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Posted on 12/24/2001 11:35:18 PM PST by ikka

It was a Saturday evening in February, during the second year of the occupation. It seemed as if the winter would never end. Since dawn, a fleecy snow had been falling on the famished city, which was paralyzed with cold. The hour of the curfew was fast approaching. A few hurried towards their icy dwellings, hoping to find warmth around the stove. The extinguished streetlamps were strung out along the darkened streets, like remnants of an extinguished civilization, while the windows, covered by order of the occupying forces, gave the setting the sinister air of an abandoned city. At that hour, the whiteness of the snow was barely distinguishable from the blackness of the night, like a pale face half-glimpsed behind a mourning veil.

How distant seemed the winters before the war, when the gusting snowflakes had swirled in the halo of the streetlights, and vendors of roasted chestnuts had stamped their feet and shouted from under their acetylene lamps" "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen . . . hot chestnuts . . . thirteen to the dozen . . . hot chestnuts . . ." The streets had swarmed with people! The windows of the grocery stores had overflowed with goods! Time and again, I would stop to press my nose to a display window, full of exotic fruit, dreaming of my voyages to tropical places. Of all those marvels, my father had bought only figs and dates at the approach of Christmas. Still, we were rich in hope.

Youth rarely admits defeat. That evening, in a modest flat at the back of a dark courtyard, 24 de la rue Galsworthy, my friend M. and I were sailing a hundred thousand leagues from the world of misery and war. In the belief that no sentinel, no cheval de frise, can arrest those who fly on the wings of the spirit, we were laying plans for the future as daring as they were irrational. We believed--a little naively, I confess--that a celestial power watched over us, preserving us for a unique destiny. We feverishly discussed the stars and the atoms, the infinitely large and the infinitely small, as if in that way to escape the limits of the known universe. What moments of joy we experienced that evening, together again after a long seperation!

And when our voices fell, and we returned for a moment to the earth, it was to listen to the crackling of the fire in the stove and the tick-tock of the old alarm clock, while outside the night prowled about the courtyard. We were alone in the flat. M.'s mother had been gone since noon in search of her meager ration of charcoal. She was late in returning. My friend was beginning to get worried about that poorly shod, poorly dressed, poorly nourished woman. In those days, it was an accomplishment just to return home safely with a load of charcoal.

The depot was at the far end of the city, near the central station. There, from morning to evening, an interminable procession of wretched penitents advanced, along a brick wall. They were obliged to be not only patient but vigilant, for there were gate-crashers who would insinuate themselves into the line, and time gained by the unscrupulous was lost to the foiled. In those days, politeness, fraternity, and pity were all in short supply. In that endless queue of men and women slowly perishing in the cold, humanity had withdrawn two thousand years into the past. And when at last they penetrated the overheated shed to humbly proffer their coupons and their rumpled banknotes, they still had to find a carter and bargain for the price of transport, for certain neighborhoods were more distant than others and certain streets lay on hills. And then they had to slip a bill to the labourer who filled the cart, not to tempt him to add a shovelful more, but to discourage him from leaving them one short. This was to say nothing of the curses that filled their ears, of the constant danger of being trampled under the horses' hooves, as the immaculate, indifferent snow spread over the mountains of black rocks.

Six o'clock came, and M.'s mother still had not returned. Half past six. Seven. There was only an hour left before curfew.

"I should have gone for that damed charcoal myself!" lamented my friend.

Yes, but hadn't his mother said, "Stay inside where it's warm, my boy. You've got books to read, you've got things to learn. I'm an old woman, I have nothing else to do."

Finally, at seven o'clock, the door opened. She greeted us with a smile.

"Mother, where have you been all this time?"

"Where do you think I was, my boy? I was on foot, and I had a long wait."

"And the charcoal? Did you bring it?"

"No, but it'll be here shortly. I was lucky enough to fall in with an honest carter. He promised to look after everything. I gave him the coupon, the money, and the address. And I told him: the second door on the left as you enter the courtyard."

"Mother, are you serious? You left the coupon and the money with a stranger, and you think he'll come with the charcoal? I hope you got his name and his cart number."

"And what good would that have done, my boy? If he wants to trick me, he'll find a way. But I saw the man, I could tell he was honest."

"I suppose it was written on his face?"

"Well, it would have made no difference to me. You know your poor mother can't read."

"But, Mother, don't you realize there's a war going on; the country is occupied, and men are acting worse than animals?"

"And I tell you that I saw the man, I looked into his eyes. The eyes never lie."

M. fell silent. There was nothing to be gained in pursuing the conversation. The only thing to do was to wait and hope. I,too, fell silent; like my friend, I thought that the poor woman had been taken in by a shyster, who must have been pleased to meet such a credulous old lady.

Outside, the wind increased in volume, causing the air in the stovepipe to moan. On the roof, the weathercock whirled madley. We spoke in low voices. The alarm clock continued its monotonous ticking, while M.'s mother bustled about the stove, preparing the polenta. The closer the hour of curfew approached, the darker her face grew. Did she fear the reproaches of her son? Did she regret having placed her confidence in a stranger? The evening was ruined, in that tiny room. I wanted to leave, but M. restrained me. After several months of separation, we had so many ideas and impressions to exchange.

I kept putting off the moment of departure. When I finally made up my mind to go out into the snowy, deserted streets, it was too late. I would risk being arrested by a patrol. I decided to stay. I think that M. was happy not to be left alone wit his mother.

At half past seven, the polenta was steaming on the table, a few lumps of lard floating on the surface of the corn-meal.

"Eat, my children . . . eat . . . have some cretons. . . . You know what they say: life enters by the mouth?"

We ate in silence. From the corner of an eye, one could observe the large hand of the old alarm clock: a quarter to eight. A heavy hand knocked the door. We all jumped. M.'s mother rushed to answer.

In the doorway stood a big, hairy devil disguised as a snowman. He gave a broad smile.

"Good evening. It's not a night for a dog to be out. Couldn't get here any sooner. My horse fell twice on Avenue du Prince Analphabete. Ah! you were thinking you'd never see me again . . . admit it."

"To tell the truth, the thought crossed my mind," replied M.'s mother.

"My dear lady, if I had tricked you, my sould would have been condemned to drag this cart through the empty streets every night till the Day of Judgment. . . . I've worked hard all my life, I think I'll have earned the right to a little rest when it comes my time to kick off, eh?"

And what a powerful laugh he had, that strange man who had emerged from the night and the storm! I did not know if he was a devil or a saint.

With big wicker baskets, we helped him carry his precious cargo to the basement. Once the job was done, he pocketed his fee and, refusing a seat and cup of ersatz coffee, he swallowed a glass of brandy. Gazing at him as he stood, soaking wet, by the stove, I would have thought, "Surely this is a phantom carter," if it had not been for his shovel. Then he went back into the night.

The moment the door had closed on the stranger, M.'s mother uttered a sob of joy:
"Did you recognize him, children?"

We looked at one another in surprise. We had never set eyes on the man before.

"But it was Joseph, the carpenter! Tonight he has disguised himself as a carter!"

We stared at her with out mouths open. How could she possibly expect us to believe the Joseph, the carpenter, had come to 24 de la rue Glasworthy?

"Ah! I'm forgetting that you're educated young men, you don't believe in such things. Well, if it wasn't him, if I'm guilty of blasphemy, may Heaven forgive me. But, I tell you, that carter was as much like Joseph as a twin brother."

We said nothing, and she said nothing more. But to celebrate the happy outcome, we were treated to a spoonful of cherry jam. She kept it "in case of illness."

M. and I talked until very late. During the night, the storm abated. IN the morning, we awoke to the sounds of M.'s mother at the stove, scraping the ashes from the pan. After all these years, those faint ringing sounds still resound in my ears, like a carillon of bells. When we finally rose, the warmth of the fire was spreading through the flat. Outside in the yard, voices could be heard where the neighbours were shovelling snow. People in the street had to shield their eyes from the brightness.

Decades have passed since that winter evening. M.'s mother long ago returned to the village of her birth, to the little country cemetery. On summer days, the shadow of a willow slides over her grave. Wild grass grows between the tombstones. A few steles lean crookedly. In the south-east, a little wooded mountain lifts the peaceful landscape of valleys and hills.

Long ago, a little barefoot girl kept watch over a small flock of sheep on those hillsides. She spent her day running after small lambs, and never learned to read or write. One winter evening, having grown into a woman and raised a child, shw showed us that it is not necessary to know the alphabet to read into the souls of men.

Translated from the French by David Lobdell

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