Chapter Three

It has been a week. The enemy is still living in our house. He keeps greeting us in the morning and in the evening even if we never reply. He always asks our permission before he wants to use our belongings. Sometimes he tries to figure out whether we like him, tolerate him or hate him. The typewriter stopped making a clicking sound when Adeline stopped writing another chapter in her novel.

Adeline was still sitting at her desk while rereading old letters from Louis. They were separated by the war for a year. The Germans had captured him during the battle of Sedan in 1940. He was brought to Germany and incarcerated in the Oflag prison camp. Since then, she had little contact with him because her letters could take a long time to arrive there. She opened a picture album. The longing reflected in her eyes when she looked at him through a black-and-white photograph; he was in a field uniform, wearing a big happy smile that revealed his white teeth. Louis's face had shared features with their father: high cheekbones, hollow cheeks with a well-defined jaw. One thing looked very much alike from Adeline and Louis was the color of their eyes. She took his photograph out of the picture album and flipped it. There was handwriting at the back: Captain Louis Beaumont, 16 January 1915.

Adeline leaned back in an armchair, looking out of the window. A peaceful morning light glistened on the path's silvery stone. At the entrance, a wind chime tinkled in the wind. Its sound seemed to create a joyous melody. It grew fainter in the air and then the painful silence followed. The house felt lifeless since Louis had gone. She was used to hearing his cheerful laugh when he told jokes. His playful demeanor was a great consolation to Jeanne and her.

In a flash, Adeline remembered farewell moments with Louis in a train station. It was the last moment before he went to war. He took her into his arms and said, "Please take care of mom while I am away. I'll write to you as much as I can. I'll bring peace back to France and we'll be together at home again." She buried her face into his chest while tears fell onto his uniform. She caressed his back, feeling the softness of its cloth. She thought his uniform would no longer be clean as usual. It would be blackened by dust and stained by blood. At that time, she was terribly worried if he would die on the battlefield. She didn't want to lose him like she lost her father. Her father perished during The Great War in 1918. God had granted her wish. Louis was still alive, even though he became a prisoner of war.

The dust motes danced in the morning sunbeams slanting through the sitting room window. Adeline intended to purge the old newspaper. One after another, she stacked them into a neat pile, until a familiar image stopped her. A grainy photograph dominated the front page: a stern-faced German leader, the headline stark against the newsprint: ATTEMPT TO KILL HITLER. November 8, 1939. A time-bomb exploded just twenty seven minutes after he had finished giving a speech on the sixteenth anniversary of Hitler's Beer Hall in Munich.

"Even his own people wanted him dead," She murmured, the words hanging heavy in the quiet room.

***

Wilhelm walked out of the German headquarters. He spent his break time in the village square's garden. Clipped boxwoods formed a verdant frame around the garden, punctuated by bursts of fragrant carnations. He sat on the stone bench, lit a cigarette and enjoyed the serene sound of the water gushing from the fountain. As he looked around, his eyes caught the sight of a young woman in a blue dress. The delicate curve of her cheek and the graceful tilt of her head, he recognized her instantly: Adeline. She approached an elderly woman whose hand resting on a black cane. With a gentle touch, Adeline held her hand, signaling the cars to stop as she guided her safely across the street. Wilhelm whispered, a word escaping his lip, "Pearl". The word hung in the air, a perfect encapsulation of her essence – enchanting, precious and exceedingly rare. Time seemed to stand still as Wilhelm watched her, utterly captivated. His cigarette was forgotten, its ash silently falling unnoticed onto the stone bench. Her kindness and her beauty momentarily dissolved the harsh reality of his world.

A shadowy figure moved along the pathway. He was a young man – tall, blond with iron gray eyes. His face bore a brutal expression, etched deep by the horror of war. "Wilhelm," he said, his voice as cold as winter. It was Lieutenant Oskar Dietrich standing behind him.

"What holds your attention?" Oskar's voice cut through the silence.

Wilhelm said nothing, merely smiled.

"A French woman?" Oskar's tone was less a question, more an accusation. "You know the rules, Wilhelm," his voice hardened. "The Reich soldiers must avoid all contact with civilians, especially French women. A soldier who becomes entangled with the civilian population will forget his duty and that's a big problem for the Army."

"Don't worry," Wilhelm said, his voice low, almost playful. I won't be taking a French woman but I'll be taking copious notes on the superior French pastry-making techniques. For my post-war bakery, of course."

A rare smile touched Oskar's lips as he clapped Wilhelm on the back.

The torrent of words began: another boastful speech about Germany's victories and the urgent need to maintain the army's prestige. Oskar's voice rose and fell with theatrical intensity. Wilhelm had already anticipated the inevitable conclusion: "We are Wehrmacht, the armed forces of Great Germany, victory is certain." Wilhelm regarded him as a broken record, endlessly playing the same refrain.

***

Night fell. The garden was bathed in a silvery moonlight that shimmered over the yellow lilies. Jeanne was knitting a long gray scarf for Louis in the sitting room. Through the Red Cross, she would send it to the prison camp where he was detained. She knew winter was still distant but she wanted to give something that could remind him of his mother, his sister and his dear house so he could always feel home. She pictured her son she hadn't seen for a year; he was consumed with longing, confined behind barbed wires and isolated from the rest of the world. "My poor son," she whispered as the tears trickled down her cheeks. She brushed away the tears as footsteps approached.

Adeline stepped inside with a book in her hand. She paused by the window, peeking out at the street behind the curtain, her mind drifting back to the shocking aftermath of the armistice in 1940. The flood of the German soldiers swept through Noyers. They came from all directions. They poured into cafés, shops and civilian houses. The villagers grappled with a whirlwind of emotions: despondency, anguish, shame, and anger. They refused the defeat of France.

Adeline sat in an armchair. She had been reading a book for one and a half hours. Boredom gnawed at her. She tossed a small ball, catching it repeatedly. All of a sudden, her hands weren't quick enough to catch it back. It fell down, rolled toward the doorway and stopped at Wilhelm's boots. He knelt down to pick up the ball she had just dropped. Astonishment spread across her face.

"It must be yours," Wilhelm said, handing it to Adeline.

Adeline took it silently, picking up her book as if to resume reading it again. Jeanne set down her knitting work, observing Adeline and Wilhelm for a moment.

Wilhelm took a few steps back. His gaze swept the room, lingering on a delicate frieze, framed photographs on the walls and a literary certificate award. He read aloud, "1938 Fiction Book Awards is presented to Adeline Beaumont for La vie est belle." He turned to Adeline and said, "I'd like to read your book. It would help me improve my French. Would you be so kind as to lend it to me?"

Adeline and Jeanne exchanged looks in stunned silence. There's nothing Adeline could do except acquiescing to God's will. She took her book out of a bookshelf, handed it to him and then sat back in her seat. He opened the book, his eyes drawn to lines highlighted in yellow: "Don't underestimate kindness, even if it's just a smile because one kindness begets another. This is a beautiful message," he said, smiling.

Jeanne continued knitting. Meanwhile, Adeline stared vacantly at the open book, a complex mix of emotions flooding her. She was pleased by his appreciation of her work and proud that her novel had touched not only French hearts but also, unexpectedly, the heart of an enemy.

Wilhelm waited another moment, and when they said nothing, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. Then he tried to speak again, "I like French language. Its elegant pronunciation and its pleasant rhythm make it a pleasant language to hear and speak."

Their silence remained unbroken. It was a testament to the bitterness of the occupation. Wilhelm understood. He sensed the deep-seated resentment. He didn't want to intrude further, bid them goodnight and leave.

"I don't need flattery from the Germans. All I want them out of France!" Jeanne said, her voice laced with contempt.