Page 6 of The French Wife

‘Oh, could you?’ Emma asked gratefully. ‘I’d love to know something about the history of this place.’

Gaston smiled at her again, a genuine smile, the little lines at the corners of his eyes wrinkling. ‘It’s a lovely old house,’ he said. ‘I’ve always had the idea that there’s something… how do I say… mysterious about the place. I’m not sure why, it’s just the impression I’ve got over the years.’

Emma smiled nervously back at him. She got that impression too, and now she’d seen those photographs, she was even more determined to find out what was at the root of that air of mystery that permeated Le Châtaignier.

THREE

AMÉLIE

1942

Amélie Garnier stood at the tall window on the first floor of the mairie, watching with increasing horror the events unfolding in the square below. She was flanked by the mayor on one side and the chief of police on the other. Just as she was, the two men were watching in silence, occasionally letting out a low heavy sigh.

Below them, in the ancient, cobbled square, in front of the medieval covered market and the old fountain, line after line of German soldiers in long black boots, grey-green uniforms, round metal helmets with packs and rifles on their backs were marching in from the narrow lane that led from Boulevard de la Promenade, the main street of the town, and lining up in the square. As they came to a halt, they stood to attention in perfect formation. Almost like tin soldiers, Amélie thought.

It had only been a day since news reports had started filtering through that the Germans were on their way. Amélie had been preparing supper at the range in the farmhouse kitchen the previous evening; she always cooked some sort of casserole for the farm workers when she got home from work. Bruno was slumped at the kitchen table as usual with a tankard of beer, smoking roll-ups. He liked to listen to the BBC in the evenings, even though Amélie knew little English and could barely understand what was being said. But at least each evening the broadcast was interrupted at intervals by a bulletin in French. These were usually rallying cries from the Free French movement in London and their leader, Charles de Gaulle. During those short bursts of rousing speeches and encouraging news, Amélie would stop what she was doing and listen intently, reassured that France hadn’t been forgotten, and buoyed by the hope that, one day, the Nazis might be driven out.

But while she was cooking, the broadcast was in English. She was stirring the sauce on the range, savouring the delicious smells that were floating up from the pot, when Bruno started in his seat, sitting up straight.

‘Merde!’ he blurted, bringing down his fist on the table.

‘What is it?’ Amélie asked, startled.

‘Hush,’ he said, holding up his hand imperiously. ‘I will tell you in a moment. Let me hear the rest of it…’

The news report only lasted a couple more minutes. When it had finished and was replaced with tinny orchestral music, Bruno got up and switched off the old wireless set.

‘So? What did they say?’ Amélie asked, her spoon hovering mid-air above the pot. She was feeling helpless, as she often did. It irked her that even as a grown, thirty-two-year-old woman, she had to rely on Bruno to translate important information like this, but it couldn’t be helped.

‘They said they have received reports that German troops have been marching over the demarcation line into the free zone since yesterday morning,’ he said.

Amélie’s hand flew to her mouth, and she almost dropped her spoon in alarm. ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘What does it mean? What will happen here?’

‘Everything points to the Germans taking over command in the free zone from the Vichy government. We’ve been wondering if this might happen, now they’re losing the war in North Africa.’

‘But that’s terrible news,’ Amélie said.

‘Yes. It is bad news. Very bad news indeed. Life has been difficult enough under Vichy, but things are going to get a lot worse with the Boche in charge, believe me.’

At that moment, the door at the far end of the kitchen opened and the farm workers began trooping in through the side entrance that led to the house from the herbergerie, the giant barn kitted out with bunk beds where they lodged. There were only six of them. It was November and there was less work to do about the farm during winter, but in late summer and early autumn when the grapes were harvested, the huge herbergerie was home to a couple of dozen workers or more. There were five men and one woman – Lili, the wife of Polish worker Tomasz. Lili and Tomasz lived in a separate section at the end of the barn. Amélie was grateful for the older woman’s company and support, the only female presence amongst so many men. She also worked in the fields, but would help Amélie in the house if she asked her, although Bruno didn’t like sparing any of his workers.

Once everyone was seated round the table, Bruno repeated what he’d just heard on the wireless. As Amélie doled out the casserole into bowls, and set them before each worker accompanied by a hunk of baguette, there was a general, unsettled hubbub while everyone mulled over this worrying turn of events. They were fond of discussing the news over supper, but tonight, Amélie noticed, even though the farmstead was buried deep in the countryside, several kilometres from any neighbours, their faces took on a wary look, and they kept their voices uncharacteristically low while they talked.

The following morning, when she arrived at work at the mairie, the mayor greeted her with a troubled frown.

‘You have heard the news, I suppose, Madame Garnier?’ he’d asked. When she nodded, he went on. ‘I’ve just put the phone down from speaking to the mayor of Carcassonne. He told me that German troops arrived in the city just after dawn today. They’ve taken over the whole town, apparently, and yet more of them are marching south. We should expect them here in St Marie in a few hours’ time.’

Amélie’s mouth dropped open, and fear rippled through her. German troops? Here, in St Marie-des-Champs? She looked nervously at her boss, who already had a bottle open and a glass of brandy in front of him. He was chain smoking Gauloises, the strands of long, grey hair he covered his balding pate with had slipped sideways and the colour in his cheeks was unnaturally high. He must be as terrified as she was by this news, Amélie realised.

Since the German occupation of northern France in 1940, the free zone had been governed by the collaborationist government from Vichy, who themselves implemented unjust and discriminatory laws to please their German masters. Until now the mayor had trodden a fine line between obeying the letter of the law of his Vichy rulers, and doing just little enough to ensure he didn’t alienate his local supporters. But it would be difficult for him to hoodwink the Germans like that, Amélie thought. He would soon have to choose which side he was on.

Now it was late morning, and Amélie stood beside him watching the lines of German troops assemble in the square. The foot soldiers were followed by four tanks, rumbling down the narrow lane over the uneven cobbles, guns poised in their manholes. Then there were armoured cars carrying officers, trucks bearing anti-aircraft guns, soldiers on horseback, others driving motorbikes with sidecars, a couple of vans, and two dark-green army cars. A crowd of local onlookers watched silently and restlessly from the edges of the square, bundled up in coats and hats against the biting weather, their faces tense.

It took over half an hour for the soldiers to line up. When they’d stopped pouring into the square and everything fell still and silent, four men, who looked like officers, emerged from the cars and walked briskly towards the mairie.

‘My God, they’re coming here,’ the mayor muttered, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor and grinding it with his heel.

‘Of course they are, Claude,’ the chief of police muttered. ‘What did you expect? This is the mairie. They’ll want to take over.’