Open Writing

He is ninety two, with perfect eyesight and points out two chicks in the oak tree across the car park. He says they are waiting to be fed. His memory is good for things that occurred today, last week, but before that is sometimes a bit of an ask. But he remembers the Germans.

When did the Germans come to the village? He’s not sure and as his English is rarely used, we struggle in dialect and my less than perfect French.

But sometime in the early forties they came and I am shown faded photographs of them inspecting damage from their bombing, as well as others of horses swollen in death. Around three hundred people were killed, including the occupants of an orphanage in the area.

The Germans with their attention to detail, arrange housing for their officers and men, organise a ration card system and make it clear that any attempt at resistance will be dealt with mercilessly. The few who resist initially are arrested and subsequently shipped off to labour camps.

Edmond Verricke’s home is barely large enough for his sick wife and their two small girls, one of whom is only three weeks old. So far the family has been lucky and has survived by hiding in the cellar during the thump, thump of the shelling, which killed orphans and livestock alike.

But the Verricke family is allowed only one room, the remainder taken over by a Sergeant and several soldiers. The Sergeant is a huge brute of a man. A survivor of the First War, he boasts to his men of the number of Belgians and French he has killed. He takes all the wine that Edmond had in the cellar and drinks it, sharing none with his men. Those who complain are either punched or hit with a rifle butt. But he interferes very little with the Verricke family and watches them through an alcoholic haze.

Through that haze one day, he notices Edmond sitting in the garden with his head in his hands. There is the sound of the new baby crying and Edmond hurries inside. The crying continues and the Sergeant calls out to him.

‘Can’t you shut that kid up?’

Edmond is cautious as he knows the Sergeant to be a violent man.

‘She is hungry.’

‘Well feed her for Christ’s sake. I hate noise.’

It strikes Edmond as strange that an Ypres survivor is worried by a baby’s cry.

‘She wants milk and my wife is sick and cannot…’

‘I see plenty of cows round here, what’s the problem? You Belgians too bloody tight with your money?’

‘I offer to pay but all the milk goes to your officers. He will sell but wants to charge me double. I don’t have enough…’

‘Who is this farmer?’

Reluctantly, Edmond points to a collection of buildings in the distance and later, as light snow starts to fall, he sees the Sergeant walking across the fields towards the farm.

Gaston is a Frenchman, and although never fully accepted into the community, he has prospered. He prides himself on being a canny businessman, unlike the Belgians who he considers oafs. He is a practical man and sees a future populated with wealthy Germans and a never ending demand for milk and meat. Within a day of their arrival in the village he has decided where his future lies.

He is lost in such dreams when a huge man bursts through his front door. The German is alone and with his rifle pushes Gaston against the wall. He pushes the rifle into the farmer’s chest.

‘Why don’t you give Verricke the milk he needs? He says he does not have enough money? Is that right?’

Gaston processes the question, working out a safe response.

‘I have many new calves. They need milk, so do your officers. Verricke is a nobody. If I sell him milk….’ He shrugs.

The Sergeant nods thoughtfully. ‘Show me these calves’.

He pushes the farmer outside and is taken to a small shed containing several calves.

‘See? What can I do? He has one small mouth to feed, I have many’.

Walking towards the nearest calf, the German works the bolt on his rifle. He pokes it in the ear of the small animal and pulls the trigger. Inside the shed the sound is deafening. He works the bolt again as the calf falls to its knees, then fires a second time. The animal collapses, twitching as blood pools under its head, running in between the cobblestones.

‘See? Your problem is solved. The milk you don’t need for this calf can go to the baby Verricke at the normal price and you can sell the meat to the officers at a profit. And hopefully I will not have to visit again.’

And so the girl baby who was too young to understand the bombing and the death of a new calf, survived.

Sixty five years later, Edmond Verricke has lost his independence and depends on the nurses completely. Most days he has to be spoon fed. But the girl baby, who recently married an Australian who speaks terrible French, holds a small cup of milk to her father’s lips as he does his best to swallow.

And there is a twinkle in those perfect eyes, eyes that can spot chicks at fifty metres, and he looks at his daughter then winks at me.

***

To read Ian’s gripping novel Who Your Mates Are please click on http://ianarkell.wordpress.com/