Irène Némirovsky - Suite Française

"What a wonderful dessert they will make for us tonight," said Philippe. "The birds will have to share with us-we won't be harming anyone by picking this fruit. Now, you all have plenty of food in your backpacks, so we won't go hungry. But don't expect to be sleeping in a bed tonight. I don't suppose sleeping under the stars for one night would frighten you, would it? You have good blankets. Let's see, what do we need? A meadow, a natural spring. The barns and stables don't appeal to you, I bet! Me neither… It's so beautiful out. Come on, eat some fruit to keep you going and follow me, we'll try to find a good spot."

He waited a quarter of an hour while the children gorged themselves on strawberries; he watched them carefully to make sure they didn't step on the flowers and vegetables but he didn't have to intervene, they were really very good. He didn't blow the whistle this time, he just spoke loudly. "Come on, now, leave some for tonight. Follow me. If you don't dawdle you won't have to line up."

Once again they obeyed. They looked at the trees, the sky, the flowers, without Philippe being able to guess what they were actually thinking… What they really liked, he thought, what really touched their hearts, was not the natural world, but this intoxicating scent of fresh air and freedom they were breathing in, so new to them.

"Do any of you know the countryside?" Philippe asked.

"No, Father, no, Sir, no," they all said, one after the other.

Philippe had already noticed that he would only get a response from them after a few moments' silence, as if they were making up a story, a lie, or as if they didn't exactly understand what they were meant to do… Always the same feeling of dealing with people who were… not quite human… he thought. Out loud he said, "Come on, let's get moving."

When they left the village, they saw a large, overgrown private park, a beautifully deep, clear lake and a house up on a hill.

The château, without a doubt, thought Philippe. He rang the bell at the gate in the hope of finding someone at home, but the caretaker's cottage was locked up and no one answered.

"There's a meadow over there that looks perfect for us," said Philippe, pointing towards the banks of the lake. "We must make the best of it, boys! We'll cause less damage there than in these beautiful little gardens; we'll be better off than on the road and, if there's a storm, we could take shelter in those little changing huts…"

The park had only a wire fence round it; they got over it easily.

"Don't forget," Philippe said, laughing, "that even though I'm breaking a rule, I still insist you treat this property with the utmost respect; I don't want to see a single branch broken, papers left on the lawn, or any empty tins. Understand? If you behave then I'll let you go swimming in the lake tomorrow."

The grass was so high it came up to their knees and they crushed flowers underfoot. Philippe showed them the flowers associated with the Virgin, stars with six white petals, and St. Joseph 's flowers, pale lilac, almost pink.

"Can we pick them, Sir?"

"Yes. You can pick as many of those as you like. They just need a bit of sun and rain to grow back again. Now those must have taken a lot of time and effort," he said, pointing to the flower beds planted all around the château.

One of the boys next to him raised his small square face towards the large shuttered windows. "There must be some great stuff in there!"

He had spoken quietly but with such muted envy that the priest was troubled. When he didn't reply, the boy persisted: "Don't you think, Father, there must be some great stuff in there? "

"We ain't never seen a place like that," said another.

"Of course, there must be some very beautiful things inside, furniture, paintings, statues… but many of these houses are just ruins and you would probably be disappointed if you expected to see amazing things," Philippe replied cheerfully. "But I suppose you are most interested in the food. I should tell you that the people from around here seem to have planned ahead and taken everything away with them. And since we wouldn't have the right to help ourselves to anything that didn't belong to us in any case, it's better not to think about it and just make do with what we have. Now, I'm going to put you into three groups: the first will find some dead wood, the second will get some water, the third will lay out the food."

They followed his orders, working quickly and efficiently. They lit a big fire at the edge of the lake; they ate, they drank, they picked some wild strawberries. Philippe wanted to organise some games but the children seemed gloomy and restrained; there was no shouting, no laughter. The lake no longer shone in the sunlight, just faintly glimmered, and they could hear frogs croaking on the banks. In the light of the fire the boys sat motionless, wrapped up in their blankets.

"Do you want to go to sleep?"

No one answered.

"You aren't cold, are you?"

Silence again.

They can't all be asleep, thought the priest. He got up and walked between the rows. Sometimes he bent down, covered someone up who was thinner, frailer than the others, with limp hair, ears that stuck out. Their eyes were closed. They were pretending to be asleep, or perhaps sleep really had overcome them. Philippe went back to read his Bible next to the fire. Now and again he raised his eyes to look at the reflections in the water. These moments of silent meditation took away all his cares, made up for all his pain. Once again, love entered his heart like rain falling on dry ground, first drop by drop, fighting to carve a path through the pebbles, then in a long cascade straight to his heart.

These poor children! One of them was dreaming and letting out a long plaintive moan. The priest raised his hand in the darkness, blessed them, murmured a prayer. "Pater amat vos," he whispered. He liked to say this to his catechism students when he was urging them to repent, to be submissive, to pray. "The Father loves you." How could he have believed they were lacking divine Grace, these poor wretches? Might he not perhaps be less loved than them, treated with less indulgence, less divine affection than the most insignificant, the most lowly of them? Oh Lord Jesus, forgive me! It was a moment of pride, a trap set by a demon! What am I? Less than nothing, dust beneath your dear feet, Lord! Yes, without a doubt, I whom you have loved, whom you have protected since I was a child, whom you have led towards you-you have the right to ask anything of me. But these children… some will be saved… the others… The Saints will redeem them… Yes, all is well, all is goodness, all is Grace. Lord Jesus, forgive me my sorrow!

The water gently rippled, the night was peaceful and solemn. This presence without whom he could not live, this Breath, this watchful Eye was upon him in the darkness. A child sleeping in the dark, pressed against his mother's heart, has no need of light to recognise her cherished features, her hands, her rings! He even laughed softly with pleasure. "Jesus, you are here, with me once again. Please remain by my side, my cherished Friend!" A long pink flame shot up from a black log. It was late; the moon was rising, but he wasn't tired. He took a blanket, stretched out on the grass. There he remained, eyes wide open, a flower brushing lightly against his cheek. There wasn't a single sound in this little corner of the world.

He heard nothing, saw nothing, but felt by a kind of sixth sense two boys silently rushing towards the château. It happened so quickly that at first he thought he was dreaming. He didn't want to call out for fear of waking the other sleeping boys. He got up, brushed the grass and flowers off his cassock and headed for the château. The thick lawn hid the sound of his footsteps. He remembered now he had noticed one of the shutters had been badly secured and was slightly ajar. Yes, he was right! The moon lit up the front of the house. One of the boys was pushing the shutter, forcing it open. Before Philippe could shout at them to stop, a stone shattered the window and there was a rain of glass. The boys, as lithe as cats, leapt inside.