Free All Our Wordly Goods by Irène Némirovsky Page A

bright to her: the dingy little dining room, the old faces around her. She was living in Paris with her mother and the Hardelots. Charles had never managed to get back to Saint-Elme: it was occupied by the Germans. It had been two years, now, and still they had no idea what had happened to Julien Hardelot, the house, the factory. They didn’t have much money. They didn’t have enough room; their apartment was too small for so many people. The two mothers bickered constantly. But none of that mattered: Pierre was coming home tonight. They didn’t know exactly when he would get there. They simply had to wait. Wait, staring at the door. Wait, straining to hear the sound of the taxicabs down in the street. Waiting was both unbearable and exquisite. It brought pleasure that felt like a kind of torture. They knew he was coming, didn’t they, they were sure of it. Their suffering was over. Yes, it was finally over, the horrific, incessant suffering of war. And what remained was a sense of eager impatience that burned like fire.
    How sweet and pleasant everything seemed to Agnès. She loved everyone. She wanted to kiss Madame Hardelot, to stroke her father-in-law’s cheek. As for her own mother, she couldn’t contain herself; she grabbed her round the waist, pulled her close, pressed her cheek to hers, laughing. She went into the kitchen where the Breton maid, whom Madame Florent had hired, was beating some eggs. She asked her about her father, who was away at war. She took the bowl away from her: she wanted to prepare the dessert for Pierre herself. But a moment later she was afraid she might get her dress dirty — she was wearing a new dress. Would Pierre like it? Waves of ice and fire flooded through her entire body.
    ‘They must think I’m mad,’ she thought, running towards the entrance hall, looking at herself anxiously in the mirror. She smiled; she thought she looked pretty; her delicate face was glowing, as if lit up from inside by a pure, intense flame.
    ‘Agnès,’ called Madame Florent.
    ‘Yes, Mother, I’m coming,’ she replied. But she didn’t move. She wanted to wait there, in the dark hallway, pressed against the door that was about to open. The child was asleep in the next room. This very night, an hour from now, they would lean over their child together and kiss his hair. Together! They would be together. What did it matter if it was brief, she thought to herself. What was a week to her before? Many empty, useless hours. But now … how many smiles and tears, howmuch joy and sadness in the space of only six days of leave. They were living in strange, dizzying times.
    Everything happened just as she had so often imagined it. Everything was exactly as in her dreams: the sound of the taxi outside, the street door banging shut, Madame Hardelot’s voice quivering like an old woman’s with joy and fear, then the old lift rising slowly, solemnly and, even before it reached their floor, the whole family rushing out on to the landing, calling, ‘Is that you? Are you really here? Is it you, Pierre?’
    Yes, it was really him. The feel of a masculine cheek against hers, rough yet gentle, Pierre’s hand on her arm, his voice in her ear. Agnès felt nothing else, was oblivious to everything, forgot even the cry that had risen within her the moment she heard the taxi stop in front of the house: ‘The first, wonderful moment is already gone. How quickly the rest of the time will go, my God. He’ll be leaving again so soon.’

11
    The division was waiting for the relief team. They had set up camp on a small hill, above a few ruined houses, on the site of what had formerly been a village. Only the church remained standing. Pierre could see shadows moving through the darkness: abandoned, starving cats hunted in packs amid the rubble. They weren’t the only ones still there: a few old people, a few children remained, hidden from view in basements. Pierre heard the two-tone toll of the bells, announcing a gas