God kept his promise and so did Béatrice. For months she lived in fear, stayed at home or obsessively tended her brother’s grave. She became a perfect daughter who helped her mother, went to church twice a day, swept it, picked flowers for the altar – whatever Béatrice thought The Almighty required.
The hair hackers stayed away, but Béatrice never wanted to feel terror and shame again so married the first young man who proposed. She became a God-fearing, dutiful wife, mother and daughter. A more upright, well thought of citizen and valued member of the community you couldn’t find for miles around.
But when Arlette came home from her exercise class at the village hall and told her mother all about the hoo-ha over in Renazé, and the red-haired woman who had returned from England, the walls closed in on Béatrice. She was back in that square once again and this time, the most fearsome hair-hacker of all was coming for her.
40
Béatrice and Claude
Renazé, 2005
Béatrice paused and took a sip of her tea. Her face had taken on a troubled frown, brow furrowed, and her eyes seemed to be far away, lost somewhere. Dottie brought her home.
Placing her cup onto the saucer, she transferred both to the tray as she spoke. ‘It makes me sad to hear that you have carried this for so long, Béatrice, but you have to let it go now.’
A snap of the head, then watery eyes focused on Dottie. ‘I cannot, no matter how I try. The images never leave me. They are imprinted into my brain. Do you know what happened once the war was over, and a new kind of normality returned? Well I will tell you… madness moved in. Twenty-thousand women had their heads shaved and for what?’
Béatrice stood and walked to the glass doors, she seemed agitated. ‘Maybe they were simply easy targets on which to take out their temper, or were accused by those who wished to divert attention from their own indiscretions. Not all collaborators were evil traitors. Some slept with the enemy to feed their children, for some it was their job; others were forced to take officers into their homes but were punished afterwards for merely obeying orders, or cleaning their offices for heaven’s sake.
‘I accept that there were those who believed it was all over and that France would soon be ruled by the Reich so they gave in and reserved themselves an officer before others cottoned on. And then there were girls like me, young fools who fell in love with blond-haired, blue-eyed boys who were far away from home and looking for comfort. I didn’t see Jörg as the enemy; to me he was beautiful, kind… different.’
Béatrice stroked the voile that hung at the windows, straightening the folds as she spoke. ‘I was so full of hate back then, first for the Germans when they invaded, then for Vincent when he killed Jörg, then for the Germans again when they killed my beloved brother and the others… but the person I hated most was me.’
‘I know all this, Béatrice, I remember so well our conversation about Jörg and how in love you were but you have to listen, there are things you should know about…’ Dottie was unable to finish.
‘Please don’t be kind, Yvette, I don’t deserve it. I said the most terrible things to Vincent before he died, and I never had chance to say sorry. But on that night, when I washed his body, I realised what he was fighting for, what his comrades had died for and that it was my lust that killed him.’
‘What do you mean your lust killed him?’ The hairs on the back of Dottie’s neck stood on end and her spine became rigid. Had she been right all along, did Béatrice betray Vincent?
Béatrice turned and came back and slumped onto the sofa. Her shoulders sagged like the cushions she leant on, nervously fiddling with her rings as she spoke. ‘Because of me, Vincent killed Jörg, and then the Nazi reprisals began. He told me they would, and that my brother had been foolish, and his mistake would cost others dear. But Vincent was only protecting me, like any goodfrèrewould, I see that now.’
Dottie felt the creep of unease as it made its way over her skin, and she was forced to ask a question she probably knew the answer to. ‘Who said the mistake would cost others, who told you that Vincent was a fool?’
Béatrice looked up from her fingers. ‘Your comrade, you know the one with the terrible skin. I felt sorry for him, I suppose. He was shy so I always took time to chat with him, and he was always kind and gave me chocolate… Claude. Yes, that was his name.’
Dottie closed her eyes for a second and sucked in air, and when she had composed herself asked Béatrice to tell her everything.
* * *
It was two days after Jörg died, Vincent had disappeared and Béatrice’s maman was cross because she refused to come out of her room. She’d threatened to bring thecuréif Béatrice didn’t get out of bed soon, or the doctor, even both! How could Béatrice tell her maman that where she wished to be, was in a hole next to dear Jörg.
The house and her bedroom were becoming a prison of her own making and Béatrice was tired of hearing her mother’s voice outside the door, so before she went mad or died from heartbreak, she decided to go out. The nails had been removed from the window and her door was now left unlocked.
It was dusk and her mother was in the salon, darning or something equally boring while listening to the radio. Her papa was asleep in his chair. After creeping down the stairs, taking a bottle of wine from the cave and closing the door to the outhouse behind her, Béatrice raced through the garden and vegetable patch, then into the lane that ran behind the house and towards the bridge where she used to meet her lover. Here, she slumped behind the wall and proceeded to drink the whole bottle of her father’s home-made wine.
If she popped her head over the wall Béatrice could see the spot where Jörg died and imagine the pool of blood that oozed from his head, his blank sightless eyes that would ever again look into hers. And the rage inside, it swelled like dough, rising slowly, but the only thing Béatrice wished to punch and kneed was Vincent’s head, see how he liked it.
By the time darkness had fallen like a blanket over the countryside, cheerful birdsong had been thankfully replaced by the night prowlers who rustled leaves or cried out to their mate. Béatrice had no more tears to cry, she had used them all up, but in their place, hate swirled deep inside, round and round, whipping up a storm. She took another swig from the bottle and once the wine was gone, craved more, or perhaps it was oblivion she sought. But rather than go back home, Béatrice decided to walk into the village and seek sustenance from Armand at the café.
Béatrice wasn’t scared of the dark and knew the road well. Only minutes away from Café des Amis, she realised she had no money so rummaged around in her coat pocket, desperate to find a few francs. Furious with herself she stamped her foot, knowing she couldn’t ask for credit and was about to turn for home when something caught her eyes. A shadow emerged from the trees by the church wall; the yellow glow from a match illuminated a familiar face that was now making its way towards her. Claude waved so Béatrice lingered, throwing off the thought that he was always doing that, appearing from nowhere, smug already that she would get her drink, bought by a man her so-called brother approved of.
Almost thirty minutes and two glasses of pastis later, Béatrice knew she was very drunk and as much as it irked her, silently agreed with Armand when he suggested to Claude that he should see her home. Anyway, she was bored and had run out of small talk which was why she knocked back her last drink and staggered to her feet, allowing Claude to take her arm.
‘Come along, I’ll see you home. It’s very dark now and I don’t want you falling into a ditch.’
Béatrice fought the urge to snatch her arm away, wanting no man to touch her other than Jörg, and to tell Claude that she was quite capable of finding her own way, but she was still in control of her pickled brain which suggested she accept the offer. ‘Are we going on your motorbike, my legs are tired.’
‘No, n-not tonight, I have n-no petrol, but I am happy to walk with you. I think the fresh air will help to s-sober you up.’ Claude guided her through the door and onto the street where they made their way across the cobbles, steadying Béatrice when she stumbled.
