Chapter Text
Jacques had been gone for nearly three months. Claire had grown accustomed to sleeping with someone in her bed, and so for the last several months, she had hardly slept well at all. It wasn’t only because she missed her husband’s presence, it was mostly because she was trying not to imagine the worst happening.
In such a short time, so much had changed already.
Life in the village had shifted too. Some people were afraid, others hopeful. Some had packed up and left for Paris or to foreign countries. Barely any news had come out since the men had left and war had been declared. No matter how many times Claire sat by the radio to grasp the littlest thing.
Food was still plenty but it’d be a matter of time before they would have to start rationing. Listening to what Jacques had suggested before leaving, she gathered all the vegetables from their garden and preserved them for the impending winter.
December would arrive, bringing along the cold and most certainly, the snow. Thankfully, Claire’s education with Uncle Lamb had forged her to live in the most uncomfortable situations. And she had a talent for chopping wood like no other.
Most of the men of the village had been drafted, except for the elderly or people like Joe, who had been crippled by a car accident in his youth and carried himself with a cane. Gaëlle was starting to show, the pregnancy going well even in those uncertain times. The baby was the little glimmer of hope in the Rosenberg’s household. Being a witness to such a thing helped Claire more than she cared to admit.
When Claire woke up that morning, she felt very cold. The summer had long gone, leaving autumn that seemed gloomy and morose — much like the morale around Montoire. It rained a lot, the wind never ceased.
However, that morning, the sky was blue and the sun was shining again.
It was an odd feeling to realise nature didn’t care about what was happening in the World. War or not, the sun would come up and shine. No matter how crisp the air might be.
Like every morning, Claire got up, wrapped in a plaid. She made her way down to the kitchen to make some tea and eat a toast. It was the last of her loaf and she made a mental note to go to the bakery, later that day. She turned on the radio and stared at her garden, watching the yellow of the leaves that used to be a vibrant green.
Her mind was clogged with thoughts of Jacques and what he might be doing. How he might be feeling? His last letter had arrived three weeks ago. Hopefully, a new one would arrive soon and ease her worries. Even so slightly. She had news of her uncle, who was still in London. Lamb was preparing to leave for Cairo as soon as he could but he proved to be difficult when the British Museum kept asking for his expertise, even during wartime.
Lambert was in high spirits, however, in his last letter. He had gone through one war, this one wasn’t scaring him much more, he had said.
The knock that came at the door made her jump slightly, still lost in her thoughts of what tomorrow might bring, it felt like a rude awakening. She quickly let the kettle boiling and went to answer the door to find a smiling Gäelle looking at her.
“Oh hello there,” she smiled warmly at the sight of her friend, glowing with life.
“I’m sorry to come in so early,” Gaëlle apologized, resting her hand on her burgeoning stomach.
“I was headed to the village and I thought you might want to accompany me? I need some bread for the week.”
“Come in a minute,” Claire stepped aside to let her in. “I’ll get quickly dressed and we can head off! I need bread too.”
“Do you want some tea? I was making myself a cuppa.” Claire pointed to the kitchen, ignoring the fact she was sleeping in her husband’s flannel pyjamas. The look finished by a pair of thick woollen socks uncle Lamb had bought her for Christmas, a couple of years ago.
“Yes, I suppose we’re not in a rush,” her friend smiled, following her towards the large kitchen.
“It’s such a beautiful day outside,” Claire remarked, taking the whistling kettle from the stove. She poured some water in the teapot before adding early grey. Briefly, she wondered how much longer she’ll be able to get some.
“It is! Bit cold but lovely, nonetheless. It’s nice to see the sun,” Gäelle smiled absently, sitting down.
“Right,” she agreed, pouring the tea in two cups and sitting down at the table. “Careful, it’s boiling.”
“Thank you,” the other woman smiled again, taking the cup carefully. “How are you doing?”
“I should be the one asking you that,” Claire smiled, taking a sip of her drink. She burned the tip of her tongue but ignored the slight pain.
“Well, I’m fine, still sick in the morning but fine. I meant…how are you holding up with Jacques gone?”
“Oh,” Claire paused, still trying to hide how she was truly feeling.
“It’s not very ideal but there’s nothing we can do about it except wait. Hopefully, this stupid war will be over soon and Jacques will come in running through the front door.”
“Do you think it’ll keep going for very long? Nothing seems to be happening, anyway. And Maréchal Pétain keeps reassuring everyone —”
“Exactly.” Claire forced a smile, trying to convince herself.
“All talk and no action. It’ll be over in a month, I bet. Two, at worse.”
“You know…I feel like Joe is almost sad he’s not been drafted,” Gaëlle admitted, her eyes not meeting Claire’s. “He feels like some inadequate man with a cane who can’t fight for his own country.”
“There’s no fight going on, as of right now. He’s lucky he’s home with you and the baby,” Claire smiled softly. If only Jacques would be home.
“That’s what I remind him every day but you know how men are.” She sighed, shaking her head.
Nodding, Claire couldn’t prevent the tear from escaping her eyes. Something her friend caught, “Oh Claire, don’t. Jacques will be home before you know it.” She took her hand and squeezed it in sympathy.
“I’m sorry. Of course, he will,” she forced another smile, wiping the tear. “I’ll go and get dressed so we can leave.”
Getting up, she took her cup with her and disappeared from the kitchen to go upstairs. Unguarded and hidden from her friend, she let the tears roam free as she got dressed. Tears of fear about what was happening. What would happen? And all the people that would be lost. No matter how many times Claire tried to convince herself — or others — that the war would be over without a fuss, deep down, she knew it wouldn’t be the case.
*******
“What do you have left, madame Morrin?” Claire inquired, carefully studying the counter of the bakery. It was relatively early so most of the things were still there, though the selection had reduced since the war had started.
“Whatever your heart desires, ma chère.”
“Give me two loaves and two pain of chocolat, please,” she asked, looking in her purse for some money.
Claire wasn’t too worried about this aspect of her life. Finances were relatively fine with her job at the library and her parents’ inheritance, safely guarded at the bank. She could go through tough times if though times didn’t last ten years.
“Voila,” the older lady handed her the bag quickly, taking the money in return.
Since Jacques had left, the little respect the people had gathered for Claire seemed to have evaporated all over again. She knew she was an outsider, someone that truly didn’t belong in the small French village, and she couldn’t go a day without being reminded of it.
She often wondered what it was that made her say yes to Jacques in the first place. Moving to France and starting a new life with him. Maybe it was because he was the first person to ask her to marry him, to tell her that he loved her. Claire loved her husband, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing — it always had been missing.
Stuffing the wrapped loaves into her bag, she walked out of the shop. She stood outside on the sidewalk, waiting for Gäelle and took a deep breath. From the outside, the village looked unchanged. But when one took a closer look, they would find that small shops had been closed up, along with houses left unoccupied. It was little details like this that Claire would always remember — when everything finally changed for the worse.
Gäelle came out of the bakery a few moments later and the two women fell into stride, walking at a slow pace.
“I wonder how much longer we will actually have enough bread to buy,” Claire said absently. “I’ve heard women in the village talking about rations and how it’s just a matter of time.”
“I suppose it will happen soon,” Gäelle nodded, one hand resting on her stomach. “The butcher’s has already cut back. I expect everyone else to as well.”
“Then I better savour this pain au chocolat,” Claire smiled softly at her friend.
There was something different about the air around them — somehow it felt charged, almost electric. Claire looked up at the sky, but only saw blue and a few white fluffy clouds. There were others on the street walking with them, refugees that had left their towns in search of a better place. The Germans were coming, and Claire only hoped they would leave their quiet village alone.
Claire was about to ask Gäelle about her pregnancy when a loud sound cut her off. She turned her head to the right to see a fountain of dirt in the air.
An explosion.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!”
“What’s going on?” Gäelle gasped and bumped into Claire.
To her left, another bomb dropped and that’s when Claire saw them. Planes in the air — german planes. All around them, people started running in all directions, looking for safety in a field where nothing could cover them.
“Come!” Clarie grabbed Gäelle’s hand and they ran as fast as they could towards a tall tree; it was the only thing nearby that offered any protection. Claire’s heart was beating out of her chest and in her ears. Screams filled the air, as did the roaring from the planes above. She knew they probably shouldn’t stay in one place, but Gäelle was pregnant and they could only get so far.
The two women crouched down and covered their heads, waiting for the storm to pass. There was a ringing in Claire’s ears, and a taste of dirt in her mouth, smoke everywhere. What could have been minutes or hours later, Claire looked up to see what was once a beautiful field of grain, now a burial ground. She thought her vision was deceiving her.
Bodies lay scattered around them, and Claire stood shakily, her knees wobbling as she tried not to vomit. They’d just been bombed, and the smell of death lingered in the air. Claire turned back to Gäelle and helped her to her feet, checking to see if she was okay before walking out beside the dirt road.
She had to take a step back almost immediately or else she would have been hit by a passing car. It honked to get people to move, and then several more cars followed, and then finally tanks.
“Oh God,” Gäelle whispered, grabbing her hand. “They’ve arrived, haven’t they?”
“And they’ve made quite the entrance,” Claire said, still shocked by the last several minutes. She felt a sickening feeling in her stomach but did her best to ignore it.
There was a strangled cry behind her, and she turned to see an older gentleman lying on the ground, covered in his own blood. She ran to him, and knelt, grabbing his hand.
“Monsieur,” Claire said softly and felt for a pulse. It was beating slowly, and the man was very cold. Her eyes trailed down his body, and that’s when she saw the wound — his leg had been blown clean off.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said soothingly and squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be okay, help is on the way.” She had no idea if help was coming at all, but it felt like the right thing to say to this dying man.
Gäelle stood watching, her arms crossed protectively over her belly and she was crying. Claire knew there was nothing she could do to save this man. She’d never felt more helpless in all her life. If this was how it was going to be — bombs and death and germans taking over — it was then that she realized it was going to be a long bloody war.
Suddenly, the man’s grip on her hand loosened and he went slack and the moans left his lips for the last time. Claire wasn’t very religious, but she sent up a prayer, crossed her chest and folded the man’s hand over his heart. There was no point in trying to move his body because she didn’t know what she would do with him. She removed her scarf and covered him with it, trying to bring him one last spur of dignity, given the situation.
Returning to Gäelle, she grabbed her hand, not caring about the blood that now smeared on her clothes. The cars were still coming one after the other and it took everything in Claire not to run out in front of one — whether to be hit and die or to try and stop them, she didn’t know.
The cars came to a halt, as up ahead they had to navigate around a fallen tree. Claire looked at one of the cars and met a pair of bright blue eyes. The blue eyes belonged to a man sitting in the passenger seat, with bright red hair peeking out of his hat. She thought she saw him smile at her before the car began moving again.
*******
Claire couldn’t shake off the feelings of what had happened earlier in the day. She could still smell the smoke clogging at her throat and hear the explosions ringing in her ears. She couldn’t remove the image of the lifeless bodies all around her. But most of all, she couldn’t shake off the feelings of those blue eyes locking with hers.
The Germans had arrived to occupy the village. From this day forward, nothing would be the same. It meant the war had truly begun. With most of the men gone from the village, the German soldiers were going to be free to do as they pleased, knowing the fear they bestowed upon the habitants of Montoire.
Usually, a bath had the power to calm Claire down but tonight, it only seemed to make everything worse. How much longer will warm water be available? Or water, at all? How much longer normality — routines and mundane things —would not seem to be forced activities to try and maintain some decency? She was afraid to find out the answers.
Afraid of the unknown. Something she used to relish in. She never wanted to know what tomorrow would bring and now, she was desperate for it. Everyone was expected to go on with their lives as if nothing was happening. To show up at work, make conversations, or simply live.
It was impossible.
Now the prospect of seeing Jacques come home seemed to grow fainter with each passing minute. She wasn’t very confident it would improve anytime soon.
Gaëlle had been shaken by the events as they make their way back home and since the explosions, more people from the village had packed up and started to flee towards parts that were not yet occupied. How long would it last? Only God knew, and even that, Claire wasn’t so sure.
The water started to get cold but Claire couldn’t bring herself to get out, just yet. As if staying in the bath had frozen time and she couldn’t pretend nothing had changed. Nothing was happening. She would have stayed in the water forever if she could have. If it meant whatever was happening outside wasn’t real.
But it was.
Deciding to go and write Jacques a letter about the events of the day, Claire got out and dried her body, shivering slightly. She grabbed her bathrobe and put it on, along with the woollen socks.
She followed the heat down the stairs and grabbed some paper and a pen before sitting at the table, in front of the fireplace. The warmth was a welcome companion as she wrote, trying to articulate her feelings and the horrendous things that happened in the early afternoon. She was almost done with a third page when a knock came at the door.
It was late, and the only person she could think that would come to her at this hour was Gäelle. Claire stood up, tying the robe tight around her body and walked to answer the door. When she opened it, the person standing before her was not her best friend.
“Madame,” said a tall man with a thick Scottish accent. “I’ve been billeted wi’ ye. Ye have a verra nice home.”
“What?” Was all that Claire could manage and then she looked into his eyes and saw blue.
The same blue from earlier. A blue she found herself drowning in, unable to escape.
His stature should have scared her. His german uniform as well. But the goosebumps erupting all over her skin had nothing to do with fears. Or not as much as she tried to convince herself it did, anyway.
“Captain James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, madame.”