1914 Read online

  Once out of bed the first thing Blanche did was decide what she would wear, selecting from the bonnetière a light short-sleeved blouse of batiste, from the armoire a suit of gray tweed, then stockings and undergarments from the drawer of the chest, on which a couple of perfume bottles sit forgotten. Hesitating between two pairs of shoes—lower or higher heels?—but not over her hat, a rice-straw affair trimmed with black velvet. After a scant hour in the bathroom, freshly bathed and dressed, she consulted the mirror on the bonnetière with a critical eye, smoothing a lock of hair, adjusting a pleat. As she left her bedroom she passed the writing desk, which had played no part in this morning’s activity; the desk is used to this, serving simply as a repository for the letters Charles and Anthime each regularly sends separately to Blanche and which lie bound by ribbons of contrasting colors in two different drawers.

  Ready now, Blanche went quietly downstairs and on her way through the hall to the front door, made a detour to avoid the dining room. There—harsh grating of the bread knife against crust, clinking of teaspoons amid the aroma of chicory—her parents were finishing their breakfast: little audible conversation between Eugène and Maryvonne Borne; rumbling ingestion from the factory owner, melancholy sighs from the factory owner’s wife. Pausing at the front door by the wicker umbrella stand lined with waterproof canvas, Blanche chose a parasol of checked cretonne.

  Once outside, she went toward the street entrance to the garden, the main walk of which—white gravel, carefully raked—branches out into lesser paths leading past the shrubberies, pond, arbors, and ornamental trees, including a worn-out palm that has been holding on for too long in this climate. Blanche has also avoided, but with fewer precautions, the hunched figure of the lame gardener—who is as deaf as the palm tree and busy watering the grass borders and flower beds—by simply walking more softly on the crunching gravel until reaching the cast-iron front gates.

  Outside, the sounds of Sunday: everything is quieter than on weekdays, the way it is on any Sunday but it’s not just that, not the same silence as usual, it’s as if a residual echo has remained of the clamor and fanfares and ovations of recent days. Early this morning the oldest municipal employees still left in town finished sweeping up the last bedraggled bouquets, rumpled rosettes, tattered banners, and dried-out tear-stained handkerchiefs before hosing down the pavements. A few errant items have been placed in the lost-and-found department: a cane, two torn scarves, and three dented hats, tossed in the air with patriotic fervor and whose legitimate wearers have not yet appeared but are awaited in due course.

  The atmosphere is also calmer because there are fewer people in the streets, and fewer young men in particular, or only ones so young that, convinced along with everyone else that this conflict will be brief, they’re ignoring it and don’t let it bother them. The few boys of her age Blanche encounters, who all seem more or less unwell, have been declared unfit for military service, at least temporarily; this might change in the future but they’re not concerned about that either. The nearsighted, for example, currently exempt and protected by their glasses, never dream for an instant that they might be traveling with them one day on a train to the east, with a spare pair of spectacles, if possible. Likewise for the deaf, the flat-footed, those with nervous complaints. As for malingerers or men who, confident of their connections and officially “unfit”, don’t even bother to pretend, they prefer not to show themselves too much for the moment. The brasseries are deserted, their waiters have disappeared: it’s up to the bosses to sweep their terraces and doorsteps themselves. The dimensions of this town drained almost empty of its men thus seem to have expanded: other than women, Blanche sees only old fellows and kids, whose footsteps sound hollow on a stage too large for them.

  4

  HADN’T REALLY BEEN THAT bad either, in the train, just uncomfortable. Sitting on the floor they had devoured their provisions, sung every possible song, and booed Kaiser Willy, drinking right along. In the twenty or so stations where the convoy had stopped, they hadn’t been allowed off the train to take a look at the towns but—through windows open to air that was too hot, speckled with sparks, almost solid with a heat coming from who knew where anymore, August or the locomotive and probably both, piling up—at least they’d seen a few airplanes. Some of these, in flight, were crossing a perfectly smooth sky at various altitudes, following or encountering and passing by one another bound on some unimaginable mission; others were sitting around higgledy-piggledy, surrounded by men in leather helmets, on requisitioned fields lying next to the tracks.

  The men had heard about them, looked at photos in the newspaper, but no one had yet actually seen any of them, these seemingly fragile airplanes, except Charles no doubt—always au courant with everything, he had even climbed inside or rather onto a few, since there were no cabins yet—but Anthime had looked for him in vain among his fellow passengers. The landscape having about exhausted its attractions, Anthime turned aside to find some other way to kill time: cards, at that point, seemed just the thing, and along with Bossis and Padioleau—Arcenel being still too disabled by his derrière to join them—Anthime managed to claim a corner to launch a game of manille6 beneath the soon-empty canteens swinging by their straps from hooks.

  Then, since three-handed manille was a tricky business, and with Padioleau falling asleep as Bossis grew drowsy as well, Anthime shut down the game to go exploring in the neighboring cars, looking vaguely for Charles without really wanting to see him, assuming he was off by himself, contemptuous as always of his fellow men but surrounded by them of necessity. Well, not at all: Anthime eventually spotted him comfortably installed by a window in a car with seats, taking pictures of the landscape in the company of a clutch of noncommissioned officers whose photos he was also taking, along with their addresses so he could send them their portraits later on. Anthime wandered off.

  In the Ardennes, they’d hardly gotten off the train, hardly had the time to get used to this new landscape of dense forests and rolling hills, hadn’t even learned the name of this village where their first camp was or how long they’d be there—when some sergeants lined the men up and the captain made a speech at the foot of the cross on the main square. They were a little tired, didn’t feel much like muttering jokes to one another anymore but they listened to it, this speech, standing at attention looking at trees of a kind they’d never seen before, as the birds in these trees began to tune up, getting ready to play taps in the twilight.

  The captain, named Vayssière, was a puny young man with a monocle, a curiously ruddy complexion, and a limp voice: Anthime had never seen him before, and his morphology gave no hint as to why or how he could ever have desired and pursued a combative vocation. You will all return home, Captain Vayssière promised in particular, raising his voice to the limit of its power. Yes, we will all go home to the Vendée. One vital point, however. If a few men do die while at war, it’s for lack of hygiene. Because it isn’t bullets that kill, it is uncleanliness that is fatal and which you must combat first of all. So wash, shave, comb your hair, and you will have nothing to fear.

  After that pep talk, as the men were breaking ranks, Anthime happened to find himself next to Charles, near the field kitchen just being set up. Charles did not seem any more inclined than usual or than in the train to chat about the war or the factory, but regarding the latter, well, he clearly couldn’t slip off down one of his hallways claiming urgent correspondence to attend to as he’d always done before, so he was forced to deal with Anthime’s concerns. And they were both dressed alike now, which always helps communication. About the factory, Anthime asked anxiously, what are we going to do? I have Mme. Prochasson to take care of everything, explained Charles, she has the files in hand. It’s the same for you, you have Françoise in the accounts department, you’ll find everything in order when you get back. But when’s that, wondered Anthime. It won’t take long, Charles insisted, we’ll be back for the September orders. Hmm, said Anthime, we’ll see about that.

 
The men drifted around the camp a bit, long enough to inquire about the resources available in the area. Some fellows were already complaining that they’d found nothing to eat, no beer or even matches, and the price of wine, sold by locals who’d quickly discovered how to profit from the situation, was now exorbitant. Trains could be heard going by in the distance. As for the field kitchen, nothing to be hoped for there until it was completely operational. Since their travel provisions were all gone, after sharing some cold monkey meat and murky water they went to bed.

  5

  LEAVING BEHIND THE SERRIED ranks of buildings, the squares with their old houses huddled together, Blanche went farther and farther away from the center of town along thoroughfares that were more open and airy, with somewhat unusual, almost eccentric, and certainly less regimented architecture: these houses in a greater variety or even absence of styles breathed more freely, set back from the street, and all had some form or other of garden around them. Continuing along her way, Blanche passed in front of Charles’s residence and then Anthime’s, now equally deserted.

  Charles’s house: beyond an ornate front gate concealing a garden one felt was flourishing, with well-tended flowers and lawns, a path led to a flagstone terrace set off by pillars flanking a double front door of polychrome stained glass, enthroned atop three steps. From the street, one could just make out at some distance the yellow and blue granite facade: tall, narrow, and, like its owner, tightly shut up. Three stories, with a balcony on the second floor.

  Anthime’s: this was a single-story house set closer to the street, with a roughcast facade, lower and more compact, as if a residence, like a dog, absolutely had to be homothetic to its master. Less well hidden by a front gate—ajar—made of ill-joined planks covered with flaking white paint, the property was a smaller and poorly defined zone of weeds bordered by some attempts at vegetable gardening. To enter Anthime’s home one had next to cross a cracked slab of concrete ornamented solely by some very distinct and canine paw prints—from an animal therefore probably none too light on its feet—left in the fresh cement on the distant day it was poured. The only memorial to the defunct animal remained these impressions, at the bottom of which had accumulated an earthy grit, an organic residue in which other weeds, of a smaller format, were struggling to grow.

  Blanche had given these two domiciles only a passing glance as she walked on toward the factory, a continent-sized heap of dark brick as ponderous as a fortress, isolated from the neighborhood by timid little streets running all around it, as a moat encircles a château. Ordinarily gaping, the enormous main entrance, a maw that periodically engulfed fresh masses of laborers only to regurgitate them utterly exhausted, was on this Sunday closed as tightly as a savings bank. On the circular pediment atop this entrance moved the hands of a gigantic clock, with BORNE-SÈZE spelled out by huge letters in high relief. Below, on the gate, hung a sign bearing two words: NOW HIRING. This factory made footwear.

  All kinds of footwear: shoes for men, women, and children, boots, bootees, and ankle boots, Gibsons and Oxfords, sandals and moccasins, boxing shoes, slippers, mules, orthopedic and safety shoes, even the recently invented snow boot, and not forgetting the godillot, that military boot named after its creator, the discoverer of—among other marvels—the difference between the left foot and the right. Everything for the feet at Borne-Sèze: from galoshes to pumps, from buskins to high heels.

  Pivoting on hers, Blanche walked around the factory toward an isolated structure of the same dark brick, apparently one of the plant’s outbuildings. DR. MONTEIL, announced a copper plate beneath the door knocker, and hardly had she knocked when this practitioner appeared: rather tall, stooped, with a florid complexion, dressed in gray, looking fiftyish enough—just above the age limit for territorial soldiers—to have narrowly escaped the mobilization. The Bornes had been his patients for a long time when Eugène had asked Monteil to become the factory’s physician—participating in the selection and orientation of new hires, offering consultations and emergency care, giving the odd lecture on industrial hygiene—and although Monteil had immediately cut back on his private practice, he had remained the family doctor for the Bornes and three other local dynasties, while retaining as well his seat on the municipal council. Dr. Monteil knew quite a few people and had connections just about everywhere, even in Paris. He had taken care of Blanche ever since her infancy, so she had come to consult him in his capacity as both doctor and public official.

  To the official she spoke of Charles, gone with the others toward the northeastern border, no one knew exactly where. When she spoke of a possible intervention, with the hope of an assignment other than the infantry, Monteil asked what she might have in mind. Well, suggested Blanche, aside from the factory, which takes up all his time, Charles is very interested in aviation and photography. Perhaps there might be something to be done along those lines, replied Monteil. The Air Service, I believe they call it now. Let me think about this, I might have someone in mind at the ministry, I’ll keep you informed.

  To the general practitioner she explained her situation, showing him her figure under her clothing, and the exam did not take long. Palpation, two questions, diagnosis: definitely, declared Monteil, you are. And when will it be, asked Blanche. The beginning of next year, he figured, and I’d say toward the end of January. Blanche said nothing, looked at the window—where nothing was going on or past, not the slightest bird or anything—and then at her hands as she placed them on her belly. And you plan to keep it, of course, remarked Monteil to break the silence. I don’t know yet, said Blanche. Otherwise, he said more softly, there would always be a way. I know, said Blanche, there’s Ruffier. Yes, said Monteil, although, not since the other day, he went off like everyone else but we’re talking about two weeks, it will all be over quickly. Or else his wife could always be of service. Silence again and then no, said Blanche, I think I will keep it.

  6

  SO, CHARLES HAD FIGURED, in that August sunshine three months ago: it will all be over in two weeks. Which Monteil had said in turn, because many had believed this back then. Except that two weeks later, four weeks later, after more and still more weeks, once it had begun to rain and the days had grown ever shorter and colder, events did not turn out as expected.

  Still, on the day after their arrival in the Ardennes, things hadn’t looked that dire. One couldn’t complain about the weather, a trifle cooler than in the Vendée; the air was pure, crisp, and the men felt good, on the whole. Of course they’d been treated to drilling that morning with packs and gear, but this is fairly normal in the army, it’s practically like playing a game. Charles was still keeping some distance between himself and Anthime—and increasingly vice versa—but they had smiled together at Bossis and his jokes, then laughed unkindly when a mean lieutenant made fun of Padioleau’s way of presenting arms during the drill. Afterward, everyone except those who didn’t know how had written a few postcards made more festive by a magical find, an aperitif: Byrrh7 with a dribble of lemon syrup but not seltzer, unfortunately, only plain water, followed by a lunch that wasn’t so terrible and which they’d even managed to cap with a little nap before going off late that afternoon to buy some plums at a local garden.

  It was the day after that when things came into clearer focus: three weeks of almost constant marching. Along roads that grew dusty as the dew dried, the men set out almost every morning at four o’clock, sometimes cutting across fields, never stopping for even a moment. After four or five days, when the weather turned hot and muggy, they were allowed a small respite every half hour from the midpoint of the march on, but men soon began collapsing all the time, especially among the reservists, with Padioleau dropping more often than the others. When they halted for the night, with everybody worn-out, no one wanted to cook so they’d open cans of bully beef without much to wash it down.

  For it had dawned on them only too quickly how impossible it was to get wine there, or indeed any beverage except a bit of raw alcohol, on occasion, at
a price now increased fivefold by the distillers in the villages through which they passed, where the locals profited greedily from the golden opportunity presented by thirsty troops. This situation would soon change, when headquarters grasped the advantage presented by men properly supplied with drink, since inebriation damped down fear, but things had not yet come to that. Meanwhile and increasingly frequently they still saw a few airplanes passing overhead, it was a distraction, and then the heat began to abate.

  Aside from the merchants, however, who also had tobacco, hard sausages, and jams on offer, in the villages but also at the edges of fields along their route small groups of country people gathered to cheer the troops on and surprisingly often, from simple generosity, to give them flowers, fruit, bread, and whatever wine they still had. Sometimes the people of these backwaters had seen the enemy arrive out of nowhere, and sometimes they’d been forced to pay a great deal of money to keep from being bombarded. Trudging along, the soldiers would examine the women gathered by the roadside, noticing some young and pretty ones on occasion. Over toward the town of Écordal, one of them, neither young nor pretty, tossed them some religious medals.

  More and more, the men were also passing through certain villages abandoned by their inhabitants or even in ruins, destroyed or burned, perhaps, for not having paid any tribute. The cellars of empty houses had often been looted of everything but the occasional few bottles of Vichy water. The deserted streets were littered with divers damaged articles, and for the most part the troop left them lying there: unused cartridges discarded by a passing company, scattered clothing and linens, pots without handles, empty bottles, a birth certificate, a sick dog, a ten of clubs, a broken shovel.

  What also happened was that the situation came into yet clearer focus when rumors began circulating, especially about spying: a traitorous teacher had been surprised, it seemed, in this or that sector, preparing to blow up a bridge. It was even possible, supposedly, that these spies had turned up near Saint-Quentin: two of them had been seen tied to a tree, convicted of having spent the entire night passing information to the enemy via lantern signals, and then as the troop drew closer, they saw the colonel kill them point-blank with his revolver. One evening, as it happened, after they’d been on the march for two weeks, they received orders to blacken their mess tins to reduce their visibility. Unsure how to proceed, Anthime looked at what the others were doing, each in his own way, then coped with a little paste of dirt and boot polish. Yes, it was all definitely becoming clear.