Evie slept deeply in her campervan duvet. She was cocooned, wrapped in cotton, completely safe. The night before, she had drunk too much wine and thoroughly enjoyed herself. She’d found a gîte outside Angers where a sign said ‘Les camping-cars sont bienvenus: 8 euros’. The old lady was a tiny sparrow of a woman with a welcoming smile and a face lined with kindness. Odile had white hair and a bowed body and was eighty-seven years old: she’d explained through writing on a piece of paper and crossing it out that if Evie stayed for dinner for twenty euros with free wine, she could park her campervan overnight for free.
They had dined at the big wooden table, Odile at the head, the perfect hostess, filling the table with dish after delicious dish and carafes of wine, red and white. The guests had been wonderful: there was a Spanish man and his German wife, Miguel and Ursula, and their teenage daughter, Kristina, who spoke in Spanish to her father, German to her mother, French to Odile and English to Evie, translating for everyone. There was a Dutch man in his forties, Adriaan, and an English couple, Tom and Fran from Leighton Buzzard. But the food was unlike any she had ever tasted: a soup of creamy Jerusalem artichokes, then whole globe artichokes, dripping with butter, tomatoes seasoned with fresh herbs, tiny potatoes, and meat and sauce that melted on the tongue. Then wafer-like crêpes, cream, apple pie, brandy. Evie had told the guests about her road trip since Dublin; they’d laughed at her story about betting on the racehorse and the evening had been wrapped in a cloud of warmth and geniality.
Odile had stood and sung a traditional song, her small voice high and hearty, and everyone had embraced and wished each other well before Evie had curled up in her campervan among pillows and soft cushions, taken a last look at the star-spattered sky and fallen into a deep sleep.
The next day the sun was warm even before breakfast. She knew exactly where she was going; in a conversation at the dinner table, Fran had suggested she pay a visit to Limoges and stop for a while in Oradour-sur-Glane on her way south, so she had a map marked in Biro and she was soon on her way.
Evie drove through Limousin in the flickering heat with the windows down. It was almost midday when she arrived in Oradour and the sun was searing. She parked the campervan and walked across the grass. When she reached the marble monument of Oradour-sur-Glane, the air became cooler.
The grey plaque outside the village told the martyrs’ story: it had happened on the tenth of June, 1944: number four had not been lucky for the poor villagers who were pulled from their houses and murdered, mistaken for the resistance fighters. The village was preserved, a memorial to the past, and she felt like she was stepping back through time.
Evie had been two years old then, living in a terraced house on the outskirts of Dublin. Her mother had always placed bread and jam at the table and she was a child in a scrubbed frock, reaching out for a slice as her brothers Brendan, Eddie and Patrick stuffed morsels in their mouths with one hand, shoving slices under the table with the other. Kathleen was a baby, sickly and crying a lot, occupying her mother’s attention, while her father’s cough could be heard rasping in his chest from the next room. He had died months later in his bed. Fragile Kathleen turned out to be the strongest of them all. She was in Australia now and Evie seldom heard from her; Eddie and Pat had died within a year of each other, and her brother Brendan lived alone in Sligo.
Her mammy’s eyes had held constant anxiety. Evie remembered the sensation of the hard hand placed tenderly over her hair. Those days were distant now; the world was very different.
In the village, the chill was visceral, the touch of a time and its people which had not yet left. Ghosts lingered on corners, their breath stretching from one house to the next. Birds were silent and the wind hummed low. The signs said ‘Souviens-toi’. Remember. Buildings leaned and crumbled, broken and jagged, teeth in a gaping dead mouth. Evie walked slowly along the yellowing dirt road where grass no longer grew. Bricks in tumbled lines suggested where borders and houses had been. An ancient car, rust red, its grille twisted in a leer, squatted on its wheel rims. A plaque on a wall stated ‘Un Groupe D’Hommes Fut Massacré et Brûlé’. She stared at the words until their meaning sank deep. She passed an old bakery, nothing left but rubble, and she could imagine the cries of the families pushed apart, separated by the length of a gun barrel; she could imagine how closely they huddled to the nearest warm human, how their eyes squeezed tight at the crack of a rifle, again and again.
She crossed to the burned church. It was hollowed and blackened, its bricks and dust scattered. This was where the women and children were brought. Evie was bone cold; the fire-charred arches of the church held the shrieks of the children tightly inside. No God had saved them. She noticed an empty pushchair, twisted and scorched. Someone had put a bunch of simple flowers on the seat. Evie closed her eyes and let the sounds of their shrieks hammer into her ears. When she opened them again, the ghosts were still there; they hung heavy in the air, watching. She walked back through the brittle buildings, clasping herself inside her jacket.
Outside the village, the warm air lifted, bringing her into the sunlight, and she sat down on a bench and reached in her bag for her phone. Brendan had sent her a message. She couldn’t reply yet. She was still among the French men and women in Oradour. It was over seventy years ago but it was happening now. She was wearing a skirt made of thick, itchy stuff, and a dark headscarf. Jim’s cap was pulled firmly over his ears. She was carrying four-year-old Brendan, his legs dangling to her waist, wrapping and unwrapping around her, his little shoes kicking and digging into her apron. It was night time, dusk had fallen and it was cold. They were lined up outside the town hall and men in uniforms pointed guns. Evie could feel how tightly she hugged Brendan; she could imagine Jim’s worried eyes and the young soldiers who spoke in a tongue she did not understand and held guns, the cold metal of their barrels pointing straight at them.
Evie shivered. The barrels waved them apart, Jim to the group of men and Evie and Brendan to the women’s huddle. They were ushered up the hill, to the church and inside. Evie imagined Brendan in her arms; his tiny voice asking her what would happen to them. She could hear the shots going off like fire crackers outside the town hall, knowing that the men were being executed, knowing that Jim would be among them. She saw the eyes of one of the uniformed soldiers, his voice high, as he ordered the women into the church. The wooden door slammed; the silent women held a breath, then there was a smell of smoke. Evie shuddered and opened her eyes.
‘Bist du Deutsche?’ A young man was sitting next to her.
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. I’m Irish.’
‘I am from Stuttgart.’ His English was perfect.
She thought about what to say. ‘This is the first time I have been here.’
‘I come here every year. It is important to remember.’
He was a smooth-faced young man, light-haired, green-eyed. Not more than twenty-five. She thought for a moment. ‘I’m Evie Gallagher.’
‘Didi Klossner.’ They shook hands.
‘Didi, have you been round the martyr village? Oh, I expect that you have. I am still a bit shaken by all that. It’s all very sad.’
He shrugged. ‘The past is still here with us.’ He looked away and a breeze blew his hair.
Evie sat upright. ‘It was a shocking experience. I need a minute to calm myself down. Do you know where I can get a cup of coffee or a brandy? You could come with me. A bit of company might be nice after—’
‘Of course, Evie. It is a good idea. I know a café which sells the best cognac.’
They spent an hour outside a small terraced bar, sitting at a table with iron chairs. The sun warmed their faces and Evie removed the green leather jacket and pulled up her sleeves. Didi ordered drinks in perfect French. As the heat beat down on the pavements, she drank brandy, then a coffee, while Didi told her about his life as a student of languages and philosophy in Berlin and Paris, about his French fiancée, Marie-Claire, and about his views on world peace.
Her companion was a good conversationalist and an excellent listener. She told him about Sheldon Lodge and Mrs Lofthouse; about Anaconda Man and the hundred-to-one racehorse and the betting shop, about buying the campervan and the good friends she had made in Brittany. She told him that she believed in the power of good luck, that she had always been lucky, and four was her number. He’d never heard of the saying about the luck of the Irish. She did not want to talk about Brendan or about Jim and the loneliness that created an aching space. Didi nodded, smiled and seemed to understand without her mentioning it all.
They chatted for an hour and she thought he was lovely company. She could have sat chatting for another hour, but it was probably time to move on and, anyway, one brandy was enough. She wished Didi the best with his studies and his future. She shook his hand, suggested that all governments everywhere didn’t give a shite for world peace and returned to her campervan, a happy little song suddenly floating in her head and on her lips.
She drove for a few hours until she was in the open countryside and hills began to rise around her, their green hump-backs suddenly claustrophobic. Tiredness crept across her arms and sank deeply into her shoulders. She parked, locked the door and crawled into the back for a sleep, thinking it would be interesting to see the Pyrénées the next day and maybe even drive to a summit and look down. The newly unwrapped sleeping bag she’d bought in Angers was cold inside but she had socks and a thick duvet. She pulled the curtains together and let her head fall onto the pillow, her mouth still warm with brandy, and sank deep in slumber.
The sky cracked open and the world outside trembled. Evie opened her eyes – it was blanket dark and a storm was blustering. The windows of the little campervan shook in their frames; the curtains shivered. Outside, a reverberating explosion caused Evie to roll up tightly in her duvet. The countryside lit up brightly and as quickly returned to darkness. She thought it was bombs or gunfire from Oradour but the sequence of rumbling thunder and flashing light caused her to breathe out again. Rain rattled on the roof and drizzled down the windows. She reached for her phone and saw Brendan’s text again, anxiety in his words. Tenderness for her son flooded through her and she replied, wishing she could send her love to him through the ether.