It was a day like any other. It had rained a bit in the morning. The children had gone into the woods to gather chestnuts. They wore clogs and the prickly green shells cracked beneath their feet, making the smooth, shiny chestnuts spring out, as if from tiny catapults. They found foxglove in the forest as well, on long stems, and the last ceps of summer and clusters of greyish mushrooms that looked suspicious but which tempted Geneviève.
‘Are you sure they’re poisonous, Mama?’
‘Quite sure, darling.’
Colette secretly took off her shoes; she left her socks on and put her little feet down on the soft, spongy moss. The two little girls shook the branches of the trees and a light crackling shower of rain and golden leaves fell down on to them.
At midday, because they were far from the house, Thérèse suggested that for lunch they make do with the snack she had brought just in case, some bread and butter and goat’s cheese. Then, for dessert, and the best treat of all, they would roast some chestnuts. She soon managed to light a fire between two flat stones. The children watched the fire for a long time, fascinated by the beautiful colour of the flames in daylight, a coppery pinkish colour.
‘This is nice, Mama,’ said little Geneviève. She let out a contented sigh and curled up against her mother’s threadbare skirt like a cat. They ate the chestnuts, then explored the forest to its edges, right up to the place where the fields began, the wide, dark purple fields, all furrowed and undulating. They fascinated Thérèse. She could not say why. Soaked with rain and sweat, this fertile land reminded her of her own life.
They spent the whole day in the warm woods where there was still a gentle torpid heat; it felt as if the branches, the grass, the dead leaves had soaked up and kept bits of sun and light, while the October wind blew through the rest of the vast countryside.
The smell of smoke reached Thérèse. There were fires everywhere, those purifying pyres of autumn. When Thérèse and her children finally headed home, the sun was already setting; the clear, reddish sky was a sign that the next day would be cold. The crows were cawing. The road seemed long to their tired little feet; Thérèse had to carry her youngest daughter in her arms. Pools of mud shimmered, all pink. Colette soon fell asleep, her head on her mother’s shoulder. She was a sweet burden … but a burden nonetheless. ‘To tell the truth,’ Thérèse thought sadly, ‘I’ve always had to carry them alone.’ It was dusk; it was cold. She felt tired and weak. She listened vaguely to the children’s babbling; she replied to them without thinking. She continued with her thoughts; a kind of internal pulse beat within her; one question, always the same, obsessed her:
‘When will he come home?’
Perhaps it was because of the physical fatigue, or hunger (for she had eaten almost nothing so the children could have most of the lunch), but she suddenly gave in to a feeling worse than despondency: for the first time in her life, perhaps, she was overwhelmed by black despair. Yes, for the first time … Yves … She had found consolation in the nobility of his death, by her faith in eternal life and by her conviction that so many young lives could not be sacrificed in vain. But she had never before experienced a despair so deep, so darkly seductive. ‘It’s all over,’ she thought. She would never see her husband again. And besides, what was the point? She had always been a fool. She had been betrayed and abandoned. Her son had died for nothing because France had been beaten. Even if he came home, Bernard would not look twice at this woman with her grey hair, a woman he had not loved even when she was young. As soon as he was back on his feet, he would start seeking out life’s pleasures. My God, could he actually be right …? What was the point of so many scruples, so much suffering? No one would thank her for it. She felt abandoned both by God and man. So many prayers, so many tears … All in vain … The war had been going on for ages, and was still going on. Her husband would not be returned to her.
She raised her eyes towards the heavens in an instinctive gesture of supplication.
‘If you have not abandoned me, Jesus,’ she whispered, ‘give me a sign, just one sign! Do not test me any more.’
But the reddish sky continued to sparkle, pure, icy, brilliant. The wind was growing piercing and cruel. Perhaps, after all, this silence and this indifference were the signs she had asked for?
She put Colette down on the ground:
‘Come on now, walk for a while. There’s the house. I can’t any more.’
Surprised by her mother’s tone of voice, normally so gentle, Colette looked up at her, said nothing and trotted along behind her, head lowered. Geneviève, who was always full of energy, ran on ahead. They pushed open the little grey gate; its bell made a soft tinkling sound. They went into the house. Thérèse saw her mother-in-law sitting at the table, her head in her hands.
‘She’s sleeping,’ said the little girls.
Thérèse walked over to her; the old woman was not asleep. She turned her trembling face towards Thérèse; she was crying.
‘My God, what’s wrong?’
‘Bernard … Bernard …’ stammered Madame Jacquelain, ‘he’s coming back … He’ll be home tonight … He’s been released … The telegram … it’s been waiting here for you since eleven o’clock, my poor child!’
The hours that followed were like a dream. Everyone was excited, rushed around, got dressed, tried to organise a car (the station was a few kilometres away). It was already dark when the two women and the children stood on the open platform in the wild, blustery wind. The stars shone and shimmered; the railway tracks gave off a pale light. Their four faces looked out into the distance with the same expression of joy, disbelief and anguish, for, to those who have suffered, happiness seems so inconceivable, at least at first.
The little girls, who had forgotten their father, wondered if he was kind, not too strict, if he would play with them, buy them presents. Madame Jacquelain felt as if she had travelled back twenty-five years and would see a young man appear suddenly, stepping briskly off the train, a young man with a bold look in his eyes, the Bernard of the past. And Thérèse … Thérèse alone thought nothing, remembered nothing. Her entire being was filled with expectation and love.
They heard the sound of the train, like whispering carried on the wind; then harsh, metallic noises, the wheels of the train hammering the bridge. Finally came the roar and the smoke of the engine. People stepped off … women carrying wicker baskets … children …‘My God, where is he? Where is Bernard? I must have been dreaming …’
Then a voice spoke, very close to her:
‘Don’t you recognise me, my dear Thérèse?’
She looked up. No, she did not recognise this pale man with very deep-set eyes, walking so slowly, who came towards her and kissed her.
‘Bernard,’ she whispered, and it was only when she felt her husband’s lips against her cheek that she understood it was really him, and she burst into tears. She also understood (one glance was all it took, a sigh, one brief sob that Bernard tried to stifle as he kissed her), she understood that he had changed, he had come back more mature, a better man and, at last, he was hers, and hers alone.
Irène Némirovsky, The Fires of Autumn
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