Suite Française

6

The regiment was passing beneath Lucile's windows. The soldiers were singing; they had excellent voices, but the French were bemused by this serious choir whose sad and menacing music sounded more religious than warlike.

"That how they pray?" the women asked.

The troops were returning from manoeuvres; it was so early in the morning that the whole village was still asleep. A few women woke with a start. They leaned out of the windows and laughed. It was such a fresh, gentle morning! The roosters crowed huskily after the cold night. The peaceful sky was tinged with pink and silver. Its i

Just as farmers used to be given the names of the places where they lived, to such an extent that the postman who was a descendant of former tenant farmers on the Montmort estate was called Auguste de Montmort to this very day, so the Germans more or less inherited the social status of their landlords. They were called the Durands' Fritz, the La Forges' Ewald, the Angelliers' Bruno.

Bruno rode at the head of his cavalry detachment. The well-fed, fiery animals pranced and eyed the onlookers with pride and impatience; they were the envy of the villagers.

"Mama, did you see?" the children shouted.

The Lieutenant's horse had a golden-brown coat, as glossy as satin. Both horse and rider were aware of the cheers, the women's cries of pleasure. The handsome animal arched its neck, violently shook its bit. The officer smiled faintly and sometimes made a little affectionate smacking sound with his lips, which controlled the horse better than the whip. When a young girl, at a window, exclaimed, "He's a good rider, that Boche, he is," he raised his gloved hand to his helmet and solemnly saluted.

Behind the young girl you could hear nervous whispering.

"You know very well they don't like being called that. Are you crazy?"

"Oh, so what! So I forgot," the young girl retorted, red as a cherry.

The detachment broke ranks at the village square. In a great clanking of boots and spurs, the men went back to their billets. The sun was shining and it was hot now, almost like summer. The soldiers got washed in the courtyards; their naked torsos were red, burned by being outdoors so much, and covered with sweat. One soldier had hooked a mirror on to the branch of a tree and was shaving. Another plunged his head and bare arms into a large tub of cool water. A third called out to a young woman, "Beautiful day, Madame!"

"Well now, so you speak French?"

"A little."

They looked at each other; smiled at each other. The women went over to the wells and sent down their buckets on long creaking chains. Once retrieved and full of shimmering, icy water that reflected the dark blue of the sky, these buckets always attracted a soldier, who would hurry over to take the heavy burden. Some of the soldiers did it to prove that, even though they were German, they were polite; others did it out of natural kindness; some because the beautiful day and a kind of physical invigoration (brought on by the fresh air, healthy tiredness and the prospect of a well-earned rest) put them in a state of exaltation, of i

"They're nice," he said, looking at the woman's legs, "they're nice, Madame…"

"Shh… My husband…"

"Ah, husband, böse… bad," he exclaimed, pretending to be very frightened.

The husband was listening behind the closed door and, since he trusted his wife, instead of getting angry he felt rather proud. "Well, our women are beautiful," he thought. And the small glass of white wine he had every morning seemed to taste better.

Some soldiers went into the shoemaker's. He was a disabled war veteran who had his workbench in the shop; the deep, natural aroma of fresh wood hung in the air; the freshly cut blocks of pine still shed tears of sap. The shelves were crammed with hand-carved clogs decorated with all ma

One of the Germans looked at them appreciatively. "Magnificent work," he said.

The morose, taciturn shoemaker didn't reply, but his wife, who was setting the table, was so curious she couldn't help but ask, "What did you do in Germany?"

At first the soldier didn't understand; then he said he'd been a locksmith. The shoemaker's wife thought for a moment, then whispered in her husband's ear, "We should show him that broken key to the dresser. Maybe he could fix it…"

"Forget it," her husband said, frowning.

"You? Lunch?" the soldier continued. He pointed to the white bread on a plate decorated with flowers: "French bread… light… not in stomach… nothing…"

What he meant was that the bread didn't seem nourishing, wouldn't fill you up, but the French couldn't believe anyone would be crazy enough not to recognise the excellence of their food, especially their golden round loaves, their crown-shaped breads. There were rumours they would soon have to be made with a mixture of bran and poor-quality flour. But no one believed it. They took the German's words as a compliment and were flattered. Even the sour expression on the shoemaker's face softened. He sat down at the table with his family. The Germans sat on wooden stools, at a distance.

"And do you like this village?" the shoemaker's wife continued.

She was naturally sociable and suffered from her husband's long silences.

"Oh, yes, beautiful…"

"And what about where you come from? Is it like here?" she asked another soldier.

The soldier's face began quivering; you could tell he was desperately trying to find the words to describe his own land, the fields of hop and deep forests. But he couldn't find the words; he just spread out his arms. "Big… good earth…" He hesitated and sighed. "Far…"

"Do you have a family?"

He nodded yes.

"You don't need to talk to them," the shoemaker said to his wife.

The woman felt ashamed. She continued working in silence, pouring the coffee, cutting the children's sandwiches. They could hear joyful sounds coming from outside. It was the cheerful din of laughter, weapons rattling, soldiers' voices and footsteps. No one quite knew why, but they felt lighthearted. Maybe it was because of the beautiful weather. The sky, so blue, seemed gently to bow down towards the horizon and caress the earth. The hens were squatting in the dust: every so often they made sleepy squawking sounds and fluffed themselves up. Bits of straw, feathers, invisible grains of pollen floated in the air. It was nesting season.