Disturbing the Dark Read online

  All four of my film interns were having a lovely time shooting background footage among the crowd. Antoine had herded his students back into the orchard for a discussion of the role of the bitter, ­inedible Binet Rouge apple in the blending of good hard cider. And Olivia, after the capitaine of the district gendarmerie, Pierre Dauvin, declined her offer to stay and advise his people about the proper method for excavating remains, decamped with her students to a far corner of the cow pasture where Grand-mère promised there were remnants of an ancient stone wall they might dig around.

  After the masses had been pushed back, Freddy, Grand-mère and I, and Guido with a running video camera in front of his face, as usual, were with Dauvin, keeping vigil over the skull site until a decision came down from the local Procureur de la Republique, who functioned something like an American district attorney, about whose problem the skull was and what should be done not only with the skull but with a search for the rest of the carcass the skull had once been attached to.

  Capitaine Dauvin was a local man, an old family friend, and probably a cousin of the Martin clan—and therefore me—somewhere along the way. His connections to the area and its people could be either an asset or a great hindrance in his work. While his platoon of officers snapped to attention when he was around, old friends did not. How his familiarity was going to play in the current situation had yet to unfold, though the problems he would face ­began to emerge immediately.

  “I am sorry you are inconvenienced, Freddy,” Dauvin told my brother. “But think, man, how lucky you were. It could have been a bomb. You know what happened at Jouet’s when the dog dug up unexploded ordinance. Kaboom! Sheepdog parts blasted from here to La Manche, not to mention the tractor. No, my friend, think yourself fortunate that it’s just more war dead you’ve dug up. If it is war dead, that is.”

  “Of course it is,” Grand-mère said. “You know that perfectly well, Pierre Dauvin. And if you have any doubts I will call your grandmother and have her assure you of it, because she helped me put the putain de cochon into the ground.”

  “As you say, madame,” Dauvin said with a courtly little bow. “But there are procedures that must be adhered to, non?”

  “How long will it take before I can get back to work, Pierre?” Freddy was beside himself. “The plumbers are coming to install the sewer connections next week. If I delay the trench, I go back to the end of the queue and I won’t see them until spring.”

  Dauvin shrugged. “What happens next depends on what Doctor Patel has to tell the procureur about cause of death. As I told you, she will decide how we proceed.”

  “Then I will speak with our Doctor Patel right away.” Grand-mère aimed a finger toward the screened-off area of trench. “And now that he has been discovered, I want him gone from here right now. And the others as well.”

  Guido, who had been filming the entire conversation, froze in place. “Others, Madame Martin? How many others?”

  “Sixteen more,” she said with a dismissive little wave.

  “You buried seventeen men here?” Guido gave Grand-mère a long look, as if seeing her for the first time. “Merde.”

  “I told you the story,” I said.

  “Only in broad outline,” Guido countered. “You didn’t say there were seventeen of them.”

  “A broad outline is all I know,” I said. “The locals took care of some rapacious German Occupation troops in 1944, and apparently here they are.”

  “And that is more than anyone needs to know,” Grand-mère added.

  “So, Pierre,” Freddy persisted. “When German war remains were found under a collapsed wall near Pérrier a few years ago, some group of volunteers came from Germany and removed them. Can we call those people?”

  “The German War Graves Commission—the Volksbund,” Pierre said with a nod. “Malheureusement, as extravagant as the number of cadavers there might be here among the carrots, I understand that the Volksbund is so busy recovering German war dead in Ukraine now that they have finally been permitted to enter the Eastern sector, that unless we promise them at least fifty dead at this site, they simply haven’t the resources to bother with removal.”

  I said, “Surely the German government has some apparatus for recovering their own combat dead.”

  Dauvin shrugged, meaning, I thought, Go figure. “It seems that the German government is still too embarrassed by Nazi war atrocities to risk having a presence in such an activity. No, retrieval and identification are left to volunteers. All they ask of us is that we save for them any dog tags we find.”

  “Bon,” Grand-mère said with an emphatic hand clap. “If the Germans don’t want them, then we will call the priest and be done with all this before our little event becomes a scandal.”

  “Becomes a scandal?” I said, waving a hand toward the crowd. “A little late for that, Grand-mère. Everyone in the village knows what happened here.”

  “Yes, my Maggie, everyone in the village knows what happened. However, until this morning only four people ever knew where the bastards were buried. But now, look at this.” She struggled to pull her mobile phone from her slacks pocket. “There I was, quite content this morning driving my little cart around, searching for late raspberries when this damn instrument your cousin Antoine insists I carry starts ringing. And there it is, a text from my friend Clara at the library in the village. You see?”

  A video one of the young people had posted online showing the skull’s emergence from the ground and its tumble back into the trench played on Grand-mère’s mobile’s screen. A scroll running across the top read, trending, followed by a story update: “Archeological dig in Normandy unearths modern murder victim.”

  “Holy merde.” I scrolled through various updates and versions in four languages before I turned off the phone. In one hour, one hundred thousand people had viewed the video.

  “And it is not the truth,” she said, returning the phone to her pocket. “It was not murder, what we did. It was an act of war. For the people of our village who know the circumstance, the way we dispatched those bêtes lubriques was both honorable and a little bit heroic. As to outsiders, and so many years later, what business is it of theirs where we disposed of them?”

  I looked over at the mass of humanity being held back by gendarmes. Who was going to tell them this was none of their ­business, I wondered? I put my arm around Grand-mère. She leaned her head against my shoulder and took a couple of breaths. Calmer, she looked up at me, smiled gamely, and patted my cheek.

  She said, “I saw what happened in Pérrier when those men were found. It was bad enough that ghouls came and dug up the ground looking for Nazi souvenirs to sell. But it was worse when possible survivors of those dead men arrived hoping that all these years later their missing papa or grandpapa would be identified among the remains. They hear about every discovery on Google alert, and they arrive with photos: ‘Do you remember my papa? Did you ever see him?’ To hell with them.”

  “You can understand that the family would want to know,” I said. “It has to be awful to have a loved one go missing in action and to never learn how or where he died.”

  “Bien sûr, chérie,” she said raising her palms to acknowledge a fact not in dispute. “But sometimes it is better to remain in the dark, yes? Will you be the one to tell a man or a woman the truth about what their sainted father did to the people of this village during the war? Shall I tell them how their father died? I say, put the earth back over them somewhere and leave them be. Let us say no more about them or that damn war.”

  Sounding alarmed, Guido said, “Mag?”

  “Grand-mère,” I said, feeling the same uncomfortable buzz somewhere in my middle parts that I heard in Guido’s voice. “You know that the American television network that is financing the film we’re making here expects us to include a conversation with you about what you did during that damn war. Have you changed your mind?”

  “My dear Maggie,” Grand-mère said with a wicked little smile, canting her head to
watch me. “You know I only agreed to talk to you in front of the camera about what happened here during the war as a ruse to get you to fly over to visit your old Grand-mère this summer.”

  “I know,” I said. “And I used your story as a ruse to get funding from my network so I could be here. Now, where are we?”

  “Cat’s out of the bag, Madame Martin,” Guido ventured. “You can’t put him back in.”

  “Perhaps. But I am certainly not required to let the beast back into my house,” she said with a little shrug, linking her arm in mine. “Don’t worry, children. We will talk. But lunch first, yes?”

  “Of course,” I said, not quite persuaded she would be very forthcoming when she did get around to talking for the camera about anything except farming. “Lunch first.”

  Carefully stepping around the police barriers, we headed toward her RTV. As I helped her in, she called out to Dauvin.

  “Pierre, I’m afraid it might rain for your nephew’s baptism party Sunday at the beach pavilion. When you pass through Lessay, will you please stop at the convent and ask Ma Mère to lend you the large marquee?”

  “Of course, madame,” he said with a little bow. And with a twinkle in his eye, he asked, “And shall I have some of my gendarmes erect the marquee as well?”

  “No, no, just drop it off, please,” she answered with a little wave as she started the cart’s motor. “There are enough strong young bodies around here to put it up.”

  “Guido,” I called, gesturing for him to hop into the back of the RTV. “À table.”

  4

  At the stroke of noon, everyone who lived or worked on the family estate washed their hands, combed their hair, and showed up at Grand-mère’s old stone house for lunch, as was local custom. During the summer when there were extra bodies to feed and the weather was warm, long plank tables were set up under the rose-­covered arbor that linked two of the three houses inside the stone-walled family compound. On any given day, counting students, ­family, and workers in the fromagerie, the fields and orchard, there could be as many as forty hungry people to feed.

  Grand-mère always took the seat at the end of the table closest to the kitchen door so that she could oversee the two women from the village who arrived early every morning to prepare and serve the meal. The seat to her right was reserved for her old friend, Marie Foullard, called Grand-mère Marie by everyone. Other than that, there were no rules about who sat where. People tended to sort themselves out by age and occupation. I usually sat at the grown-ups’ table with my grandmother, my half brother Freddy, Olivia Boulez the archeologist, Jacques Breton the cheesemaker and his wife Julie (née Foullard), my cousin Antoine, and various others generally over the age of thirty.

  The seating arrangements were not entirely sorted by age, however. My daughter, Casey, a college junior, had become fascinated with cheese making that summer, and also, it appeared, with the cheesemaker’s handsome son, David Breton, who had one more university term to finish before he went on to graduate school. On that day, Casey and David were seated at the far end of the table from me, deep in conversation, possibly about something other than cheese. My old pal, Guido, was at the next table, among the youngsters. Guido knew better than to put himself anywhere near Olivia’s prize student, Solange, so instead he was holding a young local woman in thrall with, from what I gleaned by shameless eavesdropping, a rather enhanced version of his life working in American television. I heard him say, “Maybe you can help me with my French.” In reaction, Olivia snickered. Solange pouted.

  As everyone found their seats, my cousin Antoine came across the graveled compound from his house with Grand-mère Marie on his arm. I was told that Marie was present at my birth and stood as a sponsor at my baptism, but because I was spirited away to California when I was very young, I had no memory of her when I came to Normandy the previous fall to meet this part of my family for the first time since that happened. She was about the same age as my grandmother, though she seemed older. Her hips hurt and she wore a hearing aid when she thought to put it in. But, like my grandmother, she remained a force to be reckoned with.

  Antoine looked tired, as might be expected because of the load he carried. He was the oldest of Grand-mère and Henri’s grandchildren, the elder of my Uncle Gérard’s two sons with his late wife, Louise, née Foullard, and thus Marie’s daughter. After secondary school, he had gone to California to study agriculture, married an American, Kelly, fathered two children, and landed a professorship at the state university in San Luis Obispo, on the Central Coast of California. They were all very happy there.

  After my grandfather Henri died, Grand-mère couldn’t manage all of the estate’s various enterprises on her own. Her adult children, Isabelle and Gérard, had careers elsewhere, as did their children. My Uncle Gérard, who had no interest in farming and had no intention of moving back to Normandy from his new home in London with wife number two, decided that the best solution would be to plow under the farm operations and replace them with a massive retirement community, complete with golf course. Gérard’s plan had been far more ambitious and potentially destructive than Freddy’s current development that made use of the non-arable land along the shoreline.

  Grand-mère, appalled by Uncle Gérard’s plan, appealed to ­Antoine to stop his father. Antoine and Kelly decided that the experience of living in France would benefit their children and be an adventure for them all. Once arrangements with his university were settled, allowing Antoine to maintain his tenure by teaching American students in Normandy through the university’s campus abroad program and by mentoring graduate students in agriculture, he brought his family over. Two years, they thought. But now it had been five, and they wanted to go back. Kelly was currently in California with the children, spending the school holiday with her parents. Her husband missed them terribly.

  After Antoine seated Grand-mère Marie next to my grandmother and took a seat next to me, grace was said, the back door opened and, to happy cheers, lunch appeared. Large platters of chilled rice and seafood salad, roast chicken with green beans and fried potatoes, and of course baskets of bread, were placed on the tables, along with carafes of water, cold apple cider, and red vin ordinaire. At the end of the meal, trays of cheeses were passed along with small glasses of Calvados, the local apple brandy, as a digestif. Altogether, it was a deliciously convivial break in the day.

  Just as people were finishing, Pierre Dauvin drove into the courtyard in his blue-and-white Renault patrol car, with Jacqueline Cartier riding shotgun. I seemed to be the only one who tensed at their arrival, expecting that because they were still in full uniform this was an official visit. But they exchanged a round of les bises, the cheek kisses that are the standard greeting among French familiars, found places at the table, and filled plates with food. Jacques the cheesemaker poured a glass of cider for Jacqueline, his niece and namesake, and passed the wine carafe to Pierre.

  Grand-mère gave Pierre and Jacqueline time to settle in before she asked, “You have something to tell us, Pierre?”

  He nodded as he washed down a mouthful of chicken. “From the dental work, Doctor Patel concluded that the remains are early mid-century, quite probably German, almost certainly a war casualty. The procureur, as a formality, has arranged to have the skull sent to the Institut Médico-Légal in Nice for scientific examination. As soon as she hears back, and if Doctor Patel’s assessment is supported and the remains are in fact German, she will send a formal request to the Volksbund to arrange for repatriation or instructions for re-interment of the remains. In the meantime, madame, though I do not wish to cause you further distress, she asks that you meet her at the discovery site this afternoon to show her where the others are buried. They must be removed and disposed of properly.”

  “How long before I can get back to work on my trench?” Freddy asked, looking distressed.

  “All depends on what the Institut Médico-Légal has to say.” Dauvin helped himself to more rice salad. “Remember that it is ­Augus
t and everyone is on vacation.”

  Freddy groaned.

  “I will make some calls,” Grand-mère said, catching Freddy’s eye to reassure him. She knew that for Freddy working on the housing project was a very welcome distraction from the Grand Guignol mess his personal life had become. Putting work on hold until public ­offices re-opened in September would be a hardship for him on many levels. To me, she said, “Chérie, our conversation can wait until after I speak with madame le procureur?”

  “Bien sûr, Grand-mère,” I said, trying to sound like a local. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll come along with you and Pierre to meet her. With a camera.”

  “I wouldn’t dare say no.” She patted my hand. “You are so like your mother, so persistent.” From what I had learned about my birth mother, Isabelle, I was not at all certain that was a compliment.

  As people finished their meals, they began to disperse. Some of the workers stretched out in patches of garden shade for naps. A group of young people, after figuring out transportation, headed off to the family’s beach pavilion down the coast at Anneville-sur-Mer for a swim and probably a co-ed game of soccer. Guido invited some of the other young people, including his very pretty, very young luncheon seatmate, for a tour of the production studio we had set up in a little stone outbuilding that had once been an ice house.

  Solange got up and walked over to a very handsome young man, tall and dark with a mop of black curls, and initiated a conversation. I wondered if she did this to twit Guido, but if she did, he didn’t seem to notice. Her conversation with the young man grew animated and soon they moved together over to the back corner of Grand-mère’s house where the curly-haired youth stooped to run his hand along one of the foundation stones, apparently as an illustration of something that she seemed to find intriguing. Or maybe it was her fellow student she found intriguing; the course of love between young academics, I thought, with a sigh, and wished that Jean-Paul, my current love, were there beside me.