It had been fun for the first few hours but as the days dragged slowly by Luc had become increasingly bored and frustrated by the dull, repetitive, mind-numbing task of picking grapes. His once supple back now ached from the manual work and even though he‟d been wearing leather gloves his small soft hands had become painfully blistered and sore and hard ugly calluses had started to form on the inside of his fingers from too many hours manipulating the heavy metal secateurs. Even at the young age of seven he accepted it had to be done but that knowledge was little consolation to his fatigued body or stupefied head. Worst of all however was that time, it appeared, had slowed down almost to a crawl as he‟d toiled under the warm sun between the apparently endless rows of plants. He‟d been chivvied on by his parents and friends, and he had tried physically, he really had, to do his best as his mind futilely hoped against hope that he wouldn‟t have to face yet another day of unvaried drudgery and monotony. But at last the vendange was drawing to a close and after a communal lunch taken later than usual that day, his father, conscious his only child was exhausted, had happily released him early from his chore; consequently Luc was now, at last, free to pick up the threads of his life uncluttered by the economics of the commune or the frantic tempo of the harvest. He hitched up his knee-length shorts, tucked in his flannel shirt and tightened the leather belt, realising to his surprise and mild dismay he‟d lost a little weight whilst working in the field. Alone but with a lighter heart he strolled past the church and through the deserted village square on his way home. Under the pump in the yard behind the house he sluiced away the sweat and grime of his morning‟s labour and the sweet adhesive grape juice, now black with dirt, which stuck like glue to just about every bit of his slight body. Now the rest of the day was his to do with what he would. So he decided he‟d go where he always went when he needed solace or conversation that didn‟t revolve around the mundane subjects of grapes or wine, he‟d definitely had enough of that sort of thing for a while. An hour or so later he headed out of the village, cut up the dusty little alley that threaded its way between some old stone built houses and walked through his father‟s vineyard. Only a few days earlier the côte on the hill behind his home had burgeoned with fruit but now, mercifully as far as everyone in the village, and Luc in particular, was concerned, it was denuded of its bounty. He consciously raised his eyes skyward and thanked his lucky stars the vendange was over for another year.
He crossed one of the narrow metalled roads that led out of the small commune then picked his way cautiously over a pile of rushed stones, all that remained of what had once been a high wall. Recently though, through lack of care and maintenance coupled with the ravages of time and nature had been reduced to a disorganised pile of ochre-ish rubble and crumbling mortar. In no particular hurry but enjoying the moment and the tranquillity of his freedom, he ambled slowly down through the overgrown copse of oak and beech along the now familiar path he‟d carved out since he‟d started coming here a couple of years ago. He crossed the bridge that spanned the ornamental dry moat into the once formal renaissance style knot garden to the front of the splendid domaine. Sauntering absentmindedly along the weed-choked gravel paths, he occasionally kicked a stone or pebble with his scuffed work boots. He barely noticing the hyssop, camomile, marjoram and other plants that, where still alive, had burst out of the confines of the once orderly box hedging that had originally contained them and now grew in random clumpy disorganised chaos throughout the once regimented parterre. It was only mid-afternoon and the heat from the sun was still strong. As he paused to look out from the high ground that was his vantage point across the wide flat expanse of the valley to the Alps in the far distance he was aware he‟d sloughed off his mood of despondency. His humour was light and carefree. He idly wondered if she, his „tante‟, would still be enjoying her regular afternoon nap, not that it mattered much if she was, he‟d play in the outhouses, explore the lofts, sheds or secret out-of-the-way places he‟d discovered until she awoke. Then, he hoped she‟d read to him from one of her books or perhaps they‟d just talk. He loved to hear stories of the manoir in days gone by when it had been a vibrant bustling place, brimming with energy and life, a place glamorous people visited for house parties or shooting weekends in a time when sumptuous dinner parties had been the order of the day. But alas they were now a thing of the past, consigned to live only as fleeting and intangible memories in the old woman‟s mind. Her husband, referred to by all the villagers whether they could remember him or not as Old Monsieur Toussaint, had been dead for years, perhaps as many as twenty, although Luc, largely because he didn‟t understand death or how people reacted to it had never enquired exactly when he‟d died. But regardless of when it was he‟d certainly died long before Luc had been born or was even a glint in his father‟s eye and the grand residence standing before him had rapidly gone downhill since his demise, until it no longer, even remotely, resembled the glorious place it had been in its
heyday. Nowadays she was the only person who lived here and the house was empty, shuttered and silent. Gone were the chambermaids, the cooks and the chauffeur, absent the gardeners, estate workers and field hands who once tended the livestock, cut wood in the forest for the fires or sweated in the Burgundian sun to bring in the vendange as he had just done. The land had all but reverted to a wilderness and the house seemed melancholy now it was deprived of human company. She was still asleep under the old tree in the back garden so he decided to play and come back later. He turned to go but stopped suddenly, alert to others close at hand. He heard a car door being slammed. Then another. People were here! He hadn‟t expected that! Nobody ever came here except her son or Father Dominic, the parish priest, and nowadays they either came on foot or by bicycle. Never by car! Should he quickly wake her? Forewarn her? Confusion banished rational thought from his young head, he didn‟t know what he should do. In panic he scurried behind an overgrown shrub and hunkered down on his hands and knees. From his hiding place he watched two men walk round the side of the house. He could see through the twigs and leaves that one was in uniform. Was he a gendarme or was he Milice? Luc couldn‟t quite tell from that distance with the foliage partly obscuring his line of sight, but as they got closer he clearly saw the dreaded black uniform of the SS and the swastika emblazoned on the red brassard of the right upper arm of one of them. He tried to shrink lower hoping not to be seen, praying the earth would miraculously open and swallow him up or the greenery make him invisible to the intruders. He was frightened, very frightened. What were they doing here but more to the point what would they do to him if they caught him? His childish mind couldn‟t cope with the latter part of that frightful question. Would they kill him? Probably, he thought! He‟d heard lots of horrifying stories about what the Germans did to people. He shouldn‟t have hidden behind the bush! He realised he‟d made a dreadful mistake. He knew he should have made good his escape whilst he had the chance. It was too late now! He couldn‟t take his eyes off the man in uniform. Luc watched spellbound as the SS man walked up to his tante, who hadn‟t been awoken from her siesta by the intrusion of the strangers, and with something black hit her hard across the side of her head. Slowly she slid from the chair and ended up like a disconnected marionette on the
ground. Her grubby cotton dress snagged on a piece of loose wicker and rode up baring her white legs and thighs for all to see. Had the man killed her? Was she dead? Luc started to cry, but in that same instant realised that if he was heard and discovered then they‟d kill him as well. He clenched his fist and shoved it in his mouth biting down hard on his knuckles, as if the pain would stop the tears from flowing. It didn‟t, but it did stop the sound of his sobbing reaching the men. The man in uniform left old Hélène lying unconscious on the earth and walked in front of Luc into a nearby stable. Had Luc stretched out his hand he could almost have touched the heavy leather jackboots or the black jodhpurs, even as it was he could smell the sickly odour of macassar the German had smeared on his hair. He heard noises coming from the outhouse as the man rummaged about, then he was out in the sunlight once more, holding a piece of rope that he proceeded to throw over a branch high up in the tree under which the old lady had been sleeping. Luc watched horror-struck, still silently sobbing, as the bullyboy started to tie the loose end around the neck of his dear friend. Up to that point Luc hadn‟t paid much attention to the other man, the one who wasn‟t wearing uniform. He hadn‟t been watching him, he‟d been totally preoccupied by the one dressed in black, but now he saw him clearly for the first time as he emerged from the house by the door that led from the back-kitchen. He was dressed very smartly and Luc thought he must be the leader of the pair, as he wasn‟t doing anything, just idly viewing what was happening and smoking a cigarette. The afternoon sunshine suddenly reflected off an object the boss-man held in his hand. Luc‟s gaze was glued to the man‟s hand as he absentmindedly twirled a gold lighter between finger and thumb. The sun danced on it, time seemed to stand still and his sobbing quietened a little. A noise startled him. The other one, the nasty thuggish one had started to haul on the rope, grunting as he did so, and slowly he hoisted Madame Toussaint into the air until she was hanging high up in the old fig tree. He tied fast the end of the rope to a lower bough and then they casually, nonchalantly walked out of sight, back from whence they‟d come, without even so much as a backward glance. Luc remained crouched behind the bush looking at his tante as she swayed back and forth through the leaves, mesmerised by the unnaturally grotesque sight. He heard the car drive away but stayed hidden in case the evil men came back. Slowly the body came to rest from its gyrations but still Luc was rooted to the spot, transfixed by everything he‟d just witnessed.
She was dead! Wasn‟t she? He started to cry openly, mourning the loss of the old woman. Uncontrollable emotions wracked his young frame. Then he was suddenly at the tree trying with his little fingers to untie the huge, tight, double half hitch knot that kept Hélène suspended above the ground. His nails started to bleed as he clawed vainly at the stubborn rope but he couldn‟t shift the old hessian. The blisters on his hands rubbed raw by his futile labour started once more to weep as he tugged and pulled to no avail at the hangman‟s cord. He didn‟t feel the pain, he was oblivious to everything save that of getting her safely back onto the ground. He couldn‟t do it. He was only a boy and lacked the necessary strength. He had to get his daddy. He had to tell his mummy. They‟d help, they‟d come, he knew that. They‟d save her. Now he was on his feet running for all he was worth, past the barns, along the old vineyard, jumping the broken wall where he always did, and down the road. He‟d never run so fast, he tripped and fell once, twice, barking his knees on the flinty earth, causing them to bleed, but he didn‟t feel that pain either. On, on he went as fast as his little legs would carry him. Now he was in his father‟s vineyard and could see his home, he dived through the plants, ducked under the wire trellis but he didn‟t slow now his goal was near at hand, not by one jot did he slacken his pace. There was only one thought in his young mind; he had to save Hélène Toussaint. Time was of the essence. He had to get his daddy! Where was his daddy? He shot into the yard, rounded a corner of a shed at speed and careered straight into the arms of a uniformed Milicien who cuffed him a hard blow to the top of his head for his trouble. Picking himself up from the cobbled yard slightly dazed from the fisting he saw his parents held at gunpoint by another officer and frightened and bewildered for the second time that day ran to the safety of his mother. Together the Pérard family were bullied and shoved at the insistence of the shouting police down the lane towards the village square. “Mama,” he whispered to his mother, tugging at her woollen skirt in a fruitless effort to attract her attention. “Something bad has happened at the Domaine.” “Not now, darling,” she snapped. “Tell me later.” Neither of them knew however there would never be a later.