Page 35 of The French Wife

‘I was trying to be. I studied art at Munich Academy. I struggled for years but I was just starting to make a small living from selling my paintings when I was called up to the army.’

‘How long ago was that?’ she asked, taking a second bite of quiche.

‘In early 1940. I’ve been serving in France since the beginning of the campaign. I was promoted from the ranks about a year ago. But between you and me, I would far rather be back at home painting in my studio than enforcing Nazi rule in a country that doesn’t want us here.’

Amélie fell silent. She’d suspected Bauer’s disaffection from the moment he’d first walked into the mairie, but now he’d confirmed it, she felt a palpable sense of relief. She softened towards him instantly and decided it would be alright for her to talk to him after all. And if he was such a reluctant soldier, she didn’t need to feel so guilty about copying his notes and letters and passing them to the Resistance.

‘It must be hard to do what you do if you feel that way,’ she said finally.

‘It is very hard,’ he replied, putting some final strokes on the sketch of the bridge. ‘The way I square it with my conscience is by trying to minimise the harm we do, whenever there is an opportunity. Which is why I allowed your farm workers to go the other evening.’

‘And we were very grateful for that, but… well, why don’t you just walk away?’ she asked.

His charcoal broke on the page and he looked at her, the expression in his blue eyes suddenly intense and she realised how naïve her question must have sounded.

‘I would if I could, believe me,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘But it just isn’t an option. I would be caught and shot instantly.’

There was a pause during which the clock on the abbey struck two.

‘Why are you telling me these things?’ she asked.

‘Because… well, as soon as I first met you, I saw something in your eyes, Madame Garnier, which told me that for some reason you would understand, and that you were someone I could confide in.’

She didn’t reply, she could feel her heart thumping away in her chest and her cheeks growing hot.

‘I was right, wasn’t I?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes. Yes, you were right,’ she muttered. Then she got up from the bench, avoiding his gaze, and screwed up the greaseproof paper from the quiche and put it in her pocket. ‘But I really have to go back to work now,’ she said. ‘I’m already late.’ And she walked away from him without looking back, her mind in turmoil, as she thought about the confusing web of lies and deceit she had stumbled upon, and what danger it might lead her into.

THIRTEEN

Amélie left work early that Friday evening. There was little to do in the afternoon once she’d taken Hauptmann Bauer’s letters to the post office. It was still light as she pedalled through the quiet streets heading for the bridge that led to the start of the cinder track that wound up the valley towards Le Châtaignier. As she cycled, she thought about Hauptmann Bauer and their conversation on the bench beside the river and the way he’d confided in her. The discovery that he was an artist, and that he was disaffected by the Nazi occupation of France, filled her with quiet pleasure that was tinged with guilt because she knew she shouldn’t feel that way about an enemy officer. But, of course, Bauer was different.

Rounding a bend in the road, she saw someone walking towards her. Recognising him instantly, she stopped her bicycle with a screech of her brakes.

‘Étienne!’

The boy stopped and a flush rose to his cheeks. ‘Madame Garnier.’

‘I noticed you earlier in the square,’ she said. ‘I could see you from the window of the mairie. You were talking to the German soldiers.’

He shrugged. ‘Some of them are friendly.’

‘Étienne,’ she said, moving closer to him and keeping her voice low. ‘You know what the people in this town think about the occupation. There are those whose sons and husbands are prisoners of war in Germany. How do you think it looks to them when you hang about with enemy soldiers like that?’

‘They gave me cigarettes,’ he said with another shrug. ‘I don’t have money for them myself.’

‘You shouldn’t accept them, though.’

‘I sold them to other boys,’ he said. ‘The ones I didn’t smoke, that is. Got good money for them too. I’ll use it to buy the medicine Maman needs.’

‘Oh, Étienne,’ Amélie said in despair, her heart going out to him all the same. ‘Did you manage to get anything with the money I gave you the other day?’

He nodded. ‘I used that for the doctor’s bill. It’s all gone now.’

‘But you’ve been working on the olive harvest this week, haven’t you? Hasn’t Bruno paid you?’

‘Yes. But it’s never enough.’