Piece de Resistance

Piece de Resistance

Village of Verfeil; France. 1940.

I pulled the tines of my fingers from the centre of the table to the corners, dragging the creases out of the yellowed damask. The ends of the tablecloth slid down the table legs like a woman adjusting her skirt hem.

Grandmere shuffled towards me, the stack of plates on her forearms almost hidden by the ends of her shawl. Moving to take them from her, she slid them into my arms with the brisk delicacy of a midwife presenting an infant to its mother. 

I put each plate down with the face of its owner swimming into my mind. Papa at the head of the table; facing the doorway and the prospect of the plane trees outside. His gun dog Fidéle raised his head from his paws to watch me. To the right of Papa a place for Grandpere, I remembered to shift his drinking glass over a fraction to make space for his pipe. On Papa’s left, Grandmere’s plate – a burst of chivalry prompting me to give her the least damaged one in the set. Next to Grandmere a setting for Maman, her place secured in our tradition even though she had died last year. I placed my own plate last, next to Grandpere’s.

My eyes stung as the willow patterned china brought back to me Maman’s story: “The willow drags its green arms in the water, mon petit, because it searches for the soul of a person drowned.” I frowned to remember when she had told it; her words carrying somehow a remembrance of my young legs being wet, and eye - corner glimpses of slick green lizards scuttering into pondweed. 

We had heard on the radio that morning that German columns had been spotted to the south of Verfeil. France was occupied. We were occupied – and unsure at that moment what delicate parts of ourselves the probing fingers of Germany would explore.

Not knowing what provisions the soldiers would leave us, the decision was taken to gather together our good gustatory things and enjoy these in a peculiarly Gallic gesture of defiance.

I was comforted then by the familiar cadence of mealtime. The staccato tapping of Grandpere’s pipe as he knocked it against the hearth to empty its ashes. The complaining slide of Grandmere’s chair across the wood floor as Papa pulled it out for her. Papa himself, assembling his dignity at the head of the table with a grunt.

I seated myself and Papa glanced at me and said, “You’ve taken the pig to Jacques?”

“Yes Papa.”

“It’s good then. He’ll know what to do.”

I returned his nod and winced inwardly as my mind pictured our hefty, swell - rumped boar and the skin purpling fight I’d had to get it to our village butcher.

Grandpere’s rough hand covered mine as Papa bowed his head and intoned the prayer.

“Merciful Father, protect your children.

Bless this food.

Look after Marguerite who shelters under Your wings.

Give us the faith and strength to be better people tomorrow than we are today.

Amen.”

Grandmere sniffed as the prayer concluded and pressed her napkin into her eyes. Then, in unconscious habit, she carefully straightened the knife and fork next to Maman’s plate. Feeling my eyes on her, she shrugged and blew her nose noisily. 

The table before us was crowded, each dish jostling its neighbour. Gifts of food from neighbours vied for place with an abundance of our own fresh produce that had to be eaten. Even today the sight and smells of it all remain so etched in my memory that I will recount it here.

From Perrine, the sister of monsieur le curé, we were blessed with filets of fresh river perch: gently fried to a dark gold and anointed with melted butter and a generous benediction of finely snipped meadow herbs.

Monsieur Durand, who farmed next to us, had left 3 fat ducks at the kitchen door, there to be tripped over by Grandmere on her way to the privy! Now they adorned our table, their dark brown skins crisp with the sheen of fat.

From our own garden, buttered carrots with anise and drizzled with honey competed with mange tout, steamed to biting tenderness and tossed with almonds and goat cheese. Ripe tomatoes, thick slices covering a plate, were dusted with flakes of sea salt and a chiffonade of wild garlic leaves. Roasted potatoes (Grandmere’s speciality) had been cooked in piping hot duck fat, their browned outer shells cracking open to reveal the white creaminess inside.

Papa had graciously produced his speciality for us too: thin slices of bread toasted and spread with black truffle butter. I remember the large grains of truffle looking just like wet, loamy soil.

Our eggs had been put to good use in the production of a heaped pile of crepes: the batter spiced with smoky paprika and the savoury crepes then stuffed with roasted sweet peppers, briny anchovies from the Aegean and peppery mushroom vinaigrette.

To round out this gourmand’s repast we’d decorated the table gaily with pyramids of fruit from our trees and several cheeses. An oozy white Vacherin cheese smelt faintly of the spruce bark it was stored in and we delighted in its sweet cow’s milk flavour. My particular favourite was the ‘extra mature’ Mimolette aged for 18 months. This nutty and sweet cheese is firm and smooth, with a rich russet colour. It pairs beautifully with the tart astringency of blue - black damsons and we’d stripped the last of the damsons off our tree to enjoy with it.

Besieged by all this food, there was little talk at the table. We simply munched determinedly away in an amiable silence. Grandpere and Papa exclaimed now and then over a particularly tasty morsel, but mostly we were consumed by thoughts of what had gone before and what was about to come to our home.

At the start of the meal Papa had shyly presented a bottle of cognac that he’d kept locked away in the oak dresser since his wedding day. None of us likely had the palate to tell whether or not it was ‘good’ cognac, but in light of his barely suppressed excitement at this regal tipple we dutifully sipped away regardless.

I’d picked up a peach to cleanse my palate, its globular blond lushness faintly furred with silvery hairs. Turning it in my hand admiringly, I noticed the ugly marching line of a fruit moth’s predation zigzagging under its skin and lost my appetite for it.     

We’d lit candles as night slid unstoppably over the house, and were subconsciously listening out for something alarming as we picked at bits of food, but only the cries of night birds and the sounds of the local farm animals answered our vigilance.

Looking at my watch I saw that it was 22:00 and time for me to go. Papa noticed my unease and smiled to me before he left the table, returning with a large haversack. Dismal khaki green and ancient, Papa had used this haversack during the Great War and its faded fabric and scrappy webbing told many stories that Papa had never uttered a word about. I’d packed it days before, and noticed as I hefted it onto my shoulder that if anything its weight had increased since I’d practiced running with it through the village streets and up onto the lower slopes of Montagne des Bergers.

I waited patiently as my grandparents rose from the table and then everybody followed me to the open front door. Looking out, I saw a waxing moon and the familiar shapes and undulations of the dark - hidden landscape around us.

One of the barn cats bumped hard against my legs and I bent down to scratch her neck and hide my welling tears.

Mastering myself, I stood upright, jerking the haversack again into a more comfortable valley on my back. My father gripped me painfully hard by the shoulders and kissed me three times, and then Grandpere and lastly Grandmere kissed me.

Looking at me anxiously, Papa asked, “You’ve got your compass Michel? And the map I gave you to find the rendezvous point?” I nodded with assurance and replied “Yes, Papa.” Flushed with approval, he leant towards me as if for an embrace and stuffed a wad of francs into my shirt pocket. Stupefied with emotion and dizzy with my upcoming journey, I could do nothing but spin on my heel and walk quickly towards the road.

I didn’t look back. Papa wouldn’t have wanted me to.

I had trudged along almost to the outskirts of the village when Pierre the tailor stumbled out of a doorway drunk and started threading himself unsteadily home. Noticing me in the gloom, he straightened his jacket with ferocious concentration and pushed his eyeglasses more firmly onto his face.

He called to me “Michel! You must be off to join the Resistance my lad!”

I grinned and yelled back “Monsieur Boutons, there is no Resistance! I walk around at night only to take the air!”

Tapping the side of his nose, Pierre guffawed with such violence that he unbalanced himself and fell into the boxwood hedge that bordered the road.

I stopped for a moment to rest as he righted himself, and as he regained his verticality I was rewarded by the flash of his teeth in the darkness and a vague impression of his fist pumping martially in the air.

Smiling to myself, I turned and started again along the road.

Finis