Page 72 of The French Wife

Emma watched the woman’s face as she spoke, amazed at what she was saying. She’d learned more about Le Châtaignier in the few short minutes since she stepped through the door than she had in all the weeks she’d been trying to piece things together herself.

‘Did you stay there long?’ she asked.

Madame Vernay’s face fell. ‘I stayed as long as it was possible to stay. I stayed until…’ She stopped and took a sip of coffee.

‘What happened, Madame Vernay?’

The old lady put down her cup and Emma could see her hands were shaking. Her face had suddenly lost its vibrancy and her eyes were filled with pain. She suddenly looked her age.

‘Will you tell me about it?’ Emma asked. ‘I’m really fascinated to know what happened at Le Châtaignier. What happened to Amélie. No one has been able to tell me so far.’

There was a pause during which the old lady drew herself up, took another sip of coffee and visibly composed herself.

‘I don’t know everything that happened, my dear. A lot went on that I have no knowledge of, but I’ll tell you what I do know. I hope you haven’t got anywhere to be for a few hours?’

TWENTY-THREE

AMÉLIE

1943

The hard, cold months were gradually drawing to a close. Winter gave way to spring and the days grew longer and warmer. The chestnut trees were covered in green leaves again and tiny buds were beginning to unfurl on their branches. The vines in the valley were soon clothed in green too as they awakened from their winter slumber.

During those months, Amélie and Hans’ secret love had also blossomed. It had grown deeper and more intense than Amélie had imagined possible, but was marred by the need for secrecy and the fear of discovery. She would meet him in his studio whenever there was an opportunity, but those occasions were few and far between. That didn’t stop them growing closer each time they did meet, and cherishing those moments in between times. Hans had even started a portrait of her, which he kept locked in a suitcase, away from Madame Argène’s prying eyes.

Despite all their precautions, Amélie worried that Madame Argène might have seen her going to the studio and had started spreading rumours in the town. Sometimes she thought people in the street purposely walked the other way when she approached or gave her stony looks as she passed. And was it her imagination or were the shopkeepers and other shoppers less friendly than before when she queued up for food during her lunchbreaks?

Cold dread filled her heart when she imagined what would happen if the people of St Marie knew for sure she was sleeping with a German officer. They wouldn’t care that Hans was a good man, that he’d already saved many people from arrest and deportation, and that he loathed what the Nazis were doing in France. They would still denounce her as a traitor. In spite of that, her bond with him was addictive; she had to see him, she had to be with him, to have his arms around her and to feel the depth and force of his love.

When it got too risky for Amélie to go to the studio anymore, she told him about her cabin by the river. Sometimes at weekends when Bruno and the men were hunting in the forest or working on the land in the next valley, Hans would walk up the cinder track, cross the river on the stepping stones, and meet her there. They would spend a couple of blissful hours talking tenderly and making love. He would often bring her a present; a miniature painting of a larger one he was doing, which she would hang on the wall of the cabin. He hadn’t signed them, so it was unlikely Bruno would discover their origin if he did ever go inside the cabin, but Amélie thought that was unlikely. Hans even made a special painting of the cabin itself, nestling there on the riverbank under the trees. He’d written Notre Retraite on the back, which Amélie realised was a little risky, but the picture was so perfect, she couldn’t resist hanging it on the wall.

One day Hans brought her a silver bracelet in a little box. When she saw its engraving – À Amélie, avec tout mon amour, Hans – her eyes filled with tears.

‘It’s beautiful, Hans,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘In Carcassonne. I didn’t dare ask the jeweller in St Marie to engrave it for me.’

‘I wish I could wear it,’ she said. ‘To show the world how much I love you, but it’s impossible. I’ll have to hide it, here in the cabin.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes. ‘This cabin is our world. Nothing matters here except our love for each other.’

He kissed her then and she slid her arms around him and pulled him close. He was right, nothing mattered here except their love. Here they were safe. Safe from the outside world and the hatred of others, safe from the terrible war that raged on and on.

Those stolen moments with Hans were beacons of light and hope in Amélie’s troubled days. Life at the farm was uncomfortable and crowded and despite the availability of fresh vegetables, eggs and milk, often there wasn’t enough to eat. Amélie was grateful Suzette was there. She, Naomi, Esther and Ivy between them now did most of the cooking, and Suzette kept the house clean and tidy. But with so many people living in a confined space, tensions often bubbled to the surface. Bruno wanted his pound of flesh from the workers, especially Samuel and Gabriel, and he would drive them hard for long hours every day. Naomi and Esther sometimes challenged him about it at supper time, and it always ended in an argument.

‘Where would you lot be if I hadn’t taken you in?’ he would yell at them. ‘Your men have got to pay their way. We are feeding seven of you for the work of two. That’s why they have to work hard!’

The two women would always back down, but those arguments left a sour atmosphere and simmering resentments.

Bruno also tried to work Henri and Raoul hard, but they weren’t exclusively under his control. They had the excuse of spending time planning or going out on missions, which would take them away from his punishing work schedule. And, as always, each morning they would take their weapons to a clearing in the forest and do target practice for an hour or so.

Since the troop movements of November 1942, although Amélie had given Raoul copies of everything she typed up at the mairie, there hadn’t been anything on the same scale for months. The résistants had to content themselves with lesser missions; cutting communications lines, disrupting the road network if a high-ranking officer was planning a visit from Carcassonne or Toulouse, and occasionally, when the opportunity presented itself, throwing grenades at tanks and armoured cars passing on the road.

Glock continued to instil terror in the local population. Although Hans would try to intervene to minimise Glock’s worst excesses, he couldn’t prevent the SS officer arresting anyone he thought had stepped out of line, torturing them for information about local networks and keeping them locked up for weeks on end without charge.

Hans would talk to Amélie about Glock, about his excesses and his zeal, his sadistic delight in his job. Hans would be visibly stressed on those occasions, his normally calm features suddenly rigid and tense.

‘He doesn’t trust me,’ he told her, ‘because I’ve opposed him several times. He thinks I’m working against him.’