This is the second part of Winter Warmth
I heard muffled and quick Parisian French between Sylvie and her mom. Then I turned to Clémentine. She noted that the winter has been cold. “Il faisait froid. Il a neigé très tôt cet hiver. Il fallait mettre les vaches dans les pâturages plus bas et dans les granges” (It has been cold this winter. We had to put the cows in the lower pastures and in the barns.) The children shifted in their seats, pulling a tiny bit away from the table. I understood her French, but didn’t see a barn or cows. What was the matter?
Sylvie’s mom smiled warmly, “Oui, maman.” I saw her draw close to her mom, the gentle pull of love drawing them together. Her grandmother leaned toward her daughter’s words.
The French have a way of drawing you into a conversation with an intent closeness, a friendly intimacy, if they wish to show it. They draw boundaries by either showing a clear coldness or a simple warmth. it is easy to know when you are liked or disliked. The grandma turned to me and smiled. I drew near to her to listen. Her soft, sad eyes connected with mine. Sipping hot chocolate, we made simple French talk, a huge relief to me. Her French was less of a blur to my ears. Words formed crisply, slowly, in an even rhythm. She spoke in a steady manner, her voice soft but clear, her wrinkled hands defly holding the cup of hot chocolate.
Cathérine had been ill with pneumonia, but was well now. Clémentine frowned a little, “Ne meurs pas avant moi.” she fretted. (Don’t die before me.”) Mme. Rosseny reassured her. She was well. “Il faut faire du ski. C’est la pollution dans les villes. Il faut prendre de l’air fraîsche des montagnes,” Clémentine advised, a note of urgency in her voice. (You should ski. It’s the pollution in the cities. You should get fresh mountain air.)
“Pourquoi il faut faire du ski?” I asked. (Why should we ski?) The snow, the illness, must have touched a memory.
Clémentine turned to face me and then crisply stated, “Les Américains nous a sauvé.” (The Améridcans saved us.) Curious, I looked at Sylvie, but she blankly stared into space in front of her. She knew the same old story was coming out again. Mme. Rosseny sighed, knowingly, “Maman, C’était pendant l’Occupation, la Deuxième Guerre Mondiale. Nous ne sommes plus à la guerre. Nous avons la paix. Maman tu n’as pas plus de vaches. Il y a une autre famille qui le fait maintenant. “ (Mama, that was during the Occupation, the Second World War. We are no longer at war. We have peace. Mama, you no longer have the cows. Another family has them now.)
“Ah, oui,” Clémentine sighed, a light shifted on her eyes and it was as if she were drifting into another place, another time. “Les Allemands étaient dans les montagnes. Les Américains étaient dans les montagnes. Les Français étaient dans les montagnes. Quand je faisais du ski, je les trouverais. Il fallait faire attention. Si je trouvais des Américains, je les aiderais. S’ils étaient blessés, j’irais chercher Jean.” she quietly explained. (The Germans were in the mountains. The Americans were in the mountains. The French were in the mountains. When I skied, I would find them. I had to be careful. If I found Americans, I would help them. If they were wounded I would get Jean,” she recited her story as if it had been said many times before.
I leaned in closer. What was her story? What happened? Why were they in the mountains? Were they in trouble? Did you get into trouble?
Then it was time to go. “Maman, nous devons partir. Il faut descendre la montagne. Je t’aime, maman,” Cathérine calmly whispered to her mom. ( Mom, we have to go. We have to go down the mountain. I love you,” Cathérine smiled to her mom. “Au revoir,” Clémentine.
“Merci, Madame. Je suis très contente de faire votre connaissance,” (Thank you, m’am. I am very happy to meet you.) I politely offered my hand. Clémentine turned to me and smiled warmly, leaning forward, she gave me “bizous,” her soft cheek brushing mine. Cathérine smiled warmly. Her children hustled into the car. While driving down the mountain, we rolled past an inscription carved in a boulder. “A memorial to all of the children in the Resistance who were killed during the war.” What did it mean? What other stories could we find?
Later, I asked Cathérine if her mom was ok. Cathérine reassured me that she was just getting older. She explained to me that, from what she could recall, in 1944 the Germans were pushing to make a way to Italy. They were losing. The Americans were in the mountains and the French were fighting in the Resistance. Clémentine had Cathérine. Cathérine had a friend, Jean. They were sent from time to time on errands, skiing. Sometimes they would find Amércans or report Germans in the area. Sometimes the children would be caught. Jean was caught, but he didn’t reveal either Clémentine or Cathérine. He was sent away with his mom and never returned. Someone denounced them. Sylvie’s sister, Jeanne, is named after Jean. After the war, a neighbor mysteriously died in a fall from a cliff. No one really knew much. It was all so strange and people tried to protect the children. The mountains hid the Resistance fighters, but there were collaborators, too. The mountains hold the stories.
Her mom had a memory, that is all. “Il vaut mieux être gentille pour avoir de la paix,” Cathérine stated “Ça tu le sais bien.” (It is better to be gentle to have peace. That you know well.) I saw then a sadness in that moment, and I drew near. It was best to leave the story untouched. “Now, let’s go have some hot chocolat,” Cathérine encouraged me in her soft Parisian accent.