‘Good, thank you; I’ll try that,’ said Agnès.
She returned to the café, got Rose and Simone back into the car and followed the directions she’d been given. It was indeed a mill. Water flowed beneath the arch of an old bridge with a fresh, primitive sound.
‘A room? Ah, Madame, that’s impossible.’ The miller’s wife raised her arms towards heaven. ‘We already have people staying here who arrived from Paris yesterday. I gave them my own room and I’m sleeping in the kitchen.’
‘All we need is a little corner, a small spot for my daughter,’ said Agnès, her voice pleading, opening the car door and pointing to Rose.
The woman made a gesture of pity. ‘Come in, at least, and have a rest.’
They went into the main room. Several people were already there.
A young blonde woman, wearing make-up, stood up as they came in. ‘Madame, take my spot,’ she said, offering her chair to Rose, who fell on to the heavy cotton cushions with a deep groan, feeling pain and relief both at once. Rose closed her eyes. Then they found a spot for Simone. Agnès sat down next to her, placed her hand on the elderly woman’s burning forehead.
‘Rose,’ Simone stammered. ‘Is she in … labour?’
‘I think it will be soon,’ Agnès whispered, ‘but the miller’s wife told me there’s a good doctor very close by. Don’t give up hope, Simone. We’re safe here, I think. If only we could find a room.’
She had spoken quite loudly, on purpose. The young woman who had given them her armchair came over to her. ‘Excuse me. I couldn’t help hearing what you said. It goes without saying that you can have my room. I’ll spend the night here, in the chair. It doesn’t matter in the least.’ She took Rose by the hand. ‘Come along. You can stretch out and rest right now. The room is big and bright, and there’s a chaise longue for Madame,’ she said, turning towards Simone. ‘But I don’t know where we can squeeze you in,’ she said cheerfully to Agnès.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ Agnès replied, an expression of gratitude on her face, ‘it doesn’t matter at all, I can assure you. I don’t know how to thank you, Madame.’
They got Rose and Simone upstairs. The room had a bare wood floor and was clean. They made up the bed.
‘I’ve sent my boy to fetch the doctor,’ said the miller’s wife.
Agnès told her name to the young woman who had given up her bed for Rose. She started in surprise. ‘Hardelot?’ she murmured.
‘Do you know me?’ asked Agnès.
‘My name is Nadine Laurent.’
‘I am very indebted to you,’ said Agnès, looking at her gratefully.
The young woman said nothing. She walked away from Agnès. When she reached the end of the corridor she turned and looked at her. ‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call for me, all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I will, thank you,’ said Agnès.
She felt like hugging the strange young woman. They had found shelter, refuge, somewhere to rest their heads. As for the rest, it would all work itself out. Rose was strong. The baby would survive, Guy’s baby. There would be this child, at least, even if the others …
For a moment, she weakened. She hid her face in her hands. ‘Guy … Pierre …’ she whispered.
But she had no time to cry. She had to look after Rose. She had to boil the water. She had to get the few medical supplies she was able to buy in Arras out of the car. She had to find some nappies in the village. That, at least, would be easy. All the women in the house were rushing to help; one of them came in, followed by a young nun with a sweet, fresh face beneath her large wimple.
‘I’ve come to offer you my help, Madame. I can look after the young woman until the doctor comes …’
Darkness was falling. Every night that June was serene, beautiful, solemn. The heavens leaned gently down towards the devastated land, the cities in flames, the poor men who had no food, no shelter. It lavished its perfumed air and the brightness of its stars on them, in vain; no one looked up at them.
It was four o’clock in the morning when the child came into the world. It was a beautiful boy and Rose did not have a difficult birth. The miller’s wife brought a cradle down from the loft, the same cradle she had used for her own two sons, both of them now away at war. The little wicker basket was clean and simple. Hurriedly they attached to it a large, somewhat frayed sky-blue ribbon. Someone knocked at the door.
Agnès opened it and saw the young woman who had loaned the room to Rose. ‘The Germans will be here within the hour,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do? The whole village is leaving.’
Agnès pointed to the cradle. The young woman leaned over it. ‘Already? The water in the millrace must have drowned out the sound of the cries; I didn’t hear a thing. Is it a boy?’
‘Oh, she didn’t cry out much. She’s very strong. Yes, it’s a boy.’
‘So you’ll be staying, of course?’
‘Of course. What about you?’
‘I … I don’t have any petrol.’
‘I can give you the two cans I have left. We’re going to have to stay here for at least ten days, anyway.’
‘You’re very kind,’ murmured the young woman.
She leaned over to study the newborn baby, her face filled with a strange, mysterious emotion.
‘Do you have any children?’ asked Agnès.
She shook her head. The joyful, fresh, pink dawn lit up their weary faces. The young woman knelt beside the cradle, looked away from Agnès and asked very quietly, ‘How is Guy, Madame?’
Agnès started with surprise and, suddenly, she was struck by a memory. Nadine, where had she heard that name before? But of course, Guy kept saying it when he was delirious … My God, how long ago all that seemed!
‘Do you know my son?’ she whispered.
‘Yes … I …’
She fell silent.
‘I haven’t had any news,’ said Agnès.
Outside, they could hear the heavy, unmistakable murmur that rises up from towns and roads as the enemy approaches. Shutters were closed on the windows, doors locked, horses harnessed, wheelbarrows filled. In the streets the children, barely awake, all excited and happy at the idea they were going on a journey, laughed as they looked up at the sky. The sun was shining and, beside the mill, the water flowed green and frothy.
Rose called out. The nun at her bedside arranged her pillows, gave her something to drink.
Nadine stood up. ‘Can you really give me some petrol?’
‘Of course.’
‘But how could I accept?’
‘Well, I accepted your room for my daughter-in-law.’
‘Oh, don’t mention it … it was nothing.’
Their voices were cold now, restrained. Everything around them, the large room in the dawn light, the bare floor that creaked beneath their feet, the sound of the water, their words, everything had the fluidity, the fragility of a dream. Agnès walked Guy’s mistress to the little outbuilding where she had parked the car; she gave her the two cans of petrol, shook her hand, watched her disappear. She went back up to Rose. She stumbled slightly as she walked; she felt so weary that she lost her footing twice and had to hold on to the handrail so as not to fall. All the travellers had gone. The large reception room and the kitchen were empty. But the miller’s wife, looking quite calm, was grinding some coffee near the fire. Agnès sat down, or rather, let herself fall into a small, low chair. She felt tired, calm, detached from the rest of the world. She had seen her task through to the end. She had torn herself away from Pierre to find this young woman, this Rose whom she did not like. She had helped her as best she could. She had helped bring Guy’s child into the world. All she had to do now was to accept, hope, wait.
After a few moments the nun joined them, leaving the door open in the room where Rose was resting. The coffee smelled good; the miller’s wife sliced some fresh bread. They had made it through the night.
30
The Armistice had been signed. German soldiers occupie
d the village; they were sleeping at the mill, and in the morning the miller’s wife cooked pork chops and omelettes for them. Rose was out of bed; the child was doing well. The period of rest had done Simone good, though it was obvious that this improvement could not last for long: she looked near death. The telephone lines between the Occupied Zone and the rest of France were working again. They managed to get through to Simone’s relations who lived in the Languedoc and, one day, a car came to collect the Renaudin and Hardelot ladies. It was possible to travel now: the Germans allowed vehicles on the roads again and were getting things back to normal after the terrible confusion of the mass exodus. Agnès packed her small suitcase, kissed the baby, said goodbye to Rose and Simone. She was going home. She wanted to get back to Pierre in Saint-Elme. The other women didn’t need her any more.
‘You’ll never make it back,’ Rose told her. She was sure that Saint-Elme had been destroyed and that Pierre must have left, if he was still alive. ‘He will have gone, I’m sure of it,’ she assured her mother-in-law. ‘He’ll be able to find you easily at our cousins’ house. He won’t have stayed in the north; they say it’s in ruins. It would be madness.’
‘He’s stayed at home. I’m certain of it. He wouldn’t have left Saint-Elme. He was the only one left who could look after everything.’
‘But what if Saint-Elme has been destroyed … He wouldn’t have stayed to look after ruins.’
‘He certainly would. In 1914, my father-in-law stayed.’
‘That was different.’
‘Guy would have stayed as well, my dear girl.’
‘They won’t allow you to go back there,’ Rose said again.
‘I’ll manage somehow.’
And so they parted, one heading south and the other returning north, to the region where no one knew what was happening, which seemed cut off from the rest of the world. Agnès had been travelling since morning when she learned that a Demarcation Line had been established along the Loire and that it was forbidden to cross it. ‘If I had gone with Rose, I would have never been able to get back to my husband,’ she thought.
Not for a moment did she doubt he was still alive. She knew she would find him. She pushed on, confronted danger, acting with the confidence of a sleepwalker making his way along a rooftop. A ghost seemed to be whispering to her, ‘Do this. Say that.’
They refused to give her the necessary passes. They refused to give her petrol. They turned her away. She tried again, spending hours waiting at the Kommandantur.
‘I have to get back to my husband,’ she said. ‘You can understand that, surely, Messieurs, that I have to get back home?’
She got what she wanted. Until the next stage of her journey. When she had used up her very last drop of petrol she continued travelling in trucks or old cars she came across on the way. Then the trains starting running again. Finally she could rest on a seat in a compartment. But just before they reached Saint-Elme they came to the Exclusion Zone. For more than a month she remained a few kilometres from her house, not knowing if Pierre was dead or alive, with no news of Guy or Rose, for it was forbidden to send letters between the German Occupied Territory and the Free Zone.
France was a tableau of heart-rending despair. Everywhere there were ruins, everywhere anxiety, mourning, tears and a sort of bewilderment that weighed heavily on people’s souls. They went through the motions of living, without truly believing they were alive. Agnès, like everyone else, looked calm to the rest of the world, put on an air of dignity and gentleness. It was a matter of propriety. They all had to hide their bitter regrets, their tears, their fears about the future.
And then, one day, the miracle she had been waiting for happened. On a list of prisoners of war she saw Guy’s name. A little while later she finally obtained permission to go home to Saint-Elme.
She travelled in a German army truck with other refugees. Every time they stopped the women with her asked about the villages that had been destroyed. But she didn’t want to hear. She wanted to keep hope alive in her heart, just as you protect the flickering flame on a candle by covering it with your hand. As long as hope remained alive within her she was invincible, she was sure of it. Nothing could harm her. She was oblivious to tiredness, to hunger. And her hope and prayers protected her husband and her son.
She saw the ruins of some houses, a crumbling bridge, surrounded by nothing but scorched, deserted land. It was Saint-Elme. Some men were working beside the road, using pickaxes to knock down the remaining sections of unstable walls. They were the workers from the factory. Agnès called them over. They walked slowly towards her. In horrible anguish, she tried to guess what had happened to Pierre by the looks on their faces.
‘My husband?’ she asked quietly, as they stood in front of her. ‘Do you know where my husband is?’
‘He’s in the canteen, Madame Pierre. He’s going to be very happy.’
‘He’s alive, then?’ she said and the joy that flooded her heart was almost painful. She went pale, brought her hands to her lips, held her wedding band tightly to her mouth so she wouldn’t cry out.
‘He hasn’t been hurt?’ she asked finally, after a moment’s silence.
‘No, Madame. Oh, he was lucky.’
The canteen was a hurriedly constructed wooden shack that they used to feed the children. Pierre was there. She stopped on the doorstep, trembling so violently that she couldn’t move.
He seemed to sense her presence. He walked towards her. ‘Is it really you?’
‘My God,’ he said, ‘at last, it’s you.’
Everyone was watching them. Embarrassed, they gave each other a little kiss. No kiss, no embrace could express the joy in their hearts.
They spoke softly.
‘Guy is a prisoner of war; did you know?’
‘Yes, I knew. What about Rose?’
‘She had a beautiful baby. A boy. What’s happening here?’
‘Here,’ he said, ‘you can see what it’s like.’
‘We’ll rebuild. We’ll get through. We’ll survive.’
She hid her face in her hands.
‘You’re tired, my poor darling,’ he said, looking at her tenderly.
But she no longer felt any pain, any weariness. She felt that she had reaped her harvest, gleaned all the wealth, all the love, the laughter and the tears that God owed her, and now it was over, that all she had left to do was eat the bread made from grain she had milled herself, drink the wine from grapes she had pressed. She had gathered in all the good things of this world, and all the bitterness, all the sweetness of the earth had borne fruit. They would live out the rest of their days together.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
Irène Némirovsky’s All Our Worldly Goods first appeared in French as Les Biens de ce monde, in 1947, five years after the author’s murder at Auschwitz. The novel opens just before the outbreak of World War I and ends just after the start of World War II. Like Suite Française, it tells the stories of families whose lives intertwine, and does so with the astute psychological and social observation for which Némirovsky is now known. Unlike Suite Française, the novel is complete, and it is clear that Némirovsky was not writing under the ominous premonition of her impending death. In this work, there is an underlying feeling of hope that makes Suite Française all the more heartrending. In fact, together the two books provide a panoramic view of life in France from 1911 to 1940.
All Our Worldly Goods is about love: forbidden love, married love, unrequited love, the love of parents for their children, of people for their homes, of citizens for their country. The title in French—almost impossible to translate with all its nuances—manages to encapsulate both the spiritual and material aspects of ‘les biens’, the good things of this life, in every sense of the term. We have chosen All Our Worldly Goods because it evokes something of the French in both senses, as well as recalling traditional marriage vows. With the skill and subtlety so characteristic of her writing, Némirovsky offers us entry into the lives of people who belong to
another world, one long gone, but whose emotions—desires, fears, suffering, pride, happiness and determination to live fulfilled lives—remain universal.
Translating Irène Némirovsky is always a joy but I also owe a great deal to my editor, Rebecca Carter, whose insights, professionalism, encouragement and friendship have been invaluable.
Sandra Smith
Robinson College
Cambridge, June 2008
Irène Némirovsky, All Our Wordly Goods
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