"We cannot cure the past."
"What's this?"
Though no one heard my words, nor sensed what drove me to talk aloud in an empty room, I spoke to myself. Three days after Dad's service, I sought probate papers. but now sat swaying gently on a squeaky swivel chair with its pleasant odour of worn leather, staring at twin faded grey exercise books.
"Dad is thorough and never makes mistakes, so he would use box files, putting the essential documents in order. Why leave these?"
I used the present tense without thinking.
I picked up his first book and recoiled at the coarse touch of rough post war paper. My throat filled with emotion reading the faded ink of Dad's details:
……….. Durand, Gustave ……….
……….. Terminal A……1950……
……….. Philosophie………………
The year 1950 showed this belonged to seventeen-year-old dad, long before my birth. A modern yellow post-it note screamed, "READ ME." Dad was always brief and direct, but the scrawling nature of the writing undermined the force of his instruction.
"He wrote that post-it last week. "
Though my purpose was to execute the will, reading his words might help me pretend he still lived. While I could not talk to him, he still spoke to me. Since Dad insisted, my forefinger pressed the desk lamp's sleek, firm button, and aged thirty-six, I followed parental instructions for the last time.
His teacher had set a task to describe an important event which changed the writer's life. Fifty years and four days later, I ignored the rowdy screeches of jays squabbling over acorns outside the window and read Dad's last emotional will and testament.
***
"The Events of Tuesday October 17th, 1943, Still Define Me.
The weather sulked that morning and its mood crept into the dim, cold classroom, which smelled of cat wee and dry rot. Our school day began with geometry and I built my standard boredom triangle before French grammar.
With head propped sideways on my left hand, supported by an elbow and forearm at forty-five degrees to the desk, I half heard what the teacher said. My mind, aching with tedium, escaped through dirty windows strung with cobwebs on both sides.
Once safe outside, it found nothing ungrey. The church presented stern granite walls crowned with slate tiles dotted with fine rain drops that slid down the steep sloping roof as children descend a slide. Grey paving covered the ground, a shade which matched the road between the school and church. Before the war, my playful uncle suggested grey, not green, as the colour he associated with Normandy.
"When I grow up, I will leave this dump and never come back," my ten-year-old self promised.
Until 1940, France's colours were red, white and blue, but Hitler and Laval replaced that with light grey, dark grey and deep grey. When the Germans entered the village, their uniforms and vehicles sported those shades. Their printed notices turned a grimy matt silver, while soup cooked from rations looked and tasted like wet fire ash. Even the thin coffee substitute was not black.
"Durand!"
My name, uttered with scorn, tugged my attention back to the class.
"Do you intend starting this task today or do you find my window more interesting?"
In my head I said,
"Shut up, you sad prick," but to him I said,
"Yes, Sir."
M. Lelièvre seemed pleased. While his smirk showed he thought yes meant I was starting work, I confirmed his window held more interest; it had cobwebs.
So, I unpacked the boredom triangle and tugged an exercise book marked "Durand, Gustave, Class 3, French Grammar," from an ancient desk which dispensed vicious splinters. I hated my name, but Mother was reading Flaubert when she started labour. I wished she had read Zola, Malraux or Pagnol. My teacher watched to ensure I "stayed on task."
Monsieur Lelièvre embraced the grey theme, even down to his clothes and skin. Our instructor, during the long absence of proper teachers held prisoner since 1940, sucked the last drop of life from any lesson. Put an orange on his desk, and it turned grey. Before Monsieur Lelièvre, we disliked the trained teachers, yet now we would exchange our meagre rations for their presence.
This weedy man bored for France. Though good at telling us what tasks to do, he showed less skill when explaining how. He thought pupil mistakes resulted from shortcomings of character or intellect, never from his weak explanations. He used his scrawny hands to keep order. When work fell below levels expected, he applied his own marking scheme. Two slaps meant, "Do it again, imbecile," one slap "Not good enough." No slap, at least ten out of twenty.
To avoid slaps, I dipped my pen into bluish ink, knowing how it dried. After writing "Tuesday October 17th, 1943" on off-white paper, I copied a long pointless paragraph, removing the qualifying adjectives as the cheap pen nib squeaked. We did this every day. Why include words they did not want? He called it suppressive copying, but the new order, German and French for occupation, suppressed everything.
Despite starting last, I completed the task third after Pierre and Véronique. Because he provided another dull exercise, no pupil alerted Monsieur Lelièvre when they finished work. Worse, he slapped the last person to finish, even those making no mistakes. His unheated room made blows on cheek or hand almost welcome.
Therefore, Class 3 used an unspoken code to show when someone finished their work. We placed a ruler sideways on our desk and pretended to continue. After the last measure moved, everyone raised their hand together to inform Monsieur Lelièvre, avoiding slaps or extra tasks. Every oppressed human revels in covert acts of defiance.
When an angry dispute invaded the silent classroom from near the section of church out of sight; I thought.
"Oh, wow. A break from boredom."
Monsieur Lelièvre claimed the right to be nosey. He marched to the window, pushed his head out, then followed events with his eyes. He looked silly perched on the windowsill and his bald patch, responsible for his nickname of Rasputin, (the mad monk) gleamed. Class 3 and its teacher seldom enjoyed the same events, but this began with a teasing victory for both. Because he satisfied his curiosity, knowing we could not gratify ours, it reinforced his authority. We just seized the chance to stop work, unslapped.
"This is good. Let's hope it keeps going," Bernard sat next to me whispered.
I followed the drama with my ears, telling different voices apart, though my weak grasp of German made me unsure of what was happening. But perhaps Monsieur Lebatteux, who owned the farm next to ours, was in trouble. The only voice I recognised was his pleading whine. Usually he said what he thought and took no crap, but today he wheedled. Our teacher saw the action unfold and smiles betrayed his enjoyment of Lebatteux's difficulties.
"That's okay. He can sort a few German soldiers better than you."
Inside classroom three, inquisitiveness changed to concern for those outside as unseen soldiers drew gun bolts.
"What are they doing? Why are they picking on him?"
Then a loud noise from within the building turned our curiosity to fear, and I forgot care for my neighbour. A rhythmic click… click of army boots on ancient floorboards announced unwelcome visitors. M. Lelièvre, brave when punishing pupils, trembled. Still keeping one eye on my neighbour, he slid off the windowsill. Beads of sweat chased each other down his face, defying the autumn chill. All colour retreated from his cheeks, leaving shades matching the drab clouds outside.
"What a big cissy!" I remember thinking, "it's just a few Germans."
" Back to work this instant, Class 3," Lelièvre said, ending our brief off task escape
Though my classmates shuffled in their chairs and stared at the door, full panic was slow to start. It seeped into us, drip by drip, drawing energy from that click…… click, the volume growing as it descended the corridor. Inside classroom three, twenty souls willed that sound to continue forever if possible, providing it stayed outside our door. To taunt us, the noise stopped short of the room where we cowered.
"They've stopped? What do they want?"
But after a teasing pause, our fear increased as an army boot opened an empty room. Tense quiet followed before the click… click resumed, coming closer. It stopped, and everyone knew it stood outside room 3.
"Why are they waiting? Perhaps boring is okay."
Those next ten seconds idled into the longest, loudest silence of my life. M. Lelièvre moved behind his pupils and slid something under a cupboard. Forty eyes stared at the door; forty ears strained to find any hope those outside might move on. My eyes no longer saw the whole door, but stayed glued to the handle, urging it to stick. That round, shiny lump of metal stood between Class 3 and these unseen visitors.
"Stay shut, door. Don't let them in."
But the door crashed into the room. First, a gleaming Mauser above a black boot entered. Next, one spotless grey uniform cloaking an officer of the Third Reich appeared, followed by two soldiers. This Uniform examined each face, then spoke words we did not understand.
"What's he saying?"
However, a Mauser pointed at you, then flicked towards the gaping exit needs no translation.
With fear clutching at my insides, I fought to escape my chair. Then my eighteen classmates and I fumbled towards the door.
"Jérôme looks scared too, and Pierre. So why are we going outside?"
But M Lelièvre did not follow; he found space between the stock cupboard and wall. On bent knees, head level with his belly, he studied his shoelaces. In a toddler's "If I can't see you, you can't see me" pose, he waited for us to leave.
"What a coward," I thought again.
Whether Uniform saw him was unimportant, he smelt fear. With long strides side stepping desks, he crossed the floor before the free hand gripped our teacher's collar, dragging him into a semi-upright stance. Lelièvre took blows across his cheek from the Mauser and a fierce telling off in German.
"There. How do you like it?"
In normal times, seeing the tables turned on our teacher would have brought joy, but I just sensed relief at his role of lightening conductor, drawing danger from us. Tears of red fell from his stone grey face, as hands cupped across his cheek, head stooped forward, our instructor followed his charges.
Beyond panic and trying not to provoke the raging Uniform, we fell through the school entrance, like dice cast from a casino tumbler into the sleepy square, with its memorial to the war we did win.
***
Now we faced two grey cloaked shapes, blending into the grey square. Unmoving, they stood statue like on either side of the monument listing the village's sons who fell in the great war; the war to end war.
"How many more are there?"
Last to emerge, Uniform, released M Lelièvre, and snapped out further orders we could not follow. His Mauser waved with force, helped again by using its wordless language. With dark, shiny patches on some shorts, Class 3 lined up along Marcassin's rough, damp church wall.
"Hurry. It's cold out here."
Next, with the same grip which removed our teacher from classroom three, Uniform brought Lebatteux in front of us. His second victim seemed unfazed.
"Now what's going on?"
The Germans focused on an adult again. Since it offered fragile comfort why stern soldiers had taken children outside with no care, I hoped our role was passive, not active. But when I glanced at those grey uniforms with gleaming rifles, my faith in remaining safe faltered.
Cell by cell, fear tightened its grip, choking my capacity to move and breathe. But I found an absurd distraction.
"Mum will go mad when she sees my shorts." She wanted them to last until Saturday. "Sorry mum."
Some classmates made faint whimpers, while others supported these sounds with a series of quick breaths. Dread in two-part harmony.
"Why can't we go back in?"
When my hands burrowed into wet trouser pockets seeking warmth beyond the north wind, Uniform noticed and shouted. I think he meant, "Stand still."
Then he screamed at Lebatteux in German and waved his pistol at our fearful line. This was not cold hard anger, but pure, unfurled rage.
"Who's he going to kill first?"
When Lebatteux said he did not understand, another soldier appeared who spoke poor French. This statue with real hair stood to attention and stared straight ahead as if he were in a last to blink contest. Even while he spoke, his eyelids stayed still.
"You have a horse. Requisitioned by the German army, all your horses are."
"But I've got no horse," my neighbour said, with complete conviction. "Your blokes took 'em all last week."
German words followed before the French version arrived with no eye contact in a difficult to follow accent.
"We know you hide the horse."
"But I've got no horse," my neighbour said, giving a confused glance in our direction while clenching and unclenching his hands. "I just said, didn't I? "
Now any remaining colour on any Class 3 face left the square, drained by a growing belief we could die.
At last, one person said what everyone was thinking:
"Just give him the horse."
Immediately, Uniform, who spoke no French, jolted his head in our direction. He thought it was something unpleasant about him. The grey coat strode towards Jérome and showed gratitude for his helpful advice by hitting my classmate across the face. But he gave no Lelièvre style slap. The blood fleeing from Jérome's mouth, and the sound of his nose breaking, increased our fear. Danger, until now carried by adults, reached out to the pupils. I stopped worrying for my classmates as my survival alone counted.
"What will mum say if I don't do chores tonight?"
Without success, we tried to master our terror, while Uniform refused to control its tantrum.
"Let me back in that stinky classroom, and I will copy for France,"I pleaded with myself." Just keep picking on Monsieur Lebatteux."
Lebatteux studied his twenty neighbours, and most of Class 3 read his mind; none of his five children were present. I missed the implication.
Then turning ninety degrees to face our line, the arm holding the pistol rose out towards us. Uniform spoke German again. Its mouth adopted a strange shape, neither smile nor snarl, just warped evil.
"Who's he gonna to shoot?"
When the weapon reached hip height, fingers from his left hand drew the bolt with a click, causing more terror than words.
"Just shut your eyes." But I couldn't obey my own instruction and watched as the gun rose to its eye line, and the barrel pointed at Jérome, Pierre and me. "How can I make him shoot someone else?"
The French-speaking soldier spoke next. In dull tones devoid of feeling, he said,
"We shoot one children every ten minutes until you horse give."
This death sentence was clear. To implore forgiveness for his sins, Pierre crossed himself, but the sounds refused to leave his mouth. He was no wimp, and to my shame, his fear comforted me. I moved my head to look at the rest of Class 3. No one pretended to be brave. The prospect of death seized each child. Though Uniform's shouts frightened us, the gun bolt's click carried more force.
Lebatteux, looking calm, said,
"Monsieur, I have no horse." And taking brazen to new levels, "I swear on my child's life."
Those words exploded in my ears. Inside my head, a picture appeared from two days earlier.
"You sat in our kitchen last Sunday. You drank Dad's cider and calvados and boasted of hiding that horse. And you made jokes about hide a cock horse."
When my mind returned to the square, I wanted to shout it was untrue, but my dry mouth formed no words. Lebatteux fixed his eyes on me and they said,
"Just keep your trap shut, kid." He knew I knew.
"You've got to tell them. You've got to tell them."
While the soldier changed Lebatteux's lies to German, a hen waddled between Uniform and Class 3.
"Lucky chicken walking where you want."
Next, Madame Mariau, Monsieur Lelièvre's sister-in-law, came round the corner, chasing the bird using the same side- to- side stride pattern. Stopping halfway along the line, her eyes moved right and left. She saw a desperate row of children, and Uniform's drawn pistol. Her impatience with the hen changed to fear the equal of mine, and she pulled her skirt hems up, turned and tried her best to run.
Uniform's attention followed her shuffling flight, and he called on her to stop. Deaf to the German used to give the order, she did not obey. Uniform swivelled forty-five degrees to the right, closed one eye and raised the pistol at her moving body. The church corner prevented me from seeing the accuracy of the shot, whose sound bounced off the square's granite walls, before lodging in my ears forever.
"Has he really shot her?"
Screams of fear fused with pain followed.
"Oh, my god. He's done it."
Now everyone froze, even Uniform who held his firing pose like a golfer admiring a drive, while his lips slipped into a satisfied smile. The church wall's harsh, cold, wet granite pushed against my back as my legs failed to respond to the overwhelming urge to run.
White and grey fumes drifted from the gun barrel, the sole movement in the square. While the post shot odour drifted past Class 3, its smoke, pungent but pleasant, carried the smell of farmers repairing metal machinery. How I longed to be in dad's workshop.
"It's not is he gonna shoot me, but when?"
