‘Eight o’clock,’
Hélène said, from behind me. ‘They want to eat at eight
o’clock.’
Our own supper had been a slice of black
bread, spread thinly with jam and accompanied by some boiled beetroot. To have to roast
chickens, to fill our kitchen with the scents of garlic and tomato, with apple tart,
felt like a form of torture. I was afraid, that first evening, even to lick my fingers,
although the sight of them, dripping with tomato juice or sticky with apple, was sorely
tempting. There were several times, as I rolled pastry, or peeled apples, that I almost
fainted with longing. We had to shoo Mimi, Aurélien and little Jean upstairs, from
where we heard occasional howls of protest.
I did not want to cook the Germans a fine
meal. But I was too afraid not to. At some point, I told myself, as I pulled the
roasting chickens from the oven, basting them with sizzling juice, perhaps I might enjoy
the sight of this food. Perhaps I might relish the chance to see it again, to smell it.
But that night I could not. By the time the doorbell rang, notifying us of the
officers’ arrival, my stomach clawed and my skin sweated with hunger. I hated the
Germans with an intensity I have never felt before or since.
‘Madame.’ The
Kommandant
was the first to enter. He removed his rain-spattered cap and motioned to his officers
to do the same.
I stood, wiping my hands on my apron, unsure
how to react. ‘Herr Kommandant.’ My face was expressionless.
The room was warm: the Germans had sent
three baskets of logs so that we might make up a fire. The men were divesting themselves
of scarves and hats, sniffing the air, already grinning with anticipation. The scent of
the chicken, roasted in a garlic and tomato sauce, had thoroughly infused the air.
‘I think we will eat immediately,’ he said, glancing towards the
kitchen.
‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘I
will fetch the wine.’
Aurélien had opened several bottles in
the kitchen. He came out scowling now, two in his hands. The torture this evening had
inflicted on us had upset him in particular. I was afraid, given the recent beating, his
youth and impulsive nature, that he would get himself into trouble. I swept the bottles
from his hands. ‘Go and tell Hélène she must serve the
dinner.’
‘But –’
‘Go!’ I scolded him. I walked
around the bar, pouring wine. I did not look at any of them as I placed the glasses on
the tables, even though I felt their eyes on me. Yes, look at me, I told them silently.
Another scrawny Frenchwoman, starved into submission by you. I hope my appearance rots
your appetites.
My sister brought out the first plates to
murmurs of appreciation. Within minutes the men were tucking in, their cutlery
clattering against the china, exclaiming in their own language. I walked backwards and
forwards
with loaded plates, trying not to breathe in the delicious
scents, trying not to look at the roasted meat, glistening besides the bright
vegetables.
At last, they were all served.
Hélène and I stood together behind the bar, as the
Kommandant
made
some lengthy toast in German. I cannot tell you how it felt then to hear those voices in
our home; to see them eating the food we had so carefully prepared, relaxing and
laughing and drinking. I am strengthening these men, I thought miserably, while my
beloved Édouard may be weak with hunger. And this thought, perhaps with my own
hunger and exhaustion, made me feel a brief despair. A small sob escaped my throat.
Hélène’s hand reached for mine. She squeezed it. ‘Go to the
kitchen,’ she murmured.
‘I –’
‘Go to the kitchen. I will join you
when I have refilled their glasses.’
Just this once, I did as my sister said.
They ate for an hour. She and I sat in
silence in the kitchen, lost in exhaustion and the confusion of our thoughts. Every time
we heard a swell of laughter or a hearty exclamation, we looked up. It was so hard to
know what any of it meant.
‘Mesdames.’ The
Kommandant
appeared at the kitchen door. We scrambled to our feet.
‘The meal was excellent. I hope you can maintain this standard.’
I looked at the floor.
‘Madame Lefèvre.’
Reluctantly, I raised my eyes.
‘You are pale. Are you ill?’
‘We are quite well.’ I swallowed.
I felt his eyes on me like a burn. Beside me, Hélène’s fingers twisted
together, reddened from the unaccustomed hot water.
‘Madame, have you and your sister
eaten?’
I thought it was a test. I thought he was
checking that we had followed those infernal forms to the letter. I thought he might
weigh the leftovers, to ensure we had not sneaked a piece of apple peel into our
mouths.
‘We have not touched one grain of
rice, Herr Kommandant.’ I almost spat it at him. Hunger will do that to you.
He blinked. ‘Then you should. You
cannot cook well if you do not eat. What is left?’
I couldn’t move. Hélène
motioned to the roasting tray on the stove. There were four quarters of a chicken there,
keeping warm in case the men wanted second helpings.
‘Then sit down. Eat here.’
I could not believe this wasn’t a
trap.
‘That is an order,’ he said. He
was almost smiling, but I didn’t think it was funny. ‘Really. Go
on.’
‘Would … would it be
possible to feed something to the children? It is a long time since they had any
meat.’
He frowned a little, as if in
incomprehension. I hated him. I hated the sound of my voice, begging a German for scraps
of food. Oh, Édouard, I thought silently. If you could hear me now.
‘Feed your children and
yourselves,’ he said shortly. And he turned and left the room.
We sat there in silence, his words ringing
in our ears. Then Hélène grabbed her skirts and ran up the stairs, taking them
two at a time. I hadn’t seen her move so fast in months.
Seconds later, she reappeared, with Jean in
her arms, still in his nightshirt, Aurélien and Mimi before her.
‘Is it true?’ Aurélien
said. He was staring at the chicken, his mouth hanging open.
I could only nod.
We fell upon that unlucky bird. I wish I
could tell you that my sister and I were ladylike, that we picked delicately, as the
Parisians do, that we paused to chat and wipe our mouths between bites. But we were like
savages. We tore at the flesh, scooped handfuls of rice, ate with our mouths open,
picking wildly at the bits that fell on to the table. I no longer cared whether this was
some trick on the
Kommandant
’s part. I have never tasted anything as good
as that chicken. The garlic and tomatoes filled my mouth with long-forgotten pleasure,
my nostrils with scents I could have inhaled for ever. We emitted little sounds of
delight as we ate, primal and uninhibited, each locked into our own private world of
satisfaction. Baby Jean laughed and covered his face with juice. Mimi chewed pieces of
chicken skin, sucking the grease from her fingers with noisy relish. Hélène
and I ate without speaking, always ensuring the little ones had enough.
When there was nothing left, when every bone
had been sucked of its meat, the trays emptied of each last grain of rice, we sat and
stared at each other. From the bar, we could hear the chatter of the Germans becoming
noisier, as they consumed their wine, and occasional bursts of their laughter. I wiped
my mouth with my hands.
‘We must tell no one,’ I said,
rinsing them. I felt like a drunk who had suddenly become sober. ‘This may never
happen again. And we must behave as if it did not happen once. If
anyone finds out that we ate the Germans’ food, we will be considered
traitors.’
We gazed at Mimi and Aurélien then,
trying to impart to them the seriousness of what we were saying. Aurélien nodded.
Mimi too. I think they would have agreed to speak German for ever in those moments.
Hélène grabbed a dishcloth, wetted it, and set about removing traces of the
meal from the faces of the two youngest. ‘Aurélien,’ she said,
‘take them to bed. We will clear up.’
He was not infected by my misgivings. He was
smiling. His thin, adolescent shoulders had dropped for the first time in months, and as
he picked up Jean, I swear he would have whistled if he could. ‘No one,’ I
warned him.
‘I know,’ he said, in the tone
of a fourteen-year-old who knows everything. Little Jean was already slumping
heavy-lidded on his shoulder, his first full meal in months exhausting him. They
disappeared back up the stairs. The sound of their laughter as they reached the top made
my heart ache.
It was past eleven o’clock when the
Germans left. We had been under a curfew for almost a year; when the nights drew in, if
we had no candles or acetylene lamps, Hélène and I had acquired the habit of
going to bed. The bar shut at six, had done since the occupation, and we hadn’t
been up so late for months. We were exhausted. Our stomachs gurgled with the shock of
rich food after months of near-starvation. I saw my sister slump as she scrubbed the
roasting pans. I did not feel quite as tired, and my brain flickered with the memory of
the chicken: it was as if
long-dead nerves had been sparked into
life. I could still taste and smell it. It burned in my mind like a tiny, glowing
treasure.
Some time before the kitchen was clean again
I sent Hélène upstairs. She pushed her hair back from her face. She had been
so beautiful, my sister. When I looked at how the war had aged her, I thought of my own
face, and wondered what my husband would make of me.
‘I don’t like to leave you alone
with them,’ she said.
I shook my head. I wasn’t afraid: the
mood was peaceable. It is hard to rouse men who have eaten well. They had been drinking,
but the bottles allowed for maybe three glasses each; not enough to provoke them to
misbehaviour. My father had given us precious little, God knew, but he had taught us
when to be afraid. I could watch a stranger and know from a tightening of their jaw, a
faint narrowing of the eyes, the exact point at which internal tension would lead to a
flash of violence. Besides, I suspected the
Kommandant
would not tolerate
such.
I stayed in the kitchen, clearing up, until
the sound of chairs being pushed back alerted me to the fact that they were leaving. I
walked through to the bar.
‘You may close up now,’ the
Kommandant
said. I tried not to bristle visibly. ‘My men wish to
convey to you their gratitude for an excellent meal.’
I glanced at them. I gave a slight nod. I
did not wish to be seen as grateful for the compliments of Germans.
He did not seem to expect a response. He
placed his cap on his head, and I reached into my pocket and handed him the chits from
the food. He glanced at them and thrust them back at me, a little irritably. ‘I do
not handle
such things. Give them to the men who deliver the food
tomorrow.’
‘
Désolée
,’ I
said, but I had known this full well. Some mischievous part of me had wished to reduce
him, if only briefly, to the status of support corps.
I stood there as they gathered their coats
and hats, some of them replacing chairs, with a vestige of gentlemanly behaviour, others
careless, as if it were their right to treat any place as if it were their home. So this
was it, I thought. We were to spend the rest of the war cooking for Germans.
I wondered briefly if we should have cooked
badly, taken less trouble. But Maman had always impressed on us that to cook poorly was
a kind of sin in itself. And however immoral we had been, however traitorous, I knew
that we would all remember the night of the roasted chicken. The thought that there
might be more made me feel a little giddy.
It was then that I realized he was looking
at the painting.
I was gripped by a sudden fear, remembering
my sister’s words. The painting did look subversive, its colours too bright in the
faded little bar, the glowing girl wilful in her confidence. She looked, I saw now,
almost as if she were mocking them.
He kept staring at it. Behind him, his men
had begun to leave, their voices loud and harsh, bouncing across the empty square. I
shivered a little every time the door opened.
‘It looks so like you.’
I was shocked that he could see it. I
didn’t want to
agree. It implied a kind of intimacy, that he
could see me in the girl. I swallowed. My knuckles were white where my hands pressed
together.
‘Yes. Well, it was a long time
ago.’
‘It’s a little
like … Matisse.’
I was so surprised by this that I spoke
before I thought. ‘Édouard studied under him, at the Académie Matisse in
Paris.’
‘I know of it. Have you come across an
artist called Hans Purrmann?’ I must have started – I saw his gaze flick towards
me. ‘I am a great admirer of his work.’
Hans Purrmann. The Académie
Matisse
. To hear these words from the mouth of a German
Kommandant
made me feel almost dizzy.
I wanted him gone then. I didn’t want
him to mention those names. Those memories were mine, little gifts that I could bring
out to comfort myself on the days when I felt overwhelmed by life as it was; I did not
want my happiest days polluted by the casual observations of a German.
‘Herr Kommandant, I must clear up. If
you will excuse me.’ I began stacking plates, collecting the glasses. But he
didn’t move. I felt his eyes rest on the painting as if they rested on me.
‘It is a long time since I had any
discussion about art.’ He spoke as if to the painting. Finally he placed his hands
behind his back, and turned away from it to me. ‘We will see you
tomorrow.’
I couldn’t look at him as he passed.
‘Herr Kommandant,’ I said, my hands full.
‘Good night, Madame.’
When I finally made it upstairs,
Hélène was asleep face down on top of our coverlet, still wearing the clothes
she had cooked in. I loosened her corset, took off her shoes and pulled the covers over
her. Then I climbed into bed, my thoughts humming and spinning towards the dawn.