The Summer Home

Chapter 3

AFTER JEAN'S ARRIVAL, hordes of people poured into Bordeaux's cobblestone streets, ancient wine cellars, and thicketed courtyards.

In only a few short days, the city that was meant for sun-soaked promenades and picnics along the riverbank and summer romances became unrecognizable.  

Desperate refugees—many of whom had limped into the city all the way from Paris, abandoning their automobiles along country roads for lack of petrol—begged for bread and shelter. Children, wounded French soldiers, wives, and mothers hobbled through the streets, their faces stamped with exhaustion and dejection.

The refugees echoed Jean's claims about our country's barbarian invaders. Many innocent civilians had been mercilessly bombed while escaping the capital city. 

They said our beloved Paris was empty, with only the poorest souls remaining behind. Entire sections of the city were left vacant. The Krauts had flooded the cafés and museums like pesky flies, draping our proudest monuments with that dreaded symbol. 

Their possessions, often badly damaged by German shelling, were strewn everywhere. 

Family photographs, portraits, carpet bags, suitcases, children's playthings, cloaks, and baskets wound through the city streets in a singular stream, like a boa constrictor about to strangle its prey.

Against her better judgement, Mirielle gave the peasants who frequented our doorstep loaves of bread and parcels of meat. Once word spread of her kindness, a deluge of refugees swept through the grounds. They flocked to La Belle Maison in such great numbers that Monsieur Le Sueur and Jean eventually had to erect a makeshift barricade across the portico to keep them out.

Since French forces had destroyed bridges to deter German troops from venturing further into the heart of the nation and our capital city, food transport was difficult. Our sugar and coffee had vanished, worsening Nicolas's already sour mood.

Every morning, I tried to sing, but my voice was hollow. It seemed almost immoral to serenade the days with buoyant songs about love and passion. 

Jean paced around the villa, ranting about the invasion and relaying news of the government, who had recently fled from Paris to Bordeaux to escape the Nazis. He felt immense guilt at not being able to participate in the fighting and wanted to satisfy his ache for participation. 

The only person who maintained a lighthearted spirit was Juliette.

Jean's arrival had elicited a sense of girlish excitement in the girl. She followed him around like a lovestruck child, asking him questions about Paris and fawning over every word he uttered. Jean was far too old to receive such besotted attention from a school girl, but I suspected Juliette desired amusement when there was none to be had at the cinemas or restaurants.

One morning, she trotted into the upstairs parlour and asked to borrow my rouge and lipstick. She was wearing her usual grey smock, but had bunched it around her hips to reveal her spindly legs. She had taken her strawberry-blonde hair out of its braid, letting it cascade down her thin shoulders, which were straighter than they had been when we first arrived.

I shook my head at the girl, feeling an odd mixture of pity and amusement. I myself had not possessed a strong interest in the male sex until I left school. I was more focussed on Maman and my singing. 

"You are far too young to show interest in a man of his age," I reminded her sternly. 

Since she had no mother, I felt a keen responsibility to protect her from the consequences of such reckless behaviour. I had seen what unbridled affection had done to Maman, and did not want the same to befall my young companion.