Half in shadow a novel, p.3
Half in Shadow: A Novel, page 3
Eugène is right, though she doesn’t voice this out loud, for fear of throwing fuel on the fire he ignites.
“We should wait,” says Xavier calmly, hands in pockets, staring at paper that is torn into tiny pieces on the ground. He has a head that makes rational sense of everything.
All week the Descharmes family has been adjusting to news that changes daily, the news that Maurice collects for the newspaper that has given them little time to grieve. Everything they plan to print must be approved, and much of it censored to make it favourable to Germans.
The newspaper, a small version earlier in the week, had been printed and added secretly to the back of prayer sheets also produced at Maurice’s shop, with information on the deaths and destruction they have learned from those who have had to flee their villages. The publication was to be distributed by churchgoers. Someone from the German administration got hold of a copy, or someone had passed it to him, a Belgian, perhaps one more aligned with Germany. It is a problem now to trust people. Some are out to protect themselves. Maurice had then received a visit, a warning, and today was asked to shut the doors. The Germans do not want to report certain news. They don’t want him to write about the sickening bloodbath in Liège, about bombs falling from giant balloons in the sky, causing craters in the ground, buildings being burned down and whole villages on fire, and fugitives who have flooded their town on bicycles and wagons overflowing with possessions.
“You should know,” says Xavier to his sister, “that civilians are preparing to arm themselves. Gène wants me to store the guns at the church and hand them out to the parishioners.”
“No, you mustn’t!” Josephine says, suddenly afraid for her brother. “Gène, don’t ask this of him!” Mistakes are made, like the one she made with Yves. Things happen that aren’t supposed to. People die from guns.
“Be quiet, Mouse!” says Eugène. “Stay out of this. You’ve done enough!”
It is like she has no voice, not anymore, not since Yves is one week cold in the ground.
“We will all need to be armed. It is inevitable,” says Eugène.
Xavier shakes his head, his voice a little stronger.
“Gène! You have read the notices. They will punish us . . . execute us, if there is any retaliation, anything hostile.”
Josephine has rarely seen Xavier without composure. His face is reddened, sweat trickling from his temples.
“What if France is conquered?” says Eugène, arms above his head as if the conquering will include the sky as well. “What if this is permanent?”
He runs his fingers through his thick mane and places one hand on his hip. Seconds pass, an age it seems, and a crow on the fence caws them to hurry.
“Xavier,” he says, his voice gentler, tears in his eyes. “This is our only chance to prepare. You must see that! We will only fight if they shoot first. I can promise you. If they take our people and kill them indiscriminately, if they break into homes to steal. We must raise our own hell and then Belgian soldiers, British, and French will finish them off. We are not alone.”
Xavier shakes his head and walks toward the house. His shoulders suggest he has acquiesced to a certain degree though the twist of his mouth means he is unconvinced. He is against violence.
“You are an artist, Eugène. Stick to that,” Xavier says over his shoulder.
“I am a Belgian and a brother first,” he calls after. “Remember Yves.”
“I do, but more death isn’t the answer.”
Xavier sees his sister’s frown, lips quivering.
“Don’t worry about Eugène, what he says to you,” he says, hands on her shoulders when they are alone inside. “He is like that, says whatever is in his head. Most times he doesn’t mean it. It wasn’t your fault about Yves. Don’t ever think like that. When you do, remember this moment. Remember me telling you to stop punishing yourself.”
“I didn’t know . . . ,” she says, tears flooding his shirt. She should have drawn him off the street straightaway. But the balloon in the sky, an ivory wingless bird, was distracting, strange, and beautiful the way it burst out through the clouds, then continued to glide. “It is killing Maman.”
“I’ve been to the chemist, and she now has medicine that will calm her nerves. She needs time to adjust. We must keep reminding her that Yves is in heaven now and we will see him again.”
“Run!” someone shouts from the darkness.
Bullets tap incessantly and people scream. Josephine’s eyes are watering from the smoke. The town of Louvain glows red, orange, and white against the night. Windows explode from grenades, sending shards of glass into the street, and roofs sink and building walls crumble, releasing clouds of grey smoke that rush at Josephine as she weaves her way homeward. Onions spill across her path from a cart that has toppled amongst other strewn items: wooden shoes, hats, and bodies bloodied.
Several German soldiers ahead punch their way through a window and climb over broken glass. Josephine turns left and right then left again, then stops to see more destruction up and down the street under a shower of building dust. Another explosion, and part of a church spire shudders then falls sideways.
Josephine feels something rush from behind and past her ear. A piece of the stone has sheared across her cheek, and she reaches for her face to feel a sticky clump forming.
Ahead, the farrier is sitting on the road. Someone is bent to speak to him. Someone else in the next street is calling for help. She has never felt so alone amidst the noise and destruction that comes from all directions. She whimpers, mouths a short prayer, and squeezes back tears, before another round of bullets forces her to flee again.
Josephine is seconds from her house when a man falls in front of her. She jumps back at first, unsure if she should pass him. He is listless, but alive, eyes toward her. There is a large patch of red on the front of his shirt, and his hand taps blindly on his chest to find the source of whatever has put him on the ground. She walks to crouch beside him, to touch the other hand that reaches out to her for help. The sound of another gunshot and the man is still, blood bursting out from a second wound, this time to his head, and Josephine covers her own instinctively.
When she looks up, an enemy soldier is pointing his gun at her. He is so close she can see the whites of his eyes, the angry exhaustion in the lines around his mouth. His face is covered in powdered debris, and he turns the tip of the gun toward another street, indicating with a nod in the direction she must leave. There is no sense of malice, just a resolution that this carnage, this killing must be done, which seems more chilling, more terrifying to Josephine. But before she runs, more rifle fire sounds, and the same German soldier crumples on the road, taking a hit to the leg. An eye for an eye. This is what is happening, violence supposedly to stop violence, she thinks, somewhere in the mass of confusion that crowds her head.
She turns back to the Belgian twisted on the ground, touches his arm, though it is more for her than him, an apology of some kind that she couldn’t do more.
Rushing through the front door, she finds her mother sobbing at the table. Gisela jumps up excitedly to cradle her daughter’s face, to then place her wet cheek against hers, the relief more obvious by the way Gisela’s grip is fierce and needy. She separates them finally.
“You’re injured! Come!” she says, leading her daughter to the sink.
She soaks a piece of linen, then cleans away the blood, dashes around to find the iodine. “It is only surface. There is nothing to worry about.” The last sentence is more to convince herself.
“Your skirt!” Gisela says, and Josephine looks down to see the stranger’s blood on the front of it.
“It’s not my blood.”
Gisela shakes her head sadly.
“Did you see your papa, your brothers anywhere?” she asks. They had woken to the terror. Maurice had gone to see what was happening and never returned, Josephine to find Xavier at the university before abandoning the mission. Eugène had been absent since early that morning.
“No.”
“How many dead?”
“Many.”
Gisela’s expression shifts between disbelief, fear, and sorrow as Josephine describes the outrage.
“Do you know why the sudden shootings?”
“No,” Josephine says. She thinks of the guns, of Eugène’s promise, hoping it has nothing to do with her brothers.
There are more sounds closer now, heavy-footed steps and pounding on doors. The women run to the front window to see that the elderly Cadranels next door are being dragged from their house and led away.
“What threat are they?” says Gisela, not expecting a response.
Soldiers exit the house also carrying silverware and bags of food.
Gisela closes the curtain.
“Quickly, Josephine! You must run and hide the jewels.”
Someone bangs on the front door, and both women jump.
“Maman?” says Josephine, unsure if she should leave her.
“Go! I will handle them.”
Josephine lifts her skirt and commences up the stairs two at a time.
“Who is here?” one soldier shouts. “Names!”
“My daughter and I,” Gisela calls through a seam in the wood. “We are harmless. We have no weapons.”
Josephine’s legs feel like lead as she listens to them kick at the door, bust apart the lock, and smash things angrily to assert their dominance. She picks up the box with her mother’s jewels and rushes across the landing to Eugène’s bedroom. It is easier to climb down from, where she can’t be seen from the street. She can hear heavy steps on the stairs, foreign shouts. She throws the box into the rear courtyard below as the bedroom door slams back against the wall. A soldier enters, pointing his gun.
She raises her hands, and he points toward the door to instruct her back downstairs. She is shaking uncontrollably, her feet frozen to the floor. She jumps when he yells at her to move again, making herself thinner to pass him. She is unable to look at his face.
In the living room downstairs, the other soldier is ransacking the cupboards. They have pushed over the clock, scattered chairs, and attacked the fabric sofas with their bayonets.
“What are you looking for?” asks Gisela.
“Guns.”
“Then you are wasting your time,” says Gisela tersely.
The one who has followed Josephine down the stairs asks them their names, for their papers, and Gisela opens a drawer nearby. Her mother appears calm as she hands the German some documents. The other soldier exits the door to inspect the rear of the property, while the first soldier briefly examines their identity papers and thrusts them back at her. Moments later, the second soldier has returned with a handful of Gisela’s jewels from the box that has smashed onto the pavers. He shovels the jewels into his pocket as they both exit through the broken front door.
“Boche!” Maman hisses in their wake. “We will wait for your father and brothers, then leave the town, go west toward my sister’s house.”
Eugène eyes the broken door as he rushes into the house.
“What happened?” he says breathlessly, examining the rest of the damage.
“German thieves,” says Gisela.
He stands at the table, hands flat on its surface to catch back his breath.
“Maman,” he says, taking the glass of water that his mother passes him. “They have taken the priests somewhere.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The priests . . . They believe they are agitators, the ones who have incited the city to fire at the soldiers, handing out rifles to civilians.”
“That is ridiculous. Xavier an agitator . . .” Terror and outrage flash across Gisela’s face while she turns to look at the blood on Josephine’s dress again. “Where is he now?”
Josephine opens her mouth to ask about the guns, about the conversation, but stops herself. Gisela can’t know.
“They have taken them to the town barracks. Someone said they saw several priests being loaded into trucks near the train station. I do not know if Xavier is one of them, Maman. I’m sorry.”
Gisela stumbles as she steps forward, her hands crossed against her heart, and her children rush to help her to a chair.
“Maman, are you all right?” asks Josephine, kneeling beside her. “Is it your heart?”
“Only that is beyond repair,” she whimpers, head in her hands.
“I will find Papa,” says Josephine, standing. “I will learn the truth about the priests, where they have been taken.”
“Do not leave!” commands Eugène, who springs toward her to grip her arm.
But she won’t be told what to do. Not anymore. The rules are changed. The Germans said so. She yanks her arm away from his grip and spills out through the doorway and back into the madness that has infected the streets. People are leaving, running with bags, and dragging children and elderly relatives, arms overflowing with items they value.
“There’s Boche down that street,” says one. “Go a different way!”
She takes the long way circling back to the printing house. The door of the building is open. Paper litters the floor, shredded and pieces burned. The printing press has been vandalised, the art plates smashed, furniture broken, her darkroom and chemicals spread around the floor. But worse are the drops of blood that lead to the door.
Her father is gone, but where? Outside the streets are emptying, and random shots are fired somewhere in the distance. Only that morning they were at the market and stall owners were giving their food away for nothing so Germans couldn’t take it.
One old woman leans against a wall, eyes staring upward to the stars, her dress ridden up to reveal her knees, but no sign of injury. As Josephine bends down to offer help, the woman falls sideways, lifeless, purple tongue tipping out of her mouth. Josephine looks around for someone to help, though there are other bodies, too. Where to start?
“Get off the street!” yells a woman from a window nearby. She is waving her arms. “There are more coming this way.”
“I’m looking for my papa, the printer!”
“Maurice! I have seen him. He left with several men. Several Boche.”
“Did you see where?”
“In that direction,” she says, pointing toward the train station.
Something whizzes above her head, and Josephine looks up and around in confusion. When she looks back at the window, the woman has been hit, slumped forward over the sill.
A whistle shrieks, and she hears commands in German. Belgian civilians spill out from another route toward her.
“Go back,” they yell. “Run to the forests.”
She follows the group toward the lamplights of the Saint Albert Bridge, but drawing closer sees that it is manned by German soldiers, several of whom lean over the balustrade to search for something. They have not yet seen an older man and two young women crouching and hiding beneath them on the embankment beneath the bridge.
Someone grabs her elbow, and the word “hurry” is sounded in her ear. She is swept up into the panic and rushes with him. Others merge with them part of the way as they run past the entrance to the bridge.
“This way,” a male stranger urges when Josephine drops back slightly. Several others join the group, some with suitcases under their arms.
“Where are you going?” she asks, pulling up her skirt in front of her to stop from tripping.
“We must go to the forest first,” says the same man, waving everyone forward.
“But they have my father, my brother!”
The man falls in beside her.
“If they are caught, it is too late,” he says, scanning the soldiers on the bridge, several of whom glance their way. “You need to save yourself.”
Josephine turns back to learn that the people beneath the bridge have been spotted. The soldiers on the bridge begin firing below them.
She is suddenly yanked to a stop by the stranger, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of her upper arm, and forcibly pulled off the pathway to crouch behind the dark corner of a building. Soldiers are coming from the other way. They begin firing on those who have not had time to hide or turn back. She spies several Belgians crumple to the ground nearby, while the rest run for safety. Soldiers on the bridge also fire in their direction to catch the stragglers. The group she was with has completely dispersed, and it is just the two of them.
“Keep your head down or you will lose it,” says the man, the side of his heavily lined, sun-browned face against hers.
They listen to a young woman pleading from below the bridge.
Josephine is trembling, her mouth open, and she fights an impulse to flee. Her companion appears to sense this and holds her tighter.
“Stay,” he whispers.
The plea from the bridge is drowned out by more gunfire, and Josephine flinches and raises her arms to cover her head. She doesn’t dare look.
The man curses under his breath and releases her. He wipes the back of his arm against his sweaty forehead.
“Was your father taken?”
“Yes, this morning from his work.”
“Then there is nothing you can do,” he says.
“I told Maman I would find him and my brother, a priest.”
The man wears the same hesitant, vacant look that most people wear when they hear about Yves.
“I can’t leave,” says Josephine.
Tears fill her eyes, and she sits on the ground with her face on her knees, arms around her legs.
“Come with me,” he says, gently pulling her to stand. “We will have to go a different way now anyway. We’ll pass the train station and see if your papa and brother are there. That’s where they are assembling people to take to prison.”
The pair weaves between buildings until they reach the train lines that they follow into the rail yard. They step carefully alongside a building before crouching down in the shadows to spy on a large group of men assembled. Many, with their hands on their heads and rifles pointing at their backs, are herded into cattle trucks.
