The Unconquered

(W. SOMERSET

MAUGHAM)

He came back into the kitchen. The man was still on the floor, lying where he

had hit him, and his face was bloody. He was moaning. The woman had

backed against the wall and was staring with terrified eyes at Willi, his friend,

and when he came in she gave a gasp and broke into loud sobbing. Willi was

sitting at the table, his revolver in his hand, with a half empty glass of wine

beside him. Hans went up to the table, filled his glass and emptied it at a gulp.

‘You look as though you’d had trouble, young fellow,’ said Willi with a grin.

Hans’s face was blood–stained and you could see the gashes of five sharp

finger–nails. He put his hand gingerly to his cheek.

‘She’d have scratched my eyes out if she could, the bitch. I shall have to put

some iodine on. But she’s all right now. You go along.’

‘I don’t know. Shall I? It’s getting late.’

‘Don’t be a fool. You’re a man, aren’t you? What if it is getting late? We lost

our way.’

It was still light and the westering sun streamed into the kitchen windows

of the farm–house. Willi hesitated a moment. He was a little fellow, dark and

thin–faced, a dress designer in civil life, and he didn’t want Hans to think him

a cissy. He got up and went towards the door through which Hans had come.

When the woman saw what he was going to do she gave a shriek and sprang

forwards.

‘Non, non,’ she cried.

With one step Hans was in front of her. He seized her by the shoulders and

flung her violently back. She tottered and fell. He took Willi’s revolver.

‘Stop still, both of you,’ he rasped in French, but with his guttural German

accent. He nodded his head towards the door. ‘Go on. I’ll look after them.’

Willi went out, but in a moment was back again.

‘She’s unconscious.’

174#Well, what of it?’

‘I can’t. It’s no good.’

‘Stupid, that’s what you are. Ein Weibchen. A woman.’

Willi flushed.

‘We’d better be getting on our way.’

Hans shrugged a scornful shoulder.

‘I’ll just finish the bottle of wine and then we’ll go.’

He was feeling at ease and it would have been pleasant to linger. He had been

on the job since morning and after so many hours on his motor–cycle his

limbs ached. Luckily they hadn’t far to go, only to Soissons–ten or fifteen

kilometres. He wondered if he’d have the luck to get a bed to sleep in.

Of course all this wouldn’t have happened if the girl hadn’t been a fool. They

had lost their way, he and Willi, they had stopped a peasant working in a field

and he had deliberately misled them, and they found themselves on a side

road. When they came to the farm they stopped to ask for a direction. They’d

asked very politely, for orders were to treat the French population well as long

as they behaved themselves. The door was opened for them by the girl and she

said she didn’t know the way to Soissons, so they pushed in; then the woman,

her mother, Hans guessed, told them. The three of them, the farmer, his wife

and daughter, had just finished supper and there was a bottle of wine on the

table. It reminded Hans that he was as thirsty as the devil. The day had been

sweltering and he hadn’t had a drink since noon. He asked them for a bottle of

wine and Willi had added that they would pay them well for it. Willi was a

good little chap, but soft. After all, they were the victors. Where was the French

army? In headlong flight. And the English, leaving everything behind, had

scuttled like rabbits back to their island. The conquerors took what they

wanted, didn’t they? But Willi had worked at a Paris dressmaker’s for two years.

It’s true he spoke French well, that’s why he had his present job, but it had done

something to him. A decadent people. It did a German no good to live among

them.

The farmer’s wife put a couple of bottles of wine on the table and Willi took

twenty francs out of his pocket and gave it to her. She didn’t even say thank

you. Hans’s French wasn’t as good as Willi’s, but he could make himself

understood, and he and Willi spoke it together all the time. Willi corrected his

mistakes. It was because Willi was so useful to him in this way that he had

made him his friend, and he knew that Willi admired him. He admired him

because he was so tall, slim, and broad–shouldered, because his curly hair was

so fair and his eyes so blue. He never lost an opportunity to practise his French,

and he tried to talk now, but those three French people wouldn’t meet him

half–way. He told them that he was a farmer’s son himself and when the war

was over was going back to the farm. He had been sent to school in Munich

because his mother wanted him to go into business, but his heart wasn’t in it,

and so after matriculating he had gone to an agricultural college.

‘You came here to ask your way and now you know it,’ said the girl. ‘Drink up

your wine and go.’

He had hardly looked at her before. She wasn’t pretty, but she had fine dark

eyes and a straight nose. Her face was very pale. She was plainly dressed, but

somehow she didn’t look quite like what she evidently was. There was a sort of

distinction about her. Ever since the war started he’d heard fellows talk about

the French girls. They had something the German girls hadn’t. Chic, Willi said

it was, but when he asked him just what he meant by that Willi could only say

that you had to see it to understand. Of course he’d heard others say that they

175#ere mercenary and hard as nails. Well, they’d be in Paris in a week and he’d

find out for himself. They said the High Command had already arranged for

houses for the men to go to.

‘Finish your wine and let’s go,’ said Willi.

But Hans was feeling comfortable and didn’t want to be hurried.

‘You don’t look like a farmer’s daughter,’ he said to the girl.

‘And so what?’ she answered.

‘She’s a teacher,’ said her mother.

‘Then you’ve had a good education.’ She shrugged her shoulders, but he went

on good–humouredly in his bad French. ‘You ought to understand that this is

the best thing that has ever happened to the French people. We didn’t declare

war. You declared war. And now we’re going to make France a decent country.

We’re going to put order into it. We’re going to teach you to work. You’ll learn

obedience and discipline.’

She clenched her fists and looked at him, her eyes black with hatred. But she

did not speak.

‘You’re drunk, Hans,’ said Willi.

‘I’m as sober as a judge. I’m only telling them the truth and they may just as

well know it at once.’

‘He’s right,’ she cried out, unable any longer to contain herself. ‘You’re drunk.

Now go. Go.’

‘Oh, you understand German, do you? All right, I’ll go. But you must give me

a kiss first.’

She took a step back to avoid him, but he seized her wrist.

‘Father,’ she cried. ‘Father.’

The farmer flung himself on the German. Hans let go of her and with all his

might hit him in the face. He crumpled up on the floor. Then, before she could

escape him, he caught the girl in his arms. She gave him a swinging blow on

the cheek. . . . He chuckled grimly.

‘Is that how you take it when a German soldier wants to kiss you? You’ll pay

for this.’

With his great strength he pinioned her arms and was dragging her out of the

door, but her mother rushed at him and catching him by the clothes tried to

pull him away. With one arm holding the girl close to him, with the flat of his

other hand he gave the woman a great push and she staggered back to the wall.

‘Hans, Hans,’ cried Willi.

‘Shut up, damn you.’

He put his hands over the girl’s mouth to stop her shrieking and carried her

out of the room. That was how it had happened and you had to admit that

she’d brought it on herself. She shouldn’t have slapped him. If she’d given him

the kiss he’d asked for he’d have gone away. He gave a glance at the farmer still

lying where he had fallen and he could hardly help laughing at his funny face.

There was a smile in his eyes when he looked at the woman cowering against

the wall. Was she afraid it was her turn next? Not likely. He remembered a

French proverb.

‘C’est le premier pas qui coûte. There’s nothing to cry about, old woman. It had

to come sooner or later.’ He put his hand to his hip pocket and pulled out a

wallet. ‘Look, here’s a hundred francs so that mademoiselle can buy herself a

new dress. There’s not much left of that one.’ He placed the note on the table

and put his helmet back on his head. ‘Let’s go.’

176#They slammed the door behind them and got on their motor–cycles. The

woman went into the parlour. Her daughter was lying on the divan. She was

lying as he had left her and she was weeping bitterly.

Three months later Hans found himself in Soissons again. He had been in

Paris with the conquering army and had ridden through the Arc de Triomphe

on his motor–cycle. He had advanced with the army first to Tours and then to

Bordeaux. He’d seen very little fighting. The only French soldiers he’d seen

were prisoners. The campaign had been the greatest spree he could ever have

imagined. After the armistice he had spent a month in Paris. He’d sent picture

postcards to his family in Bavaria and bought them all presents. Willi, because

he knew the city like the palm of his hand, had stayed on, but he and the rest of

his unit were sent to Soissons to join the force that was holding it. It was a nice

little town and he was comfortably billeted. Plenty to eat and champagne for

less than a mark a bottle in German money. When he was ordered to proceed

there it had occurred to him that it would be fun to go and have a look at the

girl he’d had. He’d take her a pair of silk stockings to show there was no

ill–feeling. He had a good bump of locality and he thought he would be able to

find the farm without difficulty. So one afternoon, when he had nothing to do,

he put the silk stockings in his pocket and got on his machine. It was a lovely

autumn day, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and it was pretty, undulating

country that he rode through. It had been fine and dry for so long that, though

it was September, not even the restless poplars gave sign that the summer was

drawing to an end. He took one wrong turning, which delayed him, but for all

that he got to the place he sought in less than half an hour. A mongrel dog

barked at him as he walked up to the door. He did not knock, but turned the

handle and stepped in. The girl was sitting at the table peeling potatoes. She

sprang to her feet when she saw the uniformed man.

‘What d’you want?’ Then she recognized him. She backed to the wall,

clutching the knife in her hands. ‘It’s you. Cochon’

‘Don’t get excited. I’m not going to hurt you. Look. I’ve brought you some silk

stockings.’

‘Take them away and take yourself off with them.’

‘Don’t be silly. Drop that knife. You’ll only get hurt if you try to be nasty. You

needn’t be afraid of me.’

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said.

She let the knife fall to the floor. He took off his helmet and sat down. He

reached out with his foot and drew the knife towards him.

‘Shall I peel some of your potatoes for you?’ She did not answer. He bent

down for the knife and then took a potato out of the bowl and went to work on

it. Her face hard, her eyes hostile, she stood against the wall and watched him.

He smiled at her disarmingly. ‘Why do you look so cross? I didn’t do you much

harm, you know. I was excited, we all were, they’d talked of the invincible

French army and the Maginot line . . .’ he finished the sentence with a chuckle.

‘And the wine went to my head. You might have fared worse. Women have told

me that I’m not a bad–looking fellow.’

She looked him up and down scornfully.

‘Get out of here.’

‘Not until I choose.’

‘If you don’t go my father will go to Soissons and complain to the general.’

‘Much he’ll care. Our orders are to make friends with the population. What’s

your name?’

‘That’s not your business.’

177There was a flush in her cheeks now and her angry eyes were blazing.

She was prettier than he remembered her. He hadn’t done so badly. She had a

refinement that suggested the city–dweller rather than the peasant. He

remembered her mother saying she was a teacher. Because she was almost a

lady it amused him to torment her. He felt strong and healthy. He passed his

hand through his curly blond hair, and giggled when he thought that many

girls would have jumped at the chance she had had. His face was so deeply

tanned by the summer that his eyes were startlingly blue.

‘Where are your father and mother?’

‘Working in the fields.’

‘I’m hungry. Give me a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of wine. I’ll pay.’

She gave a harsh laugh.

‘We haven’t seen cheese for three months. We haven’t enough bread to stay

our hunger. The French took our horses a year ago and now the Boches have

taken our cows, our pigs, our chickens, everything.’

‘Well, they paid you for them.’

‘Can we eat the worthless paper they gave us?’

She began to cry.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Oh, no,’ she answered bitterly, ‘we can eat like kings on potatoes and bread

and turnips and lettuce. Tomorrow my father’s going to Soissons to see if he

can buy some horse meat.’

‘Listen, Miss. I’m not a bad fellow. I’ll bring you a cheese, and I think I can get

hold of a bit of ham.’

‘I don’t want your presents. I’ll starve before I touch the food you swine have

stolen from us.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said good–humouredly.

He put on his hat, got up, and with an Au revoir, mademoiselle, walked out.

He wasn’t supposed to go joy–riding round the country and he had to wait to

be sent on an errand before he was able to get to the farm again. It was ten days

later. He walked in as unceremoniously as before and this time he found the

farmer and his wife in the kitchen. It was round about noon and the woman

was stirring a pot on the stove. The man was seated at table. They gave him a

glance when he came in, but there was no surprise in it. Their daughter had

evidently told them of his visit. They did not speak. The woman went on with

her cooking, and the man, a surly look on his face, stared at the oil–cloth on the

table. But it required more than this to disconcert the good–humoured Hans.

‘Bonjour, la compagnie,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’

He undid the package he had with him and set out a sizeable piece of Gruyere

cheese, a piece of pork, and a couple of tins of sardines. The woman turned

round and he smiled when he saw the light of greed in her eyes. The man

looked at the foodstuff sullenly. Hans gave him his sunny grin.

‘I’m sorry we had a misunderstanding the first time I came here. But you

shouldn’t have interfered.’

At that moment the girl came in.

‘What are you doing here?’ she cried harshly. Then her eyes fell on the things

he had brought. She swept them together and flung them at him. ‘Take them

away. Take them.’

But her mother sprang forward.

‘Annette, you’re crazy.’

‘I won’t take his presents.’

178It’s our own food that they’ve stolen from us. Look at the sardines. They’re

Bordeaux sardines.’

She picked the things up. Hans looked at the girl with a mocking smile in his

light blue eyes.

‘Annette’s your name, is it? A pretty name. Do you grudge your parents a little

food? You said you hadn’t had cheese for three months. I couldn’t get any ham;

I did the best I could.’

The farmer’s wife took the lump of meat in her hands and pressed it to her

bosom. You felt that she could have kissed it. Tears ran down Annette’s cheeks.

‘The shame of it,’ she groaned.

‘Oh, come now, there’s no shame in a bit of Gruyere and a piece of pork.’

Hans sat down and lit a cigarette. Then he passed the packet over to the old

man. The farmer hesitated for a moment, but the temptation was too strong

for him; he took one and handed back the packet.

‘Keep it,’ said Hans. ‘I can get plenty more.’ He inhaled the smoke and blew a

cloud of it from his nostrils. ‘Why can’t we be friends? What’s done can’t be

undone. War is war, and, well, you know what I mean. I know Annette’s an

educated girl and I want her to think well of me. I expect we shall be in

Soissons for quite a while and I can bring you something now and then to help

out. You know, we do all we can to make friends with the townspeople, but

they won’t let us. They won’t even look at us when we pass them in the street.

After all, it was an accident, what happened that time I came here with Willi.

You needn’t be afraid of me. I’ll respect Annette as if she was my own sister.’

‘Why do you want to come here? Why can’t you leave us alone?’ asked

Annette.

He really didn’t know. He didn’t like to say that he wanted a little human

friendship. The silent hostility that surrounded them all at Soissons got on his

nerves so that sometimes he wanted to go up to a Frenchman who looked at

him as if he wasn’t there and knock him down, and sometimes it affected him

so that he was almost inclined to cry. It would be nice if he had some place to

go where he was welcome. He spoke the truth when he said he had no desire

for Annette. She wasn’t the sort of woman he fancied. He liked women to be

tall and full–breasted, blue–eyed, and fair–haired like himself; he liked them to

be strong and hefty and well–covered. That refinement which he couldn’t

account for, that thin fine nose and those dark eyes, the long pale face–there

was something intimidating about the girl, so that if he hadn’t been excited by

the great victories of the German armies, if he hadn’t been so tired and yet so

elated, if he hadn’t drunk all that wine on an empty stomach, it would never

have crossed his mind that he could have anything to do with her.

For a fortnight after that Hans couldn’t get away. He’d left the food at the farm

and he had no doubt that the old people had wolfed it. He wondered if Annette

had eaten it too; he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the moment

his back was turned she had set to with the others. These French people, they

couldn’t resist getting something for nothing. They were weak and decadent.

She hated him, yes, God, how she hated him, but pork was pork, and cheese

was cheese. He thought of her quite a lot. It tantalized him that she should have

such a loathing for him. He was used to being liked by women. It would be

funny if one of these days she fell in love with him. He’d been her first lover

and he’d heard the students at Munich over their beer saying that it was her

first lover a woman loved, after that it was love. When he’d set his mind on

getting a girl he’d never failed yet. Hans laughed to himself and a sly look came

into his eyes.

179#t last he got his chance to go to the farm. He got hold of cheese and butter,

sugar, a tin of sausages, and some coffee, and set off on his motor–cycle. But

that time he didn’t see Annette. She and her father were at work in the fields.

The old woman was in the yard and her face lit up when she saw the parcel he

was bringing. She led him into the kitchen. Her hands trembled a little as she

untied the string and when she saw what he had brought her eyes filled with

tears.

‘You’re very good,’ she said.

‘May I sit down?’ he asked politely.

‘Of course.’ She looked out of the window and Hans guessed that she wanted

to make sure that Annette was not coming. ‘Can I offer you a glass of wine.’

‘I’d be glad of it.’

He was sharp enough to see that her greed for food had made her, if not

friendly to him, at least willing to come to terms with him. That look out of the

window made them almost fellow conspirators.

‘Did you like the pork?’ he asked.

‘It was a treat.’

‘I’ll try to bring you some more next time I come. Did Annette like it?’

‘She wouldn’t touch a thing you’d left. She said she’d rather starve.’

‘Silly.’

‘That’s what I said to her. As long as the food is there, I said, there’s nothing to

be gained by not eating it.’

They chatted quite amicably while Hans sipped his wine. He discovered that

she was called Madame Périer. He asked her whether there were any other

members of the family. She sighed. No, they’d had a son, but he’d been

mobilized at the beginning of the war and he’d died. He hadn’t been killed, he’d

got pneumonia and died in the hospital at Nancy.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hans.

‘Perhaps he’s better off than if he’d lived. He was like Annette in many ways.

He could never have borne the shame of defeat.’ She sighed again. ‘Oh, my

poor friend, we’ve been betrayed.’

‘Why did you want to fight for the Poles? What were they to you?’

‘You’re right. If we had let your Hitler take Poland he would have left us

alone.’

When Hans got up to go he said he would come again soon.

‘I shan’t forget the pork.’

Then Hans had a lucky break; he was given a job that took him twice a week

to a town in the vicinity so that he was able to get to the farm much oftener. He

took care never to come without bringing something. But he made no headway

with Annette. Seeking to ingratiate himself with her, he used the simple wiles

that he had discovered went down with women; but they only excited her

derision. Thin–lipped and hard, she looked at him as though he were dirt. On

more than one occasion she made him so angry that he would have liked to

take her by the shoulders and shake the life out of her. Once he found her

alone, and when she got up to go he barred her passage.

‘Stop where you are. I want to talk to you.’

‘Talk. I am a woman and defenceless.’

‘What I want to say is this: for all I know I may be here for a long time. Things

aren’t going to get easier for you French, they’re going to get harder. I can be

useful to you. Why don’t you be reasonable like your father and mother?’

180#t was true that old Périer had come round. You couldn’t say that he was

cordial, he was indeed cold and gruff, but he was civil. He had even asked Hans

to bring him some tobacco, and when he wouldn’t accept payment for it had

thanked him. He was pleased to hear the news of Soissons and grabbed the

paper that Hans brought him. Hans, a farmer’s son, could talk about the farm

as one who knew. It was a good farm, not too big and not too small, well

watered, for a sizeable brook ran through it, and well wooded, with arable land

and pasture. Hans listened with understanding sympathy when the old man

bewailed himself because without labour, without fertilizers, his stock taken

from him, it was all going to rack and ruin.

‘You ask me why I can’t be reasonable like my father and mother,’ said

Annette.

She pulled her dress tight and showed herself to him. He couldn’t believe his

eyes. What he saw caused such a convulsion in his soul as he had never known.

The blood rushed to his cheeks.

‘You’ re pregnant.’

She sank back on her chair and leaning her head on her hands began to weep

as though her heart would break.

‘The shame of it. The shame.’

He sprang towards her to take her in his arms.

‘My sweet,’ he cried.

But she sprang to her feet and pushed him away.

‘Don’t touch me. Go away. Go away. Haven’t you done me enough harm

already?’

She flung out of the room. He waited by himself for a few minutes. He was

bewildered. His thoughts in a whirl, he rode slowly back to Soissons, and when

he went to bed he couldn’t get to sleep for hours. He could think of nothing but

Annette and her swollen body. She had been unbearably pathetic as she sat

there at the table crying her eyes out. It was his child she bore in her womb. He

began to feel drowsy, and then with a start he was once more wide awake, for

suddenly it came to him, it came to him with the shattering suddenness of

gun–fire: he was in love with her. It was such a surprise, such a shock that he

couldn’t cope with it. Of course he’d thought of her a lot, but never in that way,

he’d thought it would be a great joke if he made her fall in love with him, it

would be a triumph if the time came when she offered what he had taken by

force; but not for a moment had it occurred to him that she was anything to

him but a woman like another. She wasn’t his type. She wasn’t very pretty.

There was nothing to her. Why should he have all of a sudden this funny

feeling for her? It wasn’t a pleasant feeling either, it was a pain. But he knew

what it was all right; it was love, and it made him feel happier than he had ever

felt in his life. He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to pet her, he

wanted to kiss those tear–stained eyes of hers. He didn’t desire her, he thought,

as a man desires a woman, he wanted to comfort her, wanted her to smile at

him–strange, he had never seen her smile, he wanted to see her eyes–fine eyes

they were, beautiful eyes–soft with tenderness.

For three days he could not leave Soissons and for three days, three days and

three nights, he thought of Annette and the child she would bear. Then he was

able to go to the farm. He wanted to see Madame Périer by herself, and luck

was with him, for he met her on the road some way from the house. She had

been gathering sticks in the wood and was going home with a great bundle on

181#er back. He stopped his motor–cycle. He knew that the friendliness she

showed him was due only to the provisions he brought with him, but he didn’t

care; it was enough that she was mannerly, and that she was prepared to be so

as long as she could get something out of him. He told her he wanted to talk to

her and asked her to put her bundle down. She did as he bade. It was a grey,

cloudy day, but not cold.

‘I know about Annette,’ he said.

She started.

‘How did you find out? She was set on your not knowing.’

‘She told me.’

‘That was a pretty job of work you did that evening.’

‘I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

She began to talk, not bitterly, not blaming him even, but as though it were a

misfortune of nature, like a cow dying in giving birth to a calf or a sharp spring

frost nipping the fruit trees and ruining the crop, a misfortune that human

kind must accept with resignation and humility. After that dreadful night

Annette had been in bed for days with a high fever. They thought she was

going out of her mind. She would scream for hours on end. There were no

doctors to be got. The village doctor had been called to the colours. Even in

Soissons there were only two doctors left, old men both of them, and how

could they get to the farm even if it had been possible to send for them? They

weren’t allowed to leave the town. Even when the fever went down Annette

was too ill to leave her bed, and when she got up she was so weak, so pale,

it was pitiful. The shock had been terrible, and when a month went by, and

another month, without her being unwell she paid no attention. She had

always been irregular. It was Madame Périer who first suspected that

something was wrong. She questioned Annette. They were terrified, both of

them, but they weren’t certain and they said nothing to Périer. When the third

month came it was impossible to doubt any longer. Annette was pregnant.

They had an old Citroen in which before the war Madame Périer had taken

the farm produce into the market at Soissons two mornings a week, but since

the German occupation they had had nothing to sell that made the journey

worth while. Petrol was almost unobtainable. But now they got it out and drove

into town. The only cars to be seen were the military cars of the Germans.

German soldiers lounged about. There were German signs in the streets,

and on public buildings proclamations in French signed by the Officer

Commanding. Many shops were closed. They went to the old doctor they

knew, and he confirmed their suspicions. But he was a devout Catholic and

would not help them. When they wept he shrugged his shoulders.

‘You’re not the only one,’ he said. ‘Il faut souffrir.’

They knew about the other doctor too and went to see him. They rang the

bell and for a long time no one answered. At last the door was opened by a

sad–faced woman in black, but when they asked to see the doctor she began

to cry. He had been arrested by the Germans because he was a freemason,

and was held as a hostage. A bomb had exploded in a café frequented by

German officers and two had been killed and several wounded. If the guilty

were not handed over before a certain date he was to be shot. The woman

seemed kindly and Madame Périer told her of their trouble.

‘The brutes,’ she said. She looked at Annette with compassion ‘My poor

child.’

182#he gave them the address of a midwife in the town and told them to say that

they had come from her. The midwife gave them some medicine. It made

Annette so ill that she thought she was going to die, but it had no further effect.

Annette was still pregnant.

That was the story that Madame Périer told Hans. For a while he was silent.

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ he said then. ‘I shall have nothing to do. I’ll come

and we’ll talk. I’ll bring something nice.’

‘We have no needles. Can you bring some?’

‘I’ll try.’

She hoisted the bundle of sticks on her back and trudged down the road.

Hans went back to Soissons. He dared not use his motor–cycle, so next day he

hired a push–bike. He tied his parcel of food on the carrier. It was a larger

parcel than usual because he had put a bottle of champagne into it. He got to

the farm when the gathering darkness made it certain that they would all be

home from work. It was warm and cosy in the kitchen when he walked in.

Madame Périer was cooking and her husband was reading a Paris–Soir.

Annette was darning stockings.

‘Look, I’ve brought you some needles,’ he said, as he undid his parcel. ‘And

here’s some material for you, Annette.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Don’t you?’ he grinned. ‘You’ll have to begin making things for the baby.’

‘That’s true, Annette,’ said her mother, ‘and we have nothing.’ Annette did not

look up from her sewing. Madame Périer’s greedy eyes ran over the contents of

the parcel. ‘A bottle of champagne.’

Hans chuckled.

‘I’ll tell you what that’s for presently. I’ve had an idea.’ He hesitated for a

moment, then drew up a chair and sat down facing Annette. ‘I don’t know quite

how to begin. I’m sorry for what I did that night, Annette. It wasn’t my fault, it

was the circumstances. Can’t you forgive me?’

She threw him a look of hatred.

‘Never. Why don’t you leave me alone? Isn’t it enough that you’ve ruined my

life?’

‘Well, that’s just it. Perhaps I haven’t. When I knew you were going to have a

baby it had a funny effect on me. It’s all different now. It’s made me so proud.’

‘Proud?’ she flung at him viciously.

‘I want you to have the baby, Annette. I’m glad you couldn’t get rid of it.’

‘How dare you say that?’

‘But listen to me. I’ve been thinking of nothing else since I knew. The war will

be over in six months. We shall bring the English to their knees in the spring.

They haven’t got a chance. And then I shall be demobilized and I’ll marry you.’

‘You? Why?’

He blushed under his tan. He could not bring himself to say it in French, so

he said it in German. He knew she understood it.

‘Ich liebe dich.’

‘What does he say?’ asked Madame Périer.

‘He says he loves me.’

Annette threw back her head and broke into a peal of harsh laughter. She

laughed louder and louder and she couldn’t stop and tears streamed from her

eyes. Madame Périer slapped her sharply on both cheeks.

‘Don’t pay any attention,’ she said to Hans. ‘It’s hysteria. Her condition, you

know.’

183#nnette gasped. She gained control over herself.

‘I brought the bottle of champagne to celebrate our engagement,’ said Hans.

‘That’s the bitterest thing of all,’ said Annette, ‘that we were beaten by fools, by

such fools.’

Hans went on speaking in German.

‘I didn’t know I loved you till that day when I found out that you were going

to have a baby. It came like a clap of thunder, but I think I’ve loved you all the

time.’

‘What does he say?’ asked Madame Périer.

‘Nothing of importance.’

He fell back into French. He wanted Annette’s parents to hear what he had to

say.

‘I’d marry you now, only they wouldn’t let me. And don’t think I’m nothing at

all. My father’s well–to–do and we’re well thought of in our commune. I’m the

eldest son and you’d want for nothing.’

‘Are you a Catholic?’ asked Madame Périer.

‘Yes, I’m a Catholic’

‘That’ s something.’

‘It’s pretty, the country where we live and the soil’s good. There’s not better

farming land between Munich and Innsbruck, and it’s our own. My

grandfather bought it after the war of ’70. And we’ve got a car and a radio,

and we’re on the telephone.’

Annette turned to her father.

‘He has all the tact in the world, this gentleman,’ she cried ironically. She eyed

Hans. ‘It would be a nice position for me, the foreigner from the conquered

country with a child born out of wedlock. It offers me a chance of happiness,

doesn’t it? A fine chance.’

Périer, a man of few words, spoke for the first time.

‘No. I don’t deny that it’s a fine gesture you’re making. I went through the last

war and we all did things we wouldn’t have done in peace time. Human nature

is human nature. But now that our son is dead, Annette is all we have. We can’t

let her go.’

‘I thought you might feel that way,’ said Hans, ‘and I’ve got my answer to that.

I’ll stay here.’

Annette gave him a quick look.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Madame Périer.

‘I’ve got another brother. He can stay and help my father. I like this country.

With energy and initiative a man could make a good thing of your farm. When

the war’s over a lot of Germans will be settling here. It’s well known that you

haven’t got enough men in France to work the land you’ve got. A fellow gave us

a lecture the other day at Soissons. He said that a third of the farms were left

uncultivated because there aren’t the men to work them.’

Périer and his wife exchanged glances and Annette saw that they were

wavering. That was what they’d wanted since their son had died, a son–in–law

who was strong and hefty and could take over when they grew too old to do

more than potter about.

‘That changes the case,’ said Madame Périer. ‘It’s a proposition to consider.’

‘Hold your tongue,’ cried Annette roughly. She leant forward and fixed her

burning eyes on the German. ‘I’m engaged to a teacher who worked in the

boys’ school in the town where I taught, we were to be married after the war.

He’s not strong and big like you, or handsome; he’s small and frail. His only

184#eauty is the. intelligence that shines in his face, his only strength is the

greatness of his soul. He’s not a barbarian, he’s civilized; he has a thousand

years of civilization behind him. I love him. I love him with all my heart and

soul.’

Hans’s face grew sullen. It had never occurred to him that Annette might care

for anyone else.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Where do you suppose he is? In Germany. A prisoner and starving. While

you eat the fat of our land. How many times have I got to tell you that I hate

you? You ask me to forgive you. Never. You want to make reparation. You fool.’

She threw her head back and there was a look of intolerable anguish on her

face. ‘Ruined. Oh, he’ll forgive me. He’s tender. But I’m tortured by the thought

that one day the suspicion may come to him that perhaps I hadn’t been

forced–that perhaps I’d given myself to you for butter and cheese and silk

stockings. I shouldn’t be the only one. And what would our life be with that

child between us, your child, a German child? Big like you, and blond like you,

and blue–eyed like you. Oh, my God, why do I have to suffer this?’

She got up and went swiftly out of the kitchen. For a minute the three were

left in silence. Hans looked ruefully at his bottle of champagne. He sighed and

rose to his feet. When he went out Madame Périer accompanied him.

‘Did you mean it when you said you would marry her?’ she asked him,

speaking in a low voice.

‘Yes. Every word. I love her.’

‘And you wouldn’t take her away? You’d stay here and work on the farm?’

‘I promise you.’

‘Evidently my old man can’t last for ever. At home you’d have to share with

your brother. Here you’d share with nobody.’

‘There’s that too.’

‘We never were in favour of Annette marrying that teacher, but our son was

alive then and he said, if she wants to marry him, why shouldn’t she? Annette

was crazy about him. But now that our son’s dead, poor boy, it’s different. Even

if she wanted to, how could she work the farm alone?’

‘It would be a shame if it was sold. I know how one feels about one’s own

land.’

They had reached the road. She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze.

‘Come again soon.’

Hans knew that she was on his side. It was a comfort to him to think that as

he rode back to Soissons. It was a bother that Annette was in love with

somebody else. Fortunately he was a prisoner; long before he was likely to be

released the baby would be born. That might change her: you could never tell

with a woman. Why, in his village there’d been a woman who was so much in

love with her husband that it had been a joke, and then she had a baby and

after that she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Well, why shouldn’t the contrary

happen too? And now that he’d offered to marry her she must see that he was

a decent sort of fellow. God, how pathetic she’d looked with her head flung

back, and how well she’d spoken! What language! An actress on the stage

couldn’t have expressed herself better, and yet it had all sounded so natural.

You had to admit that, these French people knew how to talk. Oh, she was

clever. Even when she lashed him with that bitter tongue it was a joy to listen to

her. He hadn’t had a bad education himself, but he couldn’t hold a candle to

her. Culture, that’s what she had.

185#I’m a donkey,’ he said out loud as he rode along. She’d said he was big and

strong and handsome. Would she have said that if it hadn’t meant something

to her? And she’d talked of the baby having fair hair and blue eyes like his own.

If that didn’t mean that his colouring had made an impression on her he was a

Dutchman. He chuckled. ‘Give me time. Patience, and let nature go to work.’

The weeks went by. The CO. at Soissons was an elderly, easy–going fellow

and in view of what the spring had in store for them he was content not to

drive his men too hard. The German papers told them that England was being

wrecked by the Luftwaffe and the people were in a panic. Submarines were

sinking British ships by the score and the country was starving. Revolution was

imminent. Before summer it would be all over and the Germans would be

masters of the world. Hans wrote home and told his parents that he was going

to marry a French girl and with her a fine farm. He proposed that his brother

should borrow money to buy him out of his share of the family property so

that he could increase the size of his own holding while land, owing to the war

and the exchange, could still be bought for a song. He went over the farm with

Périer. The old man listened quietly when Hans told him his ideas: the farm

would have to be restocked and as a German he would have a pull; the motor

tractor was old, he would get a fine new one from Germany, and a motor

plough. To make a farm pay you had to take advantage of modern inventions.

Madame Périer told him afterwards that her husband had said he wasn’t a bad

lad and seemed to know a lot. She was very friendly with him now and insisted

that he should share their midday meal with them on Sundays. She translated

his name into French and called him Jean. He was always ready to give a hand,

and as time went on and Annette could do less and less it was useful to have a

man about who didn’t mind doing a job of work.

Annette remained fiercely hostile. She never spoke to him except to answer

his direct questions and as soon as it was possible went to her own room.

When it was so cold that she couldn’t stay there she sat by the side of the

kitchen stove, sewing or reading, and took no more notice of him than if he

hadn’t been there. She was in radiant health. There was colour in her cheeks

and in Hans’s eyes she was beautiful. Her approaching maternity had given her

a strange dignity and he was filled with exultation when he gazed upon her.

Then one day when he was on his way to the farm he saw Madame Périer in

the road waving to him to stop. He put his brakes on hard.

‘I’ve been waiting for an hour. I thought you’d never come. You must go back.

Pierre is dead.’

‘Who’s Pierre?’

‘Pierre Gavin. The teacher Annette was going to marry.’

Hans’s heart leapt. What luck! Now he’d have his chance.

‘Is she upset?’

‘She’s not crying. When I tried to say something she bit my head off. If she

saw you today she’s capable of sticking a knife into you.’

‘It’s not my fault if he died. How did you hear?’

‘A prisoner, a friend of his, escaped through Switzerland and he wrote to

Annette. We got the letter this morning. There was a mutiny in the camp

because they weren’t given enough to eat, and the ringleaders were shot. Pierre

was one of them.’

Hans was silent. He could only think it served the man right. What did they

think that a prison camp was–the Ritz?

‘Give her time to get over the shock,’ said Madame Périer. ‘When she’s calmer

I’ll talk to her. I’ll write you a letter when you can come again.’

186#All right. You will help me, won’t you?’

‘You can be sure of that. My husband and I, we’re agreed. We talked it over

and we came to the conclusion that the only thing to do was to accept the

situation. He’s no fool, my husband, and he says the best chance for France

now is to collaborate. And take it all in all I don’t dislike you. I shouldn’t

wonder if you didn’t make Annette a better husband than that teacher. And

with the baby coming and all.’

‘I want it to be a boy,’ said Hans.

‘It’s going to be a boy. I know for certain. I’ve seen it in the coffee grounds

and I’ve put out the cards. The answer is a boy every time.’

‘I almost forgot, here are some papers for you,’ said Hans, as he turned his

cycle and prepared to mount.

He handed her three numbers of Paris–Soir. Old Périer read every evening.

He read that the French must be realistic and accept the new order that Hitler

was going to create in Europe. He read that the German submarines were

sweeping the sea. He read that the General Staff had organized to the last detail

the campaign that would bring England to her knees and that the Americans

were too unprepared, too soft and too divided to come to her help. He read that

France must take the heaven–sent opportunity and by loyal collaboration with

the Reich regain her honoured position in the new Europe. And it wasn’t

Germans who wrote it all; it was Frenchmen. He nodded his head with

approval when he read that the plutocrats and the Jews would be destroyed

and the poor man in France would at last come into his own. They were quite

right, the clever fellows who said that France was essentially an agricultural

country and its backbone was its industrious farmers. Good sense, that was.

One evening, when they were finishing their supper, ten days after the news

had come of Pierre Gavin’s death, Madame Périer, by arrangement with her

husband, said to Annette:

‘I wrote a letter to Hans a few days ago telling him to come here tomorrow.’

‘Thank you for the warning. I shall stay in my room.’

‘Oh, come, daughter, the time has passed for foolishness. You must be

realistic. Pierre is dead. Hans loves you and wants to marry you. He’s a

fine–looking fellow. Any girl would be proud of him as a husband. How can we

restock the farm without his help? He’s going to buy a tractor and a plough

with his own money. You must let bygones be bygones.’

‘You’re wasting your breath, Mother. I earned my living before, I can earn my

living again. I hate him. I hate his vanity and his arrogance. I could kill him: his

death wouldn’t satisfy me. I should like to torture him as he’s tortured me.

I think I should die happy if I could find a way to wound him as he’s wounded

me.’

‘You’re being very silly, my poor child.’

‘Your mother’s right, my girl,’ said Périer. ‘We’ve been defeated and we must

accept the consequences. We’re got to make the best arrangement we can with

the conquerors. We’re cleverer than they are and if we play our cards well we

shall come out on top. France was rotten. It’s the Jews and the plutocrats who

ruined the country. Read the papers and you’ll see for yourself!’

‘Do you think I believe a word in that paper? Why do you think he brings it to

you except that it’s sold to the Germans? The men who write in it–traitors,

traitors. Oh God, may I live to see them torn to pieces by the mob. Bought,

bought every one of them–bought with German money. The swine.’

Madame Périer was getting exasperated.

187#What have you got against the boy? He took you by force–yes, he was drunk

at the time. It’s not the first time that’s happened to a woman and it won’t be

the last time. He hit your father and he bled like a pig, but does your father bear

him malice?’

‘It was an unpleasant incident, but I’ve forgotten it,’ said Périer.

Annette burst into harsh laughter.

‘You should have been a priest. You forgive injuries with a spirit truly

Christian.’

‘And what is there wrong about that?’ asked Madame Périer angrily. ‘Hasn’t

he done everything he could to make amends? Where would your father have

got his tobacco all these months if it hadn’t been for him? If we haven’t gone

hungry it’s owing to him.’

‘If you’d had any pride, if you’d had any sense of decency, you’d have thrown

his presents in his face.’

‘You’ve profited by them, haven’t you?’

‘Never. Never.’

‘It’s a lie and you know it. You’ve refused to eat the cheese he brought and the

butter and the sardines. But the soup you’ve eaten, you know I put the meat in

it that he brought; and the salad you ate tonight, if you didn’t have to eat it dry,

it’s because he brought me oil.’

Annette sighed deeply. She passed her hand over her eyes.

‘I know. I tried not to, I couldn’t help myself, I was so hungry. Yes, I knew his

meat went into the soup and I ate it. I knew the salad was made with his oil.

I wanted to refuse it; I had such a longing for it, it wasn’t I that ate it, it was a

ravenous beast within me.’

‘That’s neither here nor there. You ate it.’

‘With shame. With despair. They broke our strength first with their tanks

and their planes, and now when we’re defenceless they’re breaking our spirit

Date: 2015-01-29; view: 919