In the Fall They Leave, page 24
A distant voice begins speaking.
Her name is spoken. Then, garden, dogs.
There’s laughter and her name again followed by, Who was she?
Body and mind have entered some stasis. The words are so far away. Get her some. Ja, Herr Mayer.
Brandy burns through the numbness. Thought begins assembling.
“Who was she, Fräulein Hulbert?”
The room is a room again. The disembodied voice finds its source. Otto Mayer. His mustache bulky, hiding his mouth. A small circular pin on the left lapel.
“Sister Clara Gauthier.” Saying the words causes her head to throb and eyes sting.
“That is correct. And you were recreating there.”
“Yes.”
“Taking a much-needed break at eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you rise that morning?”
“Six, sir.”
“So then, two hours later you needed a rest from your arduous efforts?” The complicated response this demands is beyond her. She nods. “I take that as a yes. Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know that someone saw you in your matron’s office just prior to your playing with the dogs?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you tell us what you were doing there?”
A young woman in military uniform holds a black pen poised over a notebook. She’s blond. Her eyebrows are the thinnest of pencil strokes forming half circles, which make her look permanently astonished. Marie-Thérèse has to pull her gaze away and concentrate on the question.
“No one…is allowed unless…invited.”
“But that is not what Clara Gauthier says. She says you were there. Tell us what you were doing in the office.”
“We were…in the garden. Sir.”
His clasped hands rest atop a file. “You are lying, Fräulein Hulbert. Do you know that you can be imprisoned for many years, if not worse, for treasonous activities?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So then?”
“Only in the garden, sir.”
“That is a lie. Tell me about the matron. What kind of woman is she?”
“A good person.”
“A good person who serves her country?”
“She obeys the law.”
“She takes good care of her patients?”
“Yes, sir.”
And her Belgian patients?”
“We have Belgian…civilians. Also, German soldiers.”
“Second Lieutenant Fischer was one. He spoke well of you. Do you know where he is?”
“No, sir.”
“Has he tried to contact you?”
“No, sir.”
“He disappeared from the clinic some days ago, did he not?”
“I did not see him go.”
“Without being discharged?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it because you were gone as well for a time? I have already been informed of this, so no need for further lying, Fräulein.”
“I was going to visit my family but felt unwell and returned.”
“Do you have travel papers to prove this?”
“No, sir. I did not keep them.”
Mayer motions a deputy close and whispers.
“And, therefore, you did not visit your family?”
“No, sir.”
“How did you travel to Antwerp?”
“Farm cart. To save money.”
“How frugal. Can you prove this?”
“No, sir. A soldier just killed the man who took me there.”
Mayer motions the deputy close again, and then the deputy leaves the room. Her eyelids are burning.
“Fräulein Hulbert, your father is German, and your mother French-Belgian. Has this ever caused you to question your loyalties?”
“No, sir.”
“You speak excellent German. You spoke German at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father is an ophthalmologist now living in the Netherlands. Why did he choose to move there last year?”
“There was…vandalism here. And many of his patients left him.”
He opened the file. “I see that you have two younger brothers. Where are they?”
“One is in the Netherlands. The other…we are not sure.”
“Why are they not serving the Fatherland?”
“One is fourteen. The missing boy is sixteen.”
“Sixteen is not too young. Many young men that age have been serving. Has he gone to join the Allies?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“And I should believe you. Tell me about your activities at the clinic.”
The man is fading in and out of focus. In her lap she grips her hands, which seem coated in hardening varnish. “Work in wards. Lectures. Study. Examinations.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There were two children at the clinic. Do you know where they are now?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think they may be in the garden, playing with the dogs?”
The laughter is too loud. “I don’t know.”
“Well, perhaps we can find them. Would you like that? To be reunited? I’ve heard that you are quite fond of them.”
St. Gudule, help them.
“I beg you to understand, Fräulein Hulbert, that we have incriminating evidence against your matron and against you. She is a traitor to Germany, and you may be held culpable as well. By telling us what you know concerning her activities, all of her activities, you will exonerate yourself. If you do this, you will be free to leave after our conversation this morning. You will be free to reunite with those two children and live your life. I personally guarantee this. No harm will come to you, or to the children. My secretary is writing my words down as part of the official transcript of this interview. Do you understand that no harm will come to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Otherwise, the children may be questioned and sent to Germany. Would you like that?”
“I would prefer…they reunite with their family here.”
“How old are you?”
How old?
“Your age, Fräulein?”
“Nearly twenty, sir.”
“So, all the better. You will be free to celebrate your twentieth birthday with those two children and have a long and useful life. Otherwise, I am sorry to say that by withholding information from us, you will be tried as an enemy collaborator and if found guilty may be put to death. Do you understand?”
He’s receding out of focus again. Think: he is only asking if you understand.
“I do, yes.”
“Good. Now, what can you tell me about Matron Cavell’s treasonous activities?”
She forbids herself to avert her eyes. “Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing? What if I told you she confessed everything? I will give you one chance to revise your answer, Fräulein. Your matron has confessed. Now it is imperative that we learn everything about her secret operation so that no one escapes justice. She implicated you, by the way. I will give you just this one chance to extricate yourself.”
She confessed?
Bands of color pulse over the table.
“I can tell you…nothing more.”
“How stubborn. And stupid. I am sorry, Fräulein Hulbert, but you are a stupid, stupid young woman. Take her to the prison.”
What Might Chekhov Make of It?
She wishes she had taken the time to put on her apron that day, with Private Schalk’s piece of driftwood. She wishes she had his letter that describes snow clouds and seagulls. Yet she has her own story to tell herself even though it isn’t “very nice,” to use Private Schalk’s words. But she doesn’t want to think of the gardener’s pigeons and what might have become of them. She doesn’t want to think of Jackie and Donnie. And often, not even of the girls. Or her family. Or the matron. And especially not of Rudi. Some days she leaves out so many scenes her life seems all but vanished.
At times she wonders what Chekhov might make of it. With so many of his characters, there’s no fulfillment, in either love or aspiration. There’s just the small doing, day after day. And the small and large hopes—and failures. And the not knowing. And the futile waiting. And longing. Her former hopes strike her as naive delusions. Concert pianist! A nurse as capable as the matron! Her failures, the true reality.
Yet something inexplicable causes her to resist despair. She paces her cell for exercise. She cleans her sink as best she can, using cold water from its one tap. She illicitly uses the French language if she’s sure the person bringing the daily coffee and bread, the watery stew, the dry cheese is Monica. When she lies down to sleep, she sometimes allows herself to imagine the girls there, in their own beds. She tells them how much she loves them and then falls asleep bathed in a sensation of pure love.
But the next day it all starts again, the morning’s thin coffee and bread, noon’s watery stew or potato and cup of beer, and evening’s hard cheese and bread she always savors, for it means life.
One day in the unvaried flow of them, she comes to the conclusion that not everyone can live a grand and important life, but everyone can live a small and nonetheless noble one through resistance—to despair, especially, and to the occupiers. Most of the time, particularly when she recalls the gardener’s determination and courage, she believes this. And it helps her plan her final day. When they come to take her to the place of execution, she will walk on her own without sobbing. And wherever they order her to stand, she will stand and observe them until they blindfold her. A harder thing—and she might not be able to do this—will be to forgive them. But she will ask forgiveness of everyone she has hurt, particularly her mother. And the matron.
Herr Richter has a pleasant voice in the tenor range, a broad face with shallow pits, and closely cut brown hair but a flounced mustache like Otto Mayer’s. And so, Marie-Thérèse is on guard.
“You must believe me,” he begins, “she confessed everything. And they found a postcard from England written by an Allied officer she had helped. I want to assure you of this so that you do not foolishly withhold information, thinking you will be harming her. That is not the case, Fräulein. By withholding information, you will be harming only yourself. You will not betray her by speaking to us. She has betrayed all of you.”
There are no hints of green to muddy the clear brown of his eyes, and no eyeglasses to guard them. What if he is telling the truth? Yet why were they supposedly giving her another chance when Mayer said there would be no other chances? She grips her hands in her lap, over the crusted bloodstains on her uniform skirt. The man is sitting directly in front of her, on a wooden chair that was brought in for him. “Of course, she is British,” he continues. “And it stands to reason that she would want to help her countrymen and their allies. I can sympathize…to a degree. As she saw it, she was being patriotic, and one respects patriotism. Also, loyalty. But her patriotism and loyalty conflicted with German law. You do see this, Fräulein Hulbert?”
“She is a principled woman.”
His eyes narrow somewhat. She senses his quandary—be stern and reprimand or continue to mimic kindness. “Execution by firing squad, Fräulein. That is the punishment for any treasonous activity. The authorities make it quite clear. Possibly you were so occupied with your work that you were not aware of the gravity of the situation. Tell me. Was that the case?”
“I was aware of that law, but she did nothing wrong. Nor did I.”
“Germany makes no exceptions for status. A crime is a crime. And she confessed.”
Marie-Thérèse doesn’t want to believe this. Everything in her revolts against believing it. “She is a nurse who is…on the side of life.”
“That’s admirable, even noble. But in war, certain rules take precedence as a matter of necessity. Surely you see this.”
“Was it a matter of necessity for Germany to invade a neutral country?”
“It was. We needed to get to France as soon as possible. Unfortunately, your country resisted, so really, Belgium is wholly responsible for all that ensued.”
“What had France done to provoke such an attack?”
“Fräulein Hulbert, I would rather spend our limited time discussing your precarious situation. I understand that you are German, yes?”
“My father is of German descent; my mother, French; but actually we are Belgians.”
“And you have been a student of nursing for how long?”
“Three years.”
“Quite a while, then. Here is my thought. As a student nurse you were required to follow orders. That is obviously an important part of your instruction. Lives depend on your carrying out orders exactly. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So then there is a parallel with the military, a parallel that may be useful in your defense. Do you see it?”
“Have they sent you here to be my lawyer?”
“They have.”
“And not an interrogator?”
“You already have been interrogated and we have your testimony, such as it is. It will not help you at the tribunal. If you tell us nothing, you will suffer your matron’s fate should the tribunal find her guilty. You will face a firing squad.”
“But if she told you everything, won’t this cause her sentence to be reduced?”
“She was following no one’s orders but her own, in violation of the law. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty. My birthday was a short while ago, I think. I’ve lost track of the days.”
“Then you were nineteen years old during the time you carried out her treasonous orders. The tribunal will take that into consideration in addition to the context of your behavior. You were a student following instructions. I may be able to save you with this defense, Fräulein, but you must help me by telling me everything. Did you secretly nurse wounded Allied soldiers? Did you conspire with others to smuggle them into the Netherlands? These are the charges against you. Both are treasonous offenses. We have testimony that incriminates you. I propose to argue your age and your innocence, provided you tell me everything that you and others at the clinic did.”
“I am innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong. You may say that.”
He fixes her in a stare. “I need to know everything if I am to defend you. Others will be hoping for reduced sentences by telling everything they know. In fact, many already have.”
“How reliable is that information when given by someone who hopes for a reduced sentence?”
“A good question. But we have ways of checking.” He strokes his mustache with two fingers. “You are…let me put this delicately…a beautiful young woman whom I truly wish to help.” He lowers his eyes then looks at her again and resumes his official tone. “Your death will be a waste. A sheer waste of skill and knowledge. And of life. Your life. Why should you sacrifice all that out of some sense of misplaced loyalty? No one, let me stress, is being loyal to you.”
“In the fall they leave, the birds.”
“What do you mean by that, Fräulein?”
“It’s just a saying.”
“And its relevance?”
“It may have none.”
He stands. She does as well, though more slowly.
“Have me called, Fräulein Hulbert, if you change your mind.”
He raps knuckles against the cell door but then turns. “You have a good writing table there. I will see to it that you have paper and pen if you promise you will not endanger yourself with the pen.”
She assures him that she won’t endanger herself in any way with the pen. The double-entendre makes her smile.
“Write down anything you remember. You need not give it to me, finally. You can choose. But you might decide to choose life, and I will do all in my power to defend you. It is entirely up to you. I will also see if they can get you some clean clothing.”
But I want this clothing.
The cell door opens and then he’s gone. Monica glances at Marie-Thérèse as she removes the chair. Then it’s quiet again. She raises one end of her so-called table and swings it up and to the left and, voilà, her bed. She lies down, easing the pressure on muscles. It takes little to tire her now.
Shouldn’t I choose my own life?
Is that what she did, by confessing? If, in fact, she did?
And yet they will execute her anyway. Did she know that?
Do they simply want me to incriminate her?
It occurs to her that she didn’t ask when the tribunal is to meet.
It also occurs to her that she doesn’t know the date or the day of the week. The month, she thinks, may be September.
Pen, Ink, and Paper
The morning tray scrapes against the stone floor. No surreptitious bonjour accompanies the scraping, so Marie-Thérèse knows that Monica didn’t bring it. As she stoops to pick it up, her knee joints burn, and she has to push herself up with one hand. But she’s pleased not to have dropped the tray, with its morning coffee and roll, nor to have fainted. Brief blackouts are occurring more frequently now. Sitting sideways at her “table,” she takes her time over the coffee, the roll. She’s taught herself to regard these moments as little islands in the flow of time, places of sanctuary. One doesn’t fall into despair while sipping coffee, however thin and tepid, and chewing bread, however hard, when one is starving. Before she finishes, something else scrapes against the stones at the door’s slot. A small wooden box.
It could be, she tells herself, a dream object. Meaning that she has fallen into a doze, right there at the table.
