DieterM
09-23-2010, 07:40 AM
Imagine an old woman’s soft, slow words. Imagine her sitting at her heavy, wooden table, a small glass of Suze or Porto in front of her, on the polished surface. A huge and rustic tableware cabinet made of dark wood could be standing behind her; in a corner, a grandfather clock measuring the time, tick-tocking loudly through the old woman’s silences, when she catches breath, say, or when she gets lost in her memories. Imagine her looking calmly at her glass as if the brownish liquor it contains inspired her long speech. Imagine her halting from time to time, listening after the sound of her raspy, short-winded voice, trying to find out where she wanted to lead you to, in her tale.
‘…yes, I was living in a small village nearby. You remember? We drove by, the other day. I told you to look out of the car window, remember? The old farm on the right-hand side. You see which farm I’m talking about? The one next to the fishpond, right, the low, old stone-building. Yes, it’s where we lived back then. Drumont, the children and me… Well, I don’t want to talk about Drumont. But you have a right to know. He was a cruel man. Drinking away all the money I earned on that farm. I was helping the farmer and his wife, see. I was working in the fields. Sometimes, I did the cooking. I was feeding the pigs, I was taking care of the chickens. We even had some geese back then. There was always much work to do, on that farm. It’s hard work, farm-work, you know… Your uncle was born back then. Poor child… it wasn’t easy, you know. Drumont could be so threatening when he was drunk. He was violent. Once, he smashed all the glasses in our kitchen. Your uncle, he was barely five, he tried to intervene, which drove Drumont madder still. I’ve never seen him in such a state! I thought Drumont would kill the little boy! I was so scared…’
Imagine the old woman taking a sip of her Suze or Porto. Licking her sugary lips. Sighing. ‘Then, I met Robert. Your grandfather…’ Imagine the old woman, how far away she seems now, drifting off in her dreams, in her past. It might be a moment before she comes back to reality, before she goes on: ‘We met at a Bal Musette. I had gone to my sister’s for the week-end, you know. The harvest was finished, Drumont had disappeared for a couple of days… that happened from time to time. Whenever there was enough money, as a matter of fact. I had just been paid, and he had left to get loaded with those ne’er-do-friends of his. Anyway, the farmer gave me some extra-money and told me to go see my family. ‘You need a break!’ he said, the farmer. He was no talkative man, you see. But a kind man, a just man, in his fashion… So I left for the weekend, with your uncle. We went to see Geneviève. She lived in Nogent-sur-Marne with her three kids. Her husband had died during the Great War. That evening, she took me to the Musette on the banks of the river Marne. We had left your uncle with Geneviève’s daughter, who was twelve or thirteen years old… What was her name? Wait… Géraldine, I think.’
The old woman might halt there, shaking her white-haired head, repeating in a low voice: ‘Géraldine… yes, Géraldine…’ She might then look at her hands before continuing: ‘I noticed him at once. Your grandfather. He was sitting all alone near the water. He looked so young then, and he seemed to be different from all the others. I don’t know, I cannot explain… Vulnerable. Distant. Alone… He was handsome, that’s for sure. He saw me watching him, and he invited me to dance. I fell in love immediately when he approached and said: ‘May I ask the pretty demoiselle to grant me this waltz?’ ‘Madame,’ I answered. I remember that my voice was trembling. I remember that he seemed unfazed when he heard that I was a ‘Madame, that I was married.…’
Imagine the old woman clearing her voice, overcome by emotion, even now, sixty years later. ‘We became lovers,’ she might say now. ‘He left his job in Nogent and followed me here. He found a new job in Provins. Les Imprimeries Saulons. He was a bookbinder, you know. He had such dexterous hands! You won’t imagine, these hands that hurt him so much now… Ever since he’s suffering from the gout… But back then, how slim they were! He was a magician with those hands, I tell you! Anyway… I couldn’t leave Drumont, you know. He would have killed the three of us, Robert, your uncle, and me… Then, the war broke out. The boches arrived. Your grandfather was serving in the army. Before the victorious boches, he fled to the South, to Marseille. He sent me a letter, begging me to come and join him…’
The old woman could have teary eyes now. She might just sip her Suze or Porto again. ‘But I couldn’t leave. The roads were too unsafe for a woman and a little child. And Drumont was still there. And there was the farm-work. At least, we had a roof above our heads. And we had enough to eat. But I missed your grandfather so much… Then, one day, it was in ’43, I found this letter. Someone had put it into the pocket of my apron. Imagine how surprised I was, how happy, and how scared for his life at the same time…’
‘Yes, it was your grandfather himself who had put that letter there. He had come back from the South, back from the Zone libre. He was hiding out in the forests. Why he was doing that? Well, because he was fighting with the Résistance. He told me so when we met. You see, the letter told me to come to the Moulin du Pré the same evening. It doesn’t exist anymore, nowadays, the Moulin du Pré… Well, go I did. I was so excited! I invented an excuse and slipped away when the sun set. I walked the two kilometres to the Moulin. Twice, a German patrol stopped me. My, I was scared! I thought they might hear my heart beat under the thick shawl I had wrapped around my shoulders. You can’t imagine what it was, living back then, with the boches always around, everywhere, trying to find out where the Résistance fighters were hidden, always trying to kill them. There were scary stories about arrests and torture and deadly camps somewhere far away, in the East… I really learned to hate them, the boches… Well, fortunately, your grandma is clever! I had taken a sack of wheat with me, so I told the German officers I had to reach the Moulin before they closed for the night because the farmer had run out of flour for the bread…’
The old woman could probably smile a shrewd and crooked smile while recalling those events.
‘And there he was, your grandfather! He had lost weight since the last time I had seen him. He had lost something of his innocent look, too. But his eyes, they were still as tender as they had been! When I saw him standing there, in the backroom of the Moulin, dirty and exhausted, I knew I was really in love. I knew this was more than just a passing crush, you understand? I didn’t ask myself silly questions. You never do when you’re really in love. I knew, there and then, that I’d be happy with Robert. I knew that I would have to leave Drumont…’
A pause. ‘But it was wartime. Nobody, today, can conceive of how it truly was, in those bitter times. That constant feeling of insecurity. The hatred we had for the boches. The fear for our beloved ones, who were secretly fighting them. The nightly arrests. The gnawing question ‘When will be it our turn? Who will betray us?’ I wasn’t afraid for my own life, you know. All I did was baking bread for our brave Résistance fighters, stealing eggs, sometimes a piece of ham. But I was so afraid for Robert! What? Oh yes. The farmer, of course, he must have known. But he never asked any questions. I remember, once, he even caught me slipping a loaf of bread under my coat. He didn’t say anything, just made a sign for me to wait. Then, he disappeared in the cave. When he came back, he handed me a bottle of red wine. ‘Go now,’ he said. That was as far as we would discuss the matter…’
Maybe, the old woman stifles a cough. Maybe, she turns the glass of Suze or Porto between her fingers, around and around, lost in the time and space of another era. ‘After the war,’ she might finally conclude, ‘after the war, the country was in ruins. But immediately, I took your uncle, I left the farm, I left Drumont, and I joined Robert. Your grandfather. I asked for a divorce. Back then, you know, it was difficult for a woman to gain custody for a child. But the neighbours, all of them, backed me up. The farmer signed a paper saying that Drumont was a drunkard and beat me and was a threat for the child. So that was that. I divorced. Your mother was on the way. Six months after the divorce, Robert and I married. I was already as round as a balloon.’
Imagine the old woman finishing her drink. Imagine her smiling tenderly. ‘And we never left each other. We’ve always been in love with each other, your grandfather and I. It sounds like something out of a novel, you say? Why, my dear child, life is always a novel. Now come here and give your grandma a hug…’
Imagine the old woman’s soft, slow words drifting away. Imagine their echoes in your head. Imagine the heavy, wooden table, the small, empty glass where the Suze or Porto had been sparkling all the while, on the polished surface. Feel the huge and rustic tableware cabinet’s presence in your back; listen to the grandfather clock still measuring the time, cutting the silence into pieces, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…
‘…yes, I was living in a small village nearby. You remember? We drove by, the other day. I told you to look out of the car window, remember? The old farm on the right-hand side. You see which farm I’m talking about? The one next to the fishpond, right, the low, old stone-building. Yes, it’s where we lived back then. Drumont, the children and me… Well, I don’t want to talk about Drumont. But you have a right to know. He was a cruel man. Drinking away all the money I earned on that farm. I was helping the farmer and his wife, see. I was working in the fields. Sometimes, I did the cooking. I was feeding the pigs, I was taking care of the chickens. We even had some geese back then. There was always much work to do, on that farm. It’s hard work, farm-work, you know… Your uncle was born back then. Poor child… it wasn’t easy, you know. Drumont could be so threatening when he was drunk. He was violent. Once, he smashed all the glasses in our kitchen. Your uncle, he was barely five, he tried to intervene, which drove Drumont madder still. I’ve never seen him in such a state! I thought Drumont would kill the little boy! I was so scared…’
Imagine the old woman taking a sip of her Suze or Porto. Licking her sugary lips. Sighing. ‘Then, I met Robert. Your grandfather…’ Imagine the old woman, how far away she seems now, drifting off in her dreams, in her past. It might be a moment before she comes back to reality, before she goes on: ‘We met at a Bal Musette. I had gone to my sister’s for the week-end, you know. The harvest was finished, Drumont had disappeared for a couple of days… that happened from time to time. Whenever there was enough money, as a matter of fact. I had just been paid, and he had left to get loaded with those ne’er-do-friends of his. Anyway, the farmer gave me some extra-money and told me to go see my family. ‘You need a break!’ he said, the farmer. He was no talkative man, you see. But a kind man, a just man, in his fashion… So I left for the weekend, with your uncle. We went to see Geneviève. She lived in Nogent-sur-Marne with her three kids. Her husband had died during the Great War. That evening, she took me to the Musette on the banks of the river Marne. We had left your uncle with Geneviève’s daughter, who was twelve or thirteen years old… What was her name? Wait… Géraldine, I think.’
The old woman might halt there, shaking her white-haired head, repeating in a low voice: ‘Géraldine… yes, Géraldine…’ She might then look at her hands before continuing: ‘I noticed him at once. Your grandfather. He was sitting all alone near the water. He looked so young then, and he seemed to be different from all the others. I don’t know, I cannot explain… Vulnerable. Distant. Alone… He was handsome, that’s for sure. He saw me watching him, and he invited me to dance. I fell in love immediately when he approached and said: ‘May I ask the pretty demoiselle to grant me this waltz?’ ‘Madame,’ I answered. I remember that my voice was trembling. I remember that he seemed unfazed when he heard that I was a ‘Madame, that I was married.…’
Imagine the old woman clearing her voice, overcome by emotion, even now, sixty years later. ‘We became lovers,’ she might say now. ‘He left his job in Nogent and followed me here. He found a new job in Provins. Les Imprimeries Saulons. He was a bookbinder, you know. He had such dexterous hands! You won’t imagine, these hands that hurt him so much now… Ever since he’s suffering from the gout… But back then, how slim they were! He was a magician with those hands, I tell you! Anyway… I couldn’t leave Drumont, you know. He would have killed the three of us, Robert, your uncle, and me… Then, the war broke out. The boches arrived. Your grandfather was serving in the army. Before the victorious boches, he fled to the South, to Marseille. He sent me a letter, begging me to come and join him…’
The old woman could have teary eyes now. She might just sip her Suze or Porto again. ‘But I couldn’t leave. The roads were too unsafe for a woman and a little child. And Drumont was still there. And there was the farm-work. At least, we had a roof above our heads. And we had enough to eat. But I missed your grandfather so much… Then, one day, it was in ’43, I found this letter. Someone had put it into the pocket of my apron. Imagine how surprised I was, how happy, and how scared for his life at the same time…’
‘Yes, it was your grandfather himself who had put that letter there. He had come back from the South, back from the Zone libre. He was hiding out in the forests. Why he was doing that? Well, because he was fighting with the Résistance. He told me so when we met. You see, the letter told me to come to the Moulin du Pré the same evening. It doesn’t exist anymore, nowadays, the Moulin du Pré… Well, go I did. I was so excited! I invented an excuse and slipped away when the sun set. I walked the two kilometres to the Moulin. Twice, a German patrol stopped me. My, I was scared! I thought they might hear my heart beat under the thick shawl I had wrapped around my shoulders. You can’t imagine what it was, living back then, with the boches always around, everywhere, trying to find out where the Résistance fighters were hidden, always trying to kill them. There were scary stories about arrests and torture and deadly camps somewhere far away, in the East… I really learned to hate them, the boches… Well, fortunately, your grandma is clever! I had taken a sack of wheat with me, so I told the German officers I had to reach the Moulin before they closed for the night because the farmer had run out of flour for the bread…’
The old woman could probably smile a shrewd and crooked smile while recalling those events.
‘And there he was, your grandfather! He had lost weight since the last time I had seen him. He had lost something of his innocent look, too. But his eyes, they were still as tender as they had been! When I saw him standing there, in the backroom of the Moulin, dirty and exhausted, I knew I was really in love. I knew this was more than just a passing crush, you understand? I didn’t ask myself silly questions. You never do when you’re really in love. I knew, there and then, that I’d be happy with Robert. I knew that I would have to leave Drumont…’
A pause. ‘But it was wartime. Nobody, today, can conceive of how it truly was, in those bitter times. That constant feeling of insecurity. The hatred we had for the boches. The fear for our beloved ones, who were secretly fighting them. The nightly arrests. The gnawing question ‘When will be it our turn? Who will betray us?’ I wasn’t afraid for my own life, you know. All I did was baking bread for our brave Résistance fighters, stealing eggs, sometimes a piece of ham. But I was so afraid for Robert! What? Oh yes. The farmer, of course, he must have known. But he never asked any questions. I remember, once, he even caught me slipping a loaf of bread under my coat. He didn’t say anything, just made a sign for me to wait. Then, he disappeared in the cave. When he came back, he handed me a bottle of red wine. ‘Go now,’ he said. That was as far as we would discuss the matter…’
Maybe, the old woman stifles a cough. Maybe, she turns the glass of Suze or Porto between her fingers, around and around, lost in the time and space of another era. ‘After the war,’ she might finally conclude, ‘after the war, the country was in ruins. But immediately, I took your uncle, I left the farm, I left Drumont, and I joined Robert. Your grandfather. I asked for a divorce. Back then, you know, it was difficult for a woman to gain custody for a child. But the neighbours, all of them, backed me up. The farmer signed a paper saying that Drumont was a drunkard and beat me and was a threat for the child. So that was that. I divorced. Your mother was on the way. Six months after the divorce, Robert and I married. I was already as round as a balloon.’
Imagine the old woman finishing her drink. Imagine her smiling tenderly. ‘And we never left each other. We’ve always been in love with each other, your grandfather and I. It sounds like something out of a novel, you say? Why, my dear child, life is always a novel. Now come here and give your grandma a hug…’
Imagine the old woman’s soft, slow words drifting away. Imagine their echoes in your head. Imagine the heavy, wooden table, the small, empty glass where the Suze or Porto had been sparkling all the while, on the polished surface. Feel the huge and rustic tableware cabinet’s presence in your back; listen to the grandfather clock still measuring the time, cutting the silence into pieces, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…