Michel's war, Ayjay [best novels of all time .txt] 📗

The planes of the flat land were empty even though it was February, even though it was time to work on the fields. In 1944 most of the men who worked on the land were either fighting or dead. The field hands were also fighting or dead. All that was left were the women and the children, many of whom couldn’t do the strenuous work required for the cultivation of the land. A few boys scattered here and there were working, desperate to keep their crops flourishing, but they were mostly youths, not old enough for their hard muscles to show from beneath their tough brown skin, so they stopped not long after starting, too exhausted to continue. As the afternoon sun continued to shine, only one boy continued working. Michel Pierre had no choice. With his father gone to war and missing, presumed dead, Michel as the oldest had to continue the work to make sure the family didn’t starve. His eight year old sister, Danielle, had been keeping him company, but had retired to the house for some food. Michel would have loved to run to his tired and beautiful Maman but he resisted the urge and kept on doing his work.

He straightened for a moment, to observe the work he had done. Pushing his sodden brown hair out of his dark brown eyes, he surveyed the area with pride. He had done the entire outer edge of the field, bringing himself up to the boundary of their land, at the edge of the forest. As per custom he glanced into the woods, wondering if he would see any game. As usual, there was nothing. A flat droning sound entered his ears. He glanced up at the sky and saw two planes chasing across the sky. One of them was emitting black smoke and as he watched them disappear over the forest trees, the fighter plane burst into flames, spiralling down. Michel muttered a quick prayer to him-self and hurried home, praying that it was a German plane, hoping all the men were dead. He hated the Boch and wished them nothing more than painful deaths, but he realized it was still uncomfortable to see the plane, know that they had died. He entered their yard and kicked his muddy wellies into the corner, quickly averting his gaze so as not to see his father’s pair of large green wellies. He had not cried since the dreaded telegram had come, he had been strong for his mother, his self and for his sisters and brothers. But sometimes it was hard pretending that he was older than 13, sometimes he just wanted to lie on the floor and howl.

At the entrance to the kitchen, he nearly tripped over his tiny 6 year old brother.
“Arnaud, why do you always sit in the dark, on the stairs? Where is Maman?”
Arnaud’s blue eyes glared up at him, his blond curls tousled, tear tracks staining his grubby cheeks. Michel immediately felt bad for yelling at him. He sat down and hugged the boy, holding him even when the macho six year old resisted the hug. Eventually Arnaud stopped struggling, and cuddled into Michel.
“What’s wrong Arnaud? Why are you crying?”
“I broke the Papa soldier, the biggest one. That was papa, now papa is broken and he will never come back.” Fresh tears again started to cascade down his cheeks. Michel wiped them away and laughed, though he was secretly shaken.
“Oh Arnaud! Do you think there is anything in this house that I can’t fix? Do you remember your toy truck that you thought was broken too? I fixed that one as well.”
Arnaud lifted his head, hope in his bright eyes.
“Really Michel, you can fix it? You’ll fix it for me?”
“Of course! Now go to your room and bring it to me, I’ll get some glue and it’ll be fixed in no time.”
The ecstatic boy gave Michel a hug and ran off. Michel grinned and walked into the kitchen.
Maman was by the stove, mixing a massive pot that smelled of potatoes and turnips. One hand stirred and the other was rubbing her neck. She was petite and thin, and Michel felt responsible as the eldest man of the house to look after her. When Michel walked up to her, he saw she had a weary expression.
“Maman, is there anything I can do to help?”
Sophie Pierre turned and smiled at her 13 year old. His complexion, height and muscles made him look so much like Hubert it tore her heart. She saw his brown eyes crinkled with suppressed worry for her, for the family, and it hurt her that she couldn’t have protected him from the horrors of the war.
“It’s OK Chérie your sister is helping me cook.”
Michel looked around the empty kitchen, exaggerating the movement. Sophie laughed, her tired features changing to give Michel a glimpse of the pretty carefree woman his Maman had once been. The kitchen door bounced against the wall as 12 year old Sonia ran into the kitchen, her dark blond hair bouncing. She stood next to Michel, looking younger than her twelve years because of her petite frame. Her mouth made up for her height though.
“Maman, I heard planes and I saw them going over the fields. Michel left the trowel in the fields; I wanted to clean up the equipment and noticed it wasn’t there. I also took in some potatoes. It’s going to be cold tonight and I don’t want them to freeze. Oh, Maman do you need help?”
“Oui mon amour if you don’t mind. Can you set the table and make the salad?”
“Sure.” Sonia gave Maman a hug, slapped Michel’s back and, chatting away, started doing her jobs. Michel watched her for a moment then looked outside the window. It was getting late already, the sun starting to set. He didn’t want to go out, but knew he had no choice.
“Maman I’m going to get the trowel. I’ll be home soon.”
He leant over and gave her a hug, then traipsed back out into the field. He was tired now, his muscle’s sore so he walked slowly. The forest looked black at this time and he was hesitant to approach it. He reached the trowel but before he headed back, he couldn’t resist a glance. A blackened face was staring right back at him.

He yelped and stumbled backwards, the movement frightening the man in the forest. He lurched forward, his arms up in a truce sign.
“Please, s’il vous plait. Friend, um English RAF. Non harm.”
He had come right up to the boundary. Michel stared at the blackened face, at the torn and burnt uniform. He could just see the lapel on the shoulder, saw the letters RAF. He knew what it was, all the school children did. His heart beat slowed down and he slowly walked towards the man. He felt pity for him. He tapped his chest.
“Michel. I Michel.” The man smiled at him, his teeth gleaming white in all the black.
“I Jonathan. Jonathan Brown.” They shook hands, a contrast of tanned brown and muddied and burnt black. Michel saw he was shivering even though it was only six degrees. Jonathan asked him something but Michel’s English wasn’t so good, so he took Jonathan home with him.

When they entered the yard, Clara came running up to Michel and jumped into his arms. Michel loved his chubby three year old sister, and felt very protective of her. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that she had never known Papa, she was born after he had been called up, or perhaps it was because they looked the most alike; the same brown hair, eyes, skin and features. She chattered to him, then noticing Jonathan she shrieked and buried her head against his neck.
“Peur, peur.” She mumbled.
“It’s OK Clara, it’s a friend. Look, say hello to Jonathan.” She raised her head to look at the man, and then stared at his features.
“Why he all black?” she asked.
“Don’t be rude Clara. Let’s take him in OK?”
She nodded and ran into the kitchen shouting Maman.
Michel turned back to Jonathan who was smiling.
“Sorry. She very small. She not know.”
“It’s OK.” He followed Michel into the kitchen. Maman was serving soup to all the children. She looked up with a smile which dropped when she saw Jonathan.
“Maman, he’s English. His plane burst into flames and I found him at the edge of the forest. Please can we save him?”
She stared at him then smiled.
“Hello, I’m Sophie Pierre. You are welcome to stay with us as much as you need.”
She spoke English well with a pretty accent. Jonathan smiled and shook her hand.
“I’m Jonathan Brown. I fly with the RAF and a German got my spitfire. I fear I am the only survivor. Thank you for your kind words and thank you for hosting me. Would I be able to bathe and change my clothing?”
She nodded and instructed Michel to show him to the outhouse and to give him some of Papa’s clothing. Michel was surprised but did as she had requested.

He waited outside for Jonathan to finish, and spotted small; black-haired; serious Laurent striding towards him.
“Michel, how could you? You’re putting us all into to danger by bringing that man here. And what if the Boch come? They will punish Maman like they punished Madame Richard.”
“Laurent what are you talking about? He will look like a Frenchman in Papa’s clothing and-“
“Papa’s clothing? Are you mad? How could you give him papa’s clothing? It will then be like papa’s really dead.”
“Laurent, papa is dead.”
Laurent started shouting with tears in his startlingly blue eyes.
“No, papa is not dead, he will come home after the war, he will.”
Michel snapped.
“Laurent you are eleven years old. It’s time to stop pretending and grow up. It’s hard enough trying to live normally every day without you messing around, being unrealistic. Welcome to reality. Papa is dead, and this man needs clothing. Do you want to give your clothes to him? Even if they are too small? Or how about Maman’s clothes? Do you think he’ll look good in a skirt or dress with a shawl around his head?”
Laurent stared at Michel while he felt horrible. The tears fell from Laurent’s eyes, and he turned to go back to the house. Michel cursed himself and ran after his brother. He grabbed him, even as Laurent tried to push him away. Michel held him harder and let the kid kick and punch him until he stopped and just cried against Michel’s shirt.
“I’m so sorry Laurent. That was really mean of me, I didn’t mean to say that and you’re right. Papa is definitely still alive and he’ll come back to us soon.”
“You’re lying; you’re just saying that to get me to stop crying.”
“No Laurent, I’m not. Look, will you forgive me for what I said? There was no excuse at all for my behaviour.”
“Of course I forgive you. You can’t be so good all the time. And I love you Michel. You’re the nicest oldest brother.”
“Thank you. I love you too Laurent. Now go back to Maman and tell her we’ll be back soon.”
Laurent sniffled, nodded and ran back home. Michel felt slightly better, but he still wanted to kill himself for saying those things to Laurent. The kid was only 11 for heaven’s sake.
Jonathan came out of the outhouse, dressed in papa’s clothes. Michel felt