In the Fall They Leave, page 13
“People not accustomed to lying,” the matron finally says, “often don’t do it well. I am sorry to have involved you, my dear. I will ask Père Maarten to come see you. But for now, let us analyze the doctor’s threat.”
Her reasoning makes sense. Jacques is young and strong, muscular from his years of soccer training. Germany needs workers in their munition factories and other facilities. They are a pragmatic people and won’t squander healthy young men who might otherwise be useful to the state. Jacques speaks excellent German. They will like him at one of those factories. He’s an intelligent boy as well and no doubt handsome. A woman who has lost a son to the army will be only too willing to take him in and mother him, making him good hearty meals. “The factory manager’s wife, for example. It’s possible. It’s even likely. If in fact he is a prisoner of war—and the doctor in no way substantiated that—this scenario is far more likely, I think, than any wasteful execution. And if he is not a prisoner, then there are other possibilities to consider. He may, at this moment, be in a farmhouse, being cared for by some good Belgian woman. Or he may be back with his unit. We cannot know for certain. Reality, I’m finding, is so much more complex than we can possibly imagine.”
Words eerily recalling the doctor’s own when she told him about Janine and Elli. Yet Marie-Thérèse drinks in those words. Those possibilities. That hope.
“He mentioned a birthmark to the right of the spine.”
“Do you remember such a birthmark?”
“Only vaguely.”
“Then you cannot say if it is to the right or left of the spine or if it’s even there?”
“I do recall a faint smudge, I think.”
“Birthmarks are rather common.”
“Do you mean that it’s like with a fortune teller who says things that are readily known or generally possible?”
“Something like that, yes. Stating an exact detail gives it a sense of authenticity. Liars use that tactic, I’ve found. And, so, he gives you an exact number of bullet wounds.”
“I didn’t think about any of that, Matron. I didn’t consider all the possibilities. I just assumed he had specific information.”
“How could you have thought about any of it, in the moment? The doctor is intimidating. He exudes authority. And honest people, I’ve also found, tend to trust what is told to them, especially by one who is a doctor of medicine. Skepticism is not their first reaction.”
Marie-Thérèse is aware that the matron is not trying to assure her that all will be well.
While recovering, she misses the following week’s review. She feels safe in the private room, protected by its closed door, its shifting sunlight. Gauthier visits, bringing soup and bread. It takes several small meals before Marie-Thérèse can savor the taste of food. One afternoon Gauthier arrives before the dinner hour, Elli at her side and in her arms, Janine. The small child opens her arms and Marie-Thérèse reaches for her. Then she’s speaking French into her hair, telling her what a good girl she is and how happy she is to see both her and Elli, and how fine it is that they came to visit. Elli climbs in beside them, under the coverlet. Gauthier leaves, saying she’ll return later for the children. Marie-Thérèse thanks St. Gudule that she is alive. That she hadn’t killed herself with The Queen of All Poisons—or by any other means. The girls meld themselves to her, and they soon fall asleep there, in the sunlight.
Reparation
Observing Père Maarten entering the room stiffly, carefully, as if trying to favor every painful joint, tells her that the poor man is arthritic. The priest is also breathing hard, after his climb up three flights of stairs. His bunched cheeks and eyes appear to be smiling as he wishes her good afternoon. With effort he sits in the room’s one wooden chair, positioned to face the bed, and then takes a long time with the clasp of his satchel. Finally, he lifts out the purple stole of the confessional, unfolds it, and lowers his head to place it around his neck. Then the satchel must be placed with care on the floor, next to the chair. All that completed, he straightens the stole so that its panels lie flat. Finally, he removes his beret and has to lean down again to place it atop the satchel. Then, at last fully upright in the chair, he smiles and says in French, “When you are ready, mademoiselle.” He appears prepared, now, to wait all afternoon if necessary.
Whispering the words, she makes the Sign of the Cross, and then rushes into the next words: the betrayal, her hatred of the doctor, her entertaining ideas of murder and suicide. It seems to take a long time; in actuality only a minute or two. In the ensuing silence, he sits there, head still lowered, in case she wishes to continue. But there are no more words to be said. The terrible words filling her for weeks are gone.
He takes a deep breath as he raises his head. There are the bunched cheeks, the somewhat small eyes, and emanating from his rotundness, a sense of peace. He begins by talking about forgiveness and how, as imperfect beings, we shouldn’t think we are above making mistakes. God understands our failings as well as our desire to do good and avoid evil. He knows we will fail, on our journey. Didn’t He fall three times on His way to Calvary? The weight of one’s cross is heavy sometimes, too heavy, and we fall, we fail. Yet there will be others to help us, as with Simon of Cyrene. The important thing is to get up and keep on.
He continues speaking, but other words have snagged her attention: we fall, we fail, the important thing is to keep on. Finally, she’s whispering the Act of Contrition and then hears him saying, “Absolve in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti” as he makes the Sign of the Cross in the space between them. Then he sighs as he leans back and lowers his head again.
“Merci, Father.”
She thinks he has fallen asleep.
After a while she says, “Father? You haven’t given me any penance.”
His head comes up. “Ah. I was just thinking. Please say a decade of the Rosary, any one of the Sorrowful Mysteries. And…” Again, a lengthy pause. “Finish every meal served in your dining room, which, given all the rationing, may well be a substantial punishment.” He smiles—the eyes, the round cheeks, everything about him, pleased with this solution to the penitential requirement. Then he removes the purple stole and goes through all the previous motions, only in reverse, and with as much care as before. Finally, holding the satchel in his left hand, he uses his right to propel himself upward, off the chair.
“God bless you, my child,” he says from the doorway and makes the Sign of the Cross again. Then lets himself out of the room, quietly.
She imagines him holding on to the banister and taking the steps slowly.
An idea forms, an incredible, terrifying, yet exhilarating thought, even if it does mean she will have to make another confession.
The next morning, soon after Gauthier brought in the breakfast tray and then wouldn’t let Marie-Thérèse eat right away because Gauthier needed to take vitals and lecture her about not eating, the door suddenly opens without any respectful knock and there he is. White coat. Wet-looking, combed-back hair, the brown peninsula at the forehead, the brocade of perspiration at the hairline, the sharp wedge of goatee, and an accusatory assessment of room, breakfast tray, recumbent patient. Gauthier excuses herself.
He studies the chart and then replaces it. “You must be feeling better, Student-nurse Hulbert. You have regained weight, are able to walk without assistance, and no longer experience blackouts. I’m pleased by this progress. We need you back. You are a valuable asset. The clinic is egregiously understaffed.”
Her jaw and mouth are shaking.
“Have you lost your tongue, though, in the process of recovering other functions?”
He hasn’t availed himself of the chair. Instead, he stands at the foot of the bed, holding her chart.
“Nein, Herr Doktor. I was just now asking myself if I should tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“And apologize.”
“What have you done? Apart from getting ill and causing others to have to take up the slack.”
“I made up information. In my reports. I was so frightened because I observed nothing out of the ordinary but knew I had to say something. I wanted to save my brother. There was no branch of oak leaves, sir. There was no lady in the park or chauffeured automobile or woman in a Salvation Army uniform. None of it was true. I have to confess something else as well. Everyone here is lying to you. I am sorry to tell you this, but it’s true. Everyone is afraid of you. You are a person of great authority, and everyone is afraid. Even Charlotte, our permanent resident patient. You are obviously aware of how she suffers from excitability and nervousness and occasional delusions. Even she has said how frightened of you she is. Whatever she may be telling you is probably one of her delusions. She revealed as much when some of us were knitting two weeks ago. It was a Friday, we were in our sitting room downstairs, and she just burst in on us. You might have heard how we’ve been making gifts for the children of our neighborhood? We do this in the months before our Christmas party for families. Well, when Charlotte described her fear of you, everyone else agreed. Several nurses said that they were creating little fictions for you. I am sorry to have to tell you this.”
“Who was it that said they were making up these fictions?”
“I cannot say.”
“Or won’t.”
“In every school I attended we had a code not to tattle on one another unless someone was getting hurt.”
“So, you do not want to tattle on your matron either, I assume.”
“I think…If I knew she was doing something potentially treasonous or in fact treasonous, I would tell you. That is a serious crime. But I saw her doing nothing wrong, nothing that she should not have been doing, nothing even the least suspicious.”
“Yet you made some very definite statements.”
“They were lies.”
“You dared lie to me?”
“Yes. Because I saw nothing. Because of what you said about my brother I had to tell you something.”
“You know, now, that these words seal your brother’s fate unless you can give me information that is not a lie?”
“I will have to make up more things, then, because, truly, there is nothing to tell. And by the way, there are young women at this school who are very good at lying. You wouldn’t think so, this being a nursing school and most of us Catholic young women. But you might be surprised to know what a group of girls in a confined setting are capable of, Catholic or not. There’s quite a bit of meanness to contend with. And competitiveness and jockeying for favor. Even, at times, small acts of sabotage, such as assignments actually being stolen or hidden or—and this happens often—the instruments and items needed for a practical demonstration put out of order or even tucked away somewhere the night before a student has to demonstrate in front of a sister. I don’t know what it was like at your medical schools but here, well, it’s difficult at times. One reason I decided to tell you all this is so that you won’t get in trouble for your reports and be punished for fabricating. You have such a fine reputation. We were all astounded when you stated your credentials. We thought you should be in a much better hospital than our little clinic. As for us, well, the students talk about you a lot…whether or not you’re married, whether or not you could ever be interested romantically in a lowly student. Some of the students here pride themselves on their beauty and of course have designs on you and want to please you at every turn. So, yes, most everyone here is lying. If not everyone. Even the sisters, I suspect, if you asked them to spy too.”
“Are you lying to me now?”
“No. But that’s why I became ill. I’m not a liar and never have been, and after I wrote those things, I couldn’t eat. I was vomiting after nearly every meal. I confessed everything to a priest yesterday, and this is the reparation I must make…telling you the truth. Also, telling you that I cannot lie anymore. And won’t. I realize you have Jacques in your power. This pains me more than I can say. You may have a brother or sister and so can understand. I prayed about this after I made my confession. I prayed that maybe Germany won’t execute my brother after all. He would be a good worker for the Fatherland.”
He raises her chart and rereads it. His face is abnormally flushed when he looks up. “Student-nurse Hulbert, you are walking well on your own. You are finishing your meals. Your recovery appears complete. I am suspending you from the school for three weeks. This will be a serious blot on your permanent record. When you return, if you do, I will let you know my final decision as to your fate. Good day.”
The door shuts before she can say for telling the truth?
Home
The rue Belliard Stratt looks unchanged except for a lack of flowers in window boxes. The front facade of her house is not damaged. The window glazing intact. The large stone urns on either side of the door are still there, ready for new soil and spring planting. She sets her valise and box of books down and finds her key. But the pressure she exerts inserting it causes the door to swing inward of its own accord.
What she sees makes no sense. As she stares at the incomprehensible scene, details detach themselves and slowly resolve into meaning. The hall’s black-and-white marble tiles are gone, except for a few shards. Much of the subflooring has been torn away. One wall has been stripped of its mirror, and regularly spaced holes in the plaster indicate where electric fixtures once were. The chandelier is gone. The stairway’s banister and newel post. Many of the steps. And the carpet runner and brass rods.
While ill, she indulged a fantasy that she’d find Jacques hiding at their home, and she castigated herself for not having thought of it sooner and gone to check.
“Jacques?” she calls.
The silence begins to thrum.
“Jacques?”
Again, nothing.
“Jacques, it’s Marie-Thérèse. Please don’t be afraid. I’m alone.”
She closes the door behind her, but that dims the light. Bracing one hand against a wall for balance, she negotiates the unstable flooring by sliding along a ten-centimeter-wide floor joist. Could her family have taken everything? An absurd thought. They wouldn’t have ripped up the tiles and torn away the wall sconces. They left in a hurry to search for Jacques. The dining room, she sees, has been emptied of everything, including light fixtures and chandelier.
Theft. Not vandalism. Someone or several people taking everything of use—to sell or keep or burn for warmth. In her father’s library, his sets of Shakespeare, Molière, Dickens, and Maupassant, gone. His Latin classics. All his books. And the shelves, tables, desk, rug, lamps, and his chair. The window broken and cleared of glass. They must have gotten in that way, from the garden, she thinks, and then possibly carried things out the front door. Who would stop them, this being a German residence? Dank air blows in from the window opening. Water stains scribble the wall. The room’s door, too, has been taken, and much of its subflooring.
“Jacques?” she calls again. “It’s Marie-Thérèse. Are you in the cellar? I don’t know if I can get down there. Answer me, please.” Listening hard, she hears only the scratching of a few dry leaves, or mice. Balancing on floor joists, she makes her way to the music room. There, no sheet music cases, no lamps, sconces, or chairs. No ceiling or floor molding. The piano, her piano, is gone. She closes her eyes. How had they gotten it out? With care? Removing the upper part and properly taking that out first, wrapped in blankets and upended on a trundle? It was worth a great deal of money. Had they sold it? Who would have purchased it? Who had money for luxuries now? The answer comes. The occupiers.
She opens her eyes and prepares to turn around and follow the floor joist to other rooms, but something on the floor of the music room catches her eye, an object glinting. She crosses to another lateral joist and strains her eyes. Wires. Copper wires. And scraps of felt. And splinters of the piano’s white mallets. And then something else—the Bösendorfer’s massive cast-iron plate, half-fallen through the floor. That, they obviously hadn’t been able to extract from whatever was holding it suspended there.
Nausea rises as the scene leaps to life in imagination. Men smashing the Bösendorfer apart for its wood. The heavy plate falling and wires pulling away. If Jacques had been somewhere in the house when they came, he would have fled. Or, had he confronted and… She refuses to allow the thought. No. He hadn’t been there. Or if so, had fled at the first sound. They hadn’t trapped him in the cellar. He had run.
Mon Dieu.
She steps to the next joist and reaches the doorway.
He ran and was shot in the garden.
Floorboards creak. She grips the doorframe as blood beats at her temples.
A man is creeping along the hallway toward her. She ducks behind the doorway but peers out.
He has a bundle under his left arm and is negotiating the treacherous floor as she had, right hand braced against the wall, his eyes on his footing. She sees that his cap is pulled low over his forehead. He has a beard. His jacket and trousers are brown, the shirt once white. A dirty cloth is wound around his neck. As he nears the music room, she steps into the open without loosening her hold on the doorframe. “Sir,” she says quietly, though everything within her is crying Fool! His head jerks up. He all but loses his balance. He is not, she sees, Jacques. His free hand goes to his right pocket.
“Sir, if you have a gun, there is no need. You are welcome here. This was once my home.”
His hand reaches for the wall again as he stares at her.
