The Midday Moon

Preface

Millions of lives were irrevocably changed during World War 2. Loss and suffering became the norm. The Midday Moon is a story about a young woman’s experience during France’s years of occupation. It’s a story about finding love in the midst of chaos. About how people cope when death barges in through the front door and takes up immediate residency without knocking. The Blaise family live on a farm at the top of Montverre Hil. The characters in this book are imaginary. Tragically, what happened to the idyllic village of Oradour-sur-Glane, isn’t make-believe.

Human beings are capable of incredible achievements and astonishing kindness. We love. We cure. We share. We protect. The vast majority of mankind possess a conscience; a voice inside each of us that tells us the difference between right and wrong. Occasionally however, either through self-preservation, fear or mental instability, people perpetrate such violence that it leaves the rest of us breathless at the evil humans are capable of inflicting on others. One of these occasions was the atrocity committed by the Germans in the small French town of Oradour-sur-Glane. For the majority of World War 2, this thriving little community enjoyed a comfortable seclusion from the horrors unfolding elsewhere in Europe.

That all changed on 10th June 1944. German soldiers entered the village. Within the course of several hours, the occupying forces destroyed the community, razed buildings to the ground and killed all but eight of the townspeople.

My protagonist, Arlette Blaise, takes her grandmother back home to Oradour-sur-Glane on the day of the massacre. I couldn’t have placed her in such a traumatic situation without visiting the martyred village first hand. I have walked the roads of this once quaint village and absorbed the atmosphere. I’ve seen the aftermath of brutality. As a writer, I feel a weight of responsibility in telling a story about a fictional character living through what was an actual genocide. I’ve endeavoured to honour the villagers' last hours with respect and accuracy, to choose the right words and not to glamourize this horrendous crime. Charles de Gaulle declared that the ruins must stay as a permanent national monument to the townspeople’s suffering, so I found Oradour-sur-Glane just as it had been left on the day of the massacre; frozen in time.

The Midday Moon

1.

The air was thick and still, with nothing moving in the valley except the flow of the river. It was nearing the end of June and the chalk-smudge of the midday moon sat in a cloudless sky. Somewhere in the valley a dog barked, its sound travelling far in the stillness of the heat. No breeze disturbed the leaves and the socks pegged to the washing line hung like sleeping bats.

Arlette Blaise led a caramel-coloured beast out of the barn and through the farmyard, scattering a cluster of chickens. She guided the cow by a rope at arm’s length in order to avoid its horns. Its bulk swayed and slewed with each step. The chickens squabbled and the cow’s hooves made a rhythmical choff-choff sound as they disturbed the parched ground, leaving small flurries of dust in its wake.

Arlette hummed to herself. She steered the beast past a rainwater barrel and alongside the front garden, its lawn tinged taupe by the summer sun. She thought about last night’s meal in celebration of her nineteenth birthday. Her family had shared a meal of rabbit, onions and wild garlic with their neighbours, Monique and Bruno Giroux and their daughter Francine.

She passed the orchard before opening the gate to the field opposite the farmhouse. The cow tossed its head, nearly pushing her off her feet. Arlette steadied herself, then untied the rope from the beast’s neck and shouted as she slapped its rump.

‘Allez!’

She sat down and pulled a few fronds of grass from the earth. The grass beneath her was warm and cushioned. The valley looked serene with wood of fir trees that resembled fat grey stalagmites silhouetted against the sky. She saw far beyond dense woodland where a river curved through the French landscape, a line of lanky poplars framing its banks to the right. She could see the turrets of the manor, a beautiful country house standing half way down the hill between their farmhouse and the river. The Lamonds had lived there for generations cultivating their vineyards, but they tended to keep themselves to themselves – at least until the new batch of wine was ready for testing. Then they would become the life and soul of the village due to the potency and sweetness of their produce. She wondered when their grapes would next be pressed for wine now that France was at war.

After a few moments she lifted her head and listened, believing her name was being called. Yes, someone was shouting for her.

Arlette yelled back. ‘Par ici!’

She stood up and hurried back through the gate, ensuring it was closed. Francine was running up the hill. Her best friend’s clogs scuffed the dust, her long hair swinging from side to side and her face as purple as the beet that grew in their vegetable garden.

‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ asked Arlette.

Francine reached her friend and hung onto her shoulders, bent double until she could catch her breath. ‘C’est Pétain!’

Arlette felt a chill run down her back. The French leader had been a topic of conversation as recently as yesterday’s birthday gathering. Neither of their fathers had hidden their disparagement of the premier of their country.

‘What’s happened?’

‘You know that maman cleans the mayor’s office every morning?’ she panted. ‘Well this morning a small crowd surrounded the office listening to the wireless. Pétain is giving in to the Germans.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Paris has been abandoned to the Germans. Politicians, the military and families are fleeing south.’

Arlette gave a high-pitched, incredulous laugh. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘It is. It is. Maman heard that Pétain says it’s time to stop fighting and work with the Germans.’

Arlette’s smile faded. She thought of her younger brother who was passionately patriotic and of her father, whose younger brother lived in Paris. ‘But why?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t give in? No one gives away part of their country as if it were a basket of surplus apples.’ Arlette looked across the valley. Her eyes scanned the landscape, half expecting to see a line of German soldiers marching across its fields. The war. That vague far off entity that was spoken of in hushed tones. That destructive predator roaring in the north was stealthily creeping closer.

‘Surely they won’t come to Montverre? We’re a tiny hamlet.’

‘I hope not. That would be terrible.’

‘I need to speak with father,’ she said, gripping Francine’s hand and pulling her towards the farmyard.

Once inside the gate, the girls saw Bruno’s horse and cart outside the barn.

‘Papa’s here already,’ said Francine.

The girls hurried towards the huge stone structure. They ran through the yard, dispersing the reassembled chickens. Arlette heard her father curse. The two men were standing inside the opening of the barn. Its interior was striped with sunlight that streamed in through gaps in the wooden boards in the eaves. It smelt of pungent manure that stung the back of her nose. Her father, Henri, raked his hands through his thick greying hair and noticed the girls standing in the entrance.

‘Ma pêche!’ he said quietly, beckoning to Arlette.

He’d called her his peach since she was a baby, on account of the velvety cheeks she had been born with. She leant into his chest and nestled just below his shoulder, his shirt infused with laundry soap, tobacco and fresh sweat. She looked up at him.

‘What does it mean, father?’

‘I’m not sure, but we’ll carry on as normal and work hard to bring in the harvest. We’re a long way from Paris and hopefully we won’t be too affected by the armistice. I’m sure we’ll be left alone to get on with our work.’

He tried to sound matter-of-fact but Arlette sensed a change in his voice. She heard a faltering that hadn’t been present before.

‘Where’s Gilbert?’ asked Francine, trying to sound nonchalant.

It was unspoken knowledge that Francine had become sweet on Arlette’s younger brother this past year.

‘He went inside for bread and goats’ cheese,’ said Henri, loosening his embrace on his daughter. ‘Arlette, please can you go and tell him to hurry up and then you can see to the silk room. We won’t let the Germans disrupt our lives.’

She nodded. If her father wanted to pretend that everything was fine, then she would reciprocate for him. She walked out of the barn in step with Francine and heard the hushed baritone voices of their fathers’ conversation resume.

It was cool and dark inside the kitchen thanks to the building’s thick, stone walls. Gilbert was leaning back in their father’s armchair with his feet resting on a stool, chewing the remnants of his sandwich. He was tall and broad, with muscles developed through hard graft after years working alongside his father. He didn’t move when his sister walked in, but when he saw Francine follow her through the door he coughed, sat up and straightened his hair.

So, thought Arlette, Francine’s infatuation wasn’t one-sided.

‘Hi Francine,’ muttered Gilbert, wiping the crumbs from his lips.

She smiled and lifted a hand in greeting, then stared at her feet in embarrassment.

Arlette found this unaccustomed shyness between her brother and her best friend very confusing. They’d grown up together and had spent every summer climbing trees, sneaking through vines pilfering grapes, fishing and swimming in the river. They appeared to like each other even more nowadays, but apparently found it more difficult to communicate.

‘Father says to hurry up,’ said Arlette.

She looked at her brother’s dishevelled hair, scattered whiskers and large questioning fern-green eyes, a colour that they’d both inherited from their late mother. No, she couldn’t tell him of Pétain’s cowardice because her own bravery had escaped her for the moment. She’d leave it to her father to explain the latest development.

She noticed Gilbert and Francine exchange a fleeting glance as he left the kitchen and went to join the men.

‘Can I see the caterpillars?’ asked Francine. ‘I haven’t been upstairs for weeks.’

Arlette rubbed her hands together, making a shushing sound as if she were mentally washing away the anxiety that was growing inside her. She forced a smile. ‘Of course. You can help me carry some more leaves upstairs.’

Having snapped a handful of branches off one of the mulberry trees that grew a short distance from the kitchen door, Arlette led her friend through the kitchen and sitting room and into the hall. The sound of their clogs echoed around the walls as they clomped upstairs and along the corridor. She opened the door facing them, pushing it with her bottom. Carrying an armful of leaves through, she laid the branches on the nearest table.

‘You spread the leaves over those far tables,’ pointed Arlette, ‘and I’ll do these.’

Francine wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d forgotten how smelly they are.’

‘You get used to it. The cows smell worse.’

They scattered the leaves and twigs over the crawling mass of caterpillars, some of which had scaled the lip of the table and fallen onto the floor. Arlette then took a small knife and cut a length of string, tightening a few corners of a wooden framework that sat on top of the tables beside the writhing mass of bodies.

‘They’re clever little creatures aren’t they?’ said Arlette. She checked the amount of silk cocoons the pupae had made within the framework.

‘Yes, but it’s sad that they all have to die so people can wear silk.’

‘They don’t all die. Some become moths so they can lay more eggs. I just sell them and leave that side of things to other people. Besides, we kill animals to eat. We can’t live on a farm and worry about that sort of thing.’

For a few minutes they spread leaves evenly between six tables without speaking. Then Francine asked,

‘Do you think Gilbert will have to leave Montverre? Will he have to fight?’

Arlette hesitated. Obviously Francine was as anxious as she was. ‘I don’t know Ci-Ci. I really don’t know what’s going to happen.’