Free Wolfsangel by Liza Perrat Page B

villagers passing beneath the vaulted entrance of Saint Antoine’s church. ‘Unlike your father. Now hurry along, the service is about to start. Even though it is all a lot of rot if you ask me.’
    Religion was about the one subject on which my mother and I agreed, and we only attended church at Christmas, Easter and the Harvest Festival. But as much as Mass bored me, once inside Saint Antoine’s I was always in awe of the centuries-old granite monument.
    We stood in the pews bathed in the autumn sun in soft sections of reds, greens and yellows reflected from the windows. I felt the power of the bronze organ pipes as Père Emmanuel’s voice spilled over the altar draped in pretty pinks and golds, and down across the flagstones.
    ‘This year has been difficult for all of us,’ the priest said. ‘There may be amongst you those who bear resentment against God. That He, supposedly omnipotent, can let such things as this war and the occupation happen. But it is not for us to question God, only to accept with patience, remembering the greater suffering of His Son.’ He rapped a fist in the air. ‘If you can think of your grief as an extension of that greater grief, then God will surely give you strength. Because our strength and our faith have served us well. Continue as such and we will emerge victorious!’
    The bell chimed the end of Mass. ‘Now,’ he said, his expression softening, ‘let us name the Harvest Queen –– she who’ll wear the crown.’
    The congregation traipsed outside as the music started up, and people began shouting out the names of the village girls.
    ‘Juliette Dubois!’ Patrick called. Miette giggled and blushed, though I’m sure she wasn’t the least bit surprised.
    ‘Agnes Grattaloup!’ Marc Dutrottier cried. Everybody laughed, most of all Agnes, who was close on a hundred and had no idea there was a war going on.
    I glanced at Denise, her eyes fixed on Olivier as if willing him to call her name.
    ‘Céleste Roussel!’ Olivier said.
    I thumped his arm. ‘One of your silly jokes?’
    Denise’s mouth folded into a pout as she stalked off, her backside wobbling like jam.
    In the end André Copeau’s girl, the raven-haired Ghislaine Dutrottier, with eyes her father claimed had caught the sky in them, wore the Harvest Crown. André’s lips spread in a great silly grin as we toasted Ghislaine’s success.
    ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Denise said to me. ‘How Ghislaine got those blue eyes when everyone knows that’s impossible, with two dark-eyed parents.’
    I shrugged. ‘Who knows, maybe it can happen?’
    ‘Yes, I suppose anything can happen when odd types mix.’ Denise’s eyes flickered to the Germans, sitting together at the furthest tables.
    My pulse quickened, my eyes darting to the soldiers and back to Denise. She couldn’t possibly know about Martin Diehl. Could she? Because if Denise Grosjean found out, the entire village would know. That would be the end of me. And the end of Félicité’s plan.
    ‘First dance is mine,’ Olivier said, sweeping me from my plate of steaming boudin and roasted apple. He whirled me through the crowd, the odour of ginger snaps, buttery crepes and hot saucisson in my nostrils, the autumn scent of hewn grass in my hair.
    ‘Did you hear?’ Denise said, sidling up to us again, her mouth bursting with sugary crepe. Whatever she had to say, I was sure it was only another ruse to get Olivier’s attention.
    ‘People are saying the police know who blew up that factory last week.’ She raised her eyebrows at Olivier, as if expecting him to spill the whole story. ‘The one the Germans use to make parts for tanks and aeroplanes.’
    ‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Denise,’ Olivier said.
    ‘Believe me or not,’ she went on, ‘someone in that group is a traitor.’
    ‘How do you know this?’ I said.
    ‘Everybody’s talking about it,’ Denise said. ‘Get the potatoes out of your ears, Céleste. It’s only a matter of time