianne stood in her classroom and stared out at the group of women seated in desks that were too small for them. They looked tired and a little wary. No one felt comfortable gathering these days. It was never clear exactly how far verboten extended into conversations about the war, and besides that, the women of Carriveau were exhausted. They spent their days standing in line for insufficient quantities of
foods, and when they weren’t in line, they were foraging the countryside or trying to sell their dancing shoes or a silk scarf for enough money to buy a loaf of good bread. In the back of the room, tucked into the corner, Sophie and Sarah were leaning against each other, knees drawn up, reading books.
Rachel moved her sleeping son from one shoulder to the other and closed the door of the classroom. “Thank you all for coming. I know how difficult it is these days to do anything more than the absolutely necessary.” There was a murmuring of agreement among the women.
“Why are we here?” Madame Fournier asked tiredly.
Vianne stepped forward. She had never felt completely comfortable around some of the women, many of whom had disliked Vianne when she moved here at fourteen. When Vianne had “caught” Antoine—the best- looking young man in town—they’d liked her even less. Those days were long past, of course, and now Vianne was friendly with these women and taught their children and frequented their shops, but even so, the pains of adolescence left a residue of discomfort. “I have received a list of French prisoners of war from Carriveau. I am sorry—terribly sorry—to tell you that your husbands—and mine, and Rachel’s—are on the list. I am told they will not be coming home.”
She paused, allowing the women to react. Grief and loss transformed the faces around her. Vianne knew the pain mirrored her own. Even so, it was difficult to watch, and she found her eyes misting again. Rachel stepped close, took her hand.
“I got us postcards,” Vianne said. “Official ones. So we can write to our men.”
“How did you get so many postcards?” Madame Fournier asked, wiping her eyes.
“She asked her German for a favor,” said Hélène Ruelle, the baker’s wife. “I did not! And he’s not my German,” Vianne said. “He is a soldier who
has requisitioned my home. Should I just let the Germans have Le Jardin? Just walk away and have nothing? Every house or hotel in town with a spare room has been taken by them. I am not special in this.”
More tsking and murmurs. Some women nodded; others shook their heads.
“I would have killed myself before I let one of them move into my house,” Hélène said.
“Would you, Hélène? Would you really?” Vianne said. “And would you kill your children first or throw them out into the street to survive on their own?”
Hélène looked away.
“They have taken over my hotel,” a woman said. “And they are gentlemen, for the most part. A bit crude, perhaps. Wasteful.”
“Gentlemen.” Hélène spat the word. “We are pigs to slaughter. You will see. Pigs who put up no fight at all.”
“I haven’t seen you at my butcher shop recently,” Madame Fournier said to Vianne in a judgmental voice.
“My sister goes for me,” Vianne said. She knew this was the point of their disapproval; they were afraid that Vianne would get—and take—special privileges that they would be denied. “I would not take food—or anything— from the enemy.” She felt suddenly as if she were back in school, being bullied by the popular girls.
“Vianne is trying to help,” Rachel said sternly enough to shut them up.
She took the postcards from Vianne and began handing them out. Vianne took a seat and stared down at her own blank postcard.
She heard the chicken-scratching of other pencils on other postcards and slowly, she began to write.
My beloved Antoine,
We are well. Sophie is thriving, and even with so many chores, we found some time
this summer to spend by the river. We—I—think of you with every breath and pray
you are well. Do not worry about us, and come home.
Je t’aime, Antoine.
Her lettering was so small she wondered if he would even be able to read
it.
Or if he would get it. Or if he was alive.
For God’s sake, she was crying.
Rachel moved in beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder. “We all feel it,” she said quietly.
Moments later, the women rose one by one. Wordlessly, they shuffled forward and gave Vianne their postcards.
“Don’t let them hurt your feelings,” Rachel said. “They’re just scared.” “I’m scared, too,” Vianne said.
Rachel pressed her postcard to her chest, her fingers splayed across the small square of paper as if she needed to touch each corner. “How can we not be?”
* * *
Afterward, when they returned to Le Jardin, Beck’s motorcycle with the machine-gun-mounted sidecar was parked in the grass outside the gate.
Rachel turned to her. “Do you want us to come in with you?”
Vianne appreciated the worry in Rachel’s gaze, and she knew that if she asked for help she would get it, but how was she to be helped?
“No, merci. We are fine. He has probably forgotten something and will soon leave again. He is rarely here these days.”
“Where is Isabelle?”
“A good question. She sneaks out every Friday morning before the sunrise.” She leaned closer, whispered, “I think she is meeting a boy.”
“Good for her.”
To that, Vianne had no answer.
“Will he mail the postcards for us?” Rachel asked.
“I hope so.” Vianne stared at her friend a moment longer. Then she said, “Well, we will know soon enough,” and led Sophie into the house. Once inside, she instructed Sophie to go upstairs to read. Her daughter was used to such directives, and she didn’t mind. Vianne tried to keep her daughter and Beck separated as much as possible.
He was seated at the dining room table with papers spread out in front of him. At her entrance, he looked up. A drop of ink fell from the tip of his
fountain pen, landed in a blue starburst on the white sheet of paper in front of him. “Madame. Most excellent. I am pleased you are returned.”
She moved forward cautiously, holding the packet of postcards tightly. They’d been tied up with a scrap of twine. “I … have some postcards here … written by friends in town … to our husbands … but we don’t know where to send them. I hoped … perhaps you could help us.”
She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, feeling acutely vulnerable.
“Of course, Madame. I would be pleased to do this favor for you. Although it will take much time and research to accomplish.” He rose politely. “As it happens, I am now concocting a list for my superiors at the Kommandantur. They need to know the names of some of the teachers at your school.”
“Oh,” she said, uncertain as to why he would tell her this. He never spoke of his work. Of course, they didn’t speak often about anything.
“Jews. Communists. Homosexuals. Freemasons. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Do you know these people?”
“I am Catholic, Herr Captain, as you know. We do not speak of such things at school. I hardly know who are homosexuals and Freemasons, at any rate.”
“Ah. So you know the others.” “I don’t understand…”
“I am unclear. My pardons. I would appreciate it most sternly if you would let me know the names of the teachers in your school who are Jewish or communist.”
“Why do you need their names?”
“It is clerical, merely. You know us Germans: we are list makers.” He smiled and pulled out a chair for her.
Vianne stared down at the blank paper on the table; then at the postcards in her hand. If Antoine received one, he might write back. She might know at last if he was alive. “This is not secret information, Herr Captain. Anyone can give you these names.”
He moved in close to her. “With some effort, Madame, I believe I can find your husband’s address and mail a package for you, also. Would this be
sanguine?”
“‘Sanguine’ is not the right word, Herr Captain. You mean to ask me if it would be all right.” She was stalling and she knew it. Worse, she was pretty sure that he knew it.
“Ah. Thank you so much for tutoring me in your beautiful language. My apologies.” He offered her a pen. “Do not worry, Madame. It is clerical, merely.”
Vianne wanted to say that she wouldn’t write down any names, but what would be the point? It was easy enough for him to get this information in town. Everyone knew whose names belonged on the list. And Beck could throw her out of her own house for such a defiance—and what would she do then?
She sat down and picked up the pen and began to write down names. It wasn’t until the end of the list that she paused and lifted the pen tip from the paper. “I’m done,” she said in a soft voice.
“You have forgotten your friend.” “Did I?”
“Surely you meant to be accurate.”
She bit her lip nervously and looked down at the list of names. She was certain suddenly that she shouldn’t have done this. But what choice did she have? He was in control of her home. What would happen if she defied him? Slowly, feeling sick to her stomach, she wrote the last name on the list.
Rachel de Champlain.
