Agnes was a beautiful woman whom I’ll always remember. We had become steadfast acquaintances during my early months in Treignac and she always took an avid interest in our progress and the comings and goings at La Maison de la Coquille. Agnes and Vincent, her elderly husband, lived on the opposite side of the market square and we would inevitably bump into each other on market day or on our daily trips to the René’s Boulangerie.
Agnes was originally from the northeastern region of Alsace Lorraine and her married children were now scattered between L’Alsace and La Régionne Parisienne (Paris and its outer suburbs). Corrèze was her husband’s choice of locale, as it was here that his ancestral roots were deeply planted. They had moved to his childhood home as a young couple and had resided in the same house on the square ever since.
Agnes was a woman of great eloquence and poise, which instantly attracted me. She spoke, what I thought to be perfect French and in her company, I hoped to improve upon my own language skills. In the early days, we were rarely alone in our conversations as her beloved Vincent was never far from her side. They were the perfectly devoted couple and seldom apart. I was quick to notice that my outwardly happy and confident friend, Agnes, was in actuality completely dependent on Vincent for her personal happiness. It pained me to observe my friend’s entire loss of self when the day of poor Vincent’s demise arrived. She was consumed with grief and this fragile soul was going to need all the support and love, we as a community, could muster. Her children visited as often as physically possible during this period of mourning but their work commitments and the sheer distances they had to cover to reach her, made it a virtually impossible situation for all concerned.
Her eldest son, Jerôme, insisted she move to Alsace to be under his watchful eye but Agnes’ nostalgia for her family home in Treignac was too strong a bond to break. She decided to stay on, live where her beloved Vincent had wished to live out his days, no matter how challenging it would prove to be.
I admired her courage and decided I would encourage and support her to my best abilities.
I would often find her at home alone, her pale blue eyes wet with tears and her previously rosy complexion, grey with sorrow. I would drop in for tea every so often and gradually our affection and admiration for each other blossomed. Agnes loved to impress me with her collection of English, fine-bone china, which she had received as a wedding gift so many years ago and it soon become a ‘secret ritual’ that once a month we would meet at her house for High Tea à la Française (French style).
She adored the age-old Anglo custom of high tea. Fine china, excellent teas and delicate finger food served in her gracefully furnished surrounds. With each visit I witnessed her poise and confidence return. Her complexion regained a gentle glow and she smiled more frequently and under less duress.
I cherished my visits with Agnes, not only for her generous cups of Orange Peking and pleasant company but for the many wonderful stories she would share with me. Although at times shy in company, she was a natural raconteur and the memories of her youth and the resistance were an awakening to me. I had never discussed the wars in France with anyone until now. Jean had occasionally spoken of his father’s youth during World War 2 and I knew a little of his sufferings by the German’s hands. Even my own parents who had grown up in war-torn Europe had only ever recounted slithers of their lives to me over the years. Never had I experienced these atrocious events through such clarity of thought and detail or with such bittersweet memory.
Now every word seemed to carry more weight and importance, knowing that I presently resided in the very place where this horrid history took place. Every façade now told a new story and held newfound meaning.
As I was to learn through Agnes’ words, the Corrèze region had been a major stronghold for the Maquis or the French Resistance, during the Second World War. Due to the region’s rugged, forested terrain and steep impenetrable mountain slopes, it had proved the perfect cache for the resistant fighters and their ammunition stock-holds. The high mountain plateaux proved excellent supply drop points for the English Air force planes and many resistance fighters obtained their arms via this method. They hid their stockpile in deep mountain caves and if local legend is correct, the remains of these arms still exist, guarded carefully by the peasant farmers.
I now acknowledged why there were so many war memorials and plaques throughout this otherwise modest village and the surrounding countryside. Thousands of people had brutally lost their lives in these remote hills whilst fighting for the freedom of their country and the bullet holes in the granite walls of the township, were living proof of their sacrifices.
Agnes’s account of the first wave of German tanks into the sleepy village sent chills down my spine. She vividly described her feeling of utter disbelief and terror, as the massive metal monsters could be heard from miles away rumbling over the cobbled streets into the heart of the village. From that day forward, she would never feel safe again. If these monsters could take away her freedom here in the heart of this gentle country, she could only imagine in horror what they would achieve elsewhere.
Living here now, I found it impossible to envisage this quaint and picturesque village under the occupation of opposing army forces. My admiration for these proud, country folk soared to newfound heights, as I learnt more of their physical endurance and immeasurable courage.
On one of my many visits, Agnes asked, whilst pouring our first cup of ‘Russian Caravan’ whether I was acquainted with a certain Madame Coulloumy. She lives by the ancient, stone bridge, she explained. I replied that I did know of her vaguely, and I believed her to be the mother of one of the storeowners in the village. She nodded in confirmation. Agnes then related the story of this young woman’s plight during the occupation. She had been renowned in the village for her delicate, dark-haired beauty and petite figure. A young German officer, who had requisitioned one of the finer homes in the village, had publicly admired her on several occasions but she endeavoured to keep her distance and played ignorant to his romantic advances. Eventually, the officer forced her arm, by offering protection to both her family and herself, if she would only reconsider his improper requests. She finally succumbed. Although she insisted on meeting him in private and tried desperately to hide their liaison, the word soon spread throughout the village and her name was dirt to the general population. In the minds of the villagers she was a traitor and collaborator, who would pay dearly for her actions sooner or later.
On the day of liberation, this beautiful, young war collaborator was shaven and marked with tar. The disgrace of her actions would remain with her until her death and many of the villagers continue to malign her to this day. Here we were at the conclusion of the twentieth century and the scars of war still marked those whom it wouldn’t forgive.
After hearing this terrible story, I made a concerted effort to smile at Madame Coulloumy each time I spotted her in town. It happened that she rarely left her little cottage and I could only imagine why. If I could simply show her that someone didn’t judge her for her past mistakes. She had barely left childhood when she suffered this condemnation and it pained me to hear of her continued suffering and vilification.
Under such threats of violence and at such a vulnerable age, I can only imagine I would have followed in her shoes. Who can say what one is capable of doing in such horrible circumstances?
Agnes and I sipped on the final dregs of the teapot and nibbled on the remaining petit fours in silence. This story had shocked me to the core and as we sat in hushed stillness she reached out and touched my hand.
‘It is the way of the world Marisa. People have long memories. You cannot change these things.’
‘Maybe we can Agnes. We can change little things. We can be less judgemental and perhaps try to let go of old, bitter memories. It’s not good for the youth of today to see their elders still so critical and unforgiving of the past. If only people could try to let things go.’
‘Yes, that’s the hardest part, ma chère amie. Letting go is always difficult for some. Even I find it hard to let go of those terrible days. I’m not happy about this “Twin Village” farce they are trying to force upon us. Why does Treignac need to link itself with a German village?’ she asked, showing her pain and anger.
‘Agnes… it was along time ago. We need to move forward for your grandchildren. This “twin village” ceremony could be exactly what we all need. Something that heals old wounds. Brings people together in an amiable, celebratory way. This has nothing to do with the past.’
‘Perhaps you’re right Marisa. I’ll try to let go … I really will.’
We continued our tea parties for many, many months. I looked forward to each and every visit and only hoped that perhaps these innocent meetings were helping Agnes to release her demons. Unfortunately, our tea parties were not to last.
Despite her courageous efforts, Agnes had started to lose grip. She was no longer in the best of health and her children became exceedingly alarmed at her significant loss of weight. She could no longer resist their persistent demands and was too weak to fight. She eventually surrendered the family home, in exchange for a new home in Alsace Lorraine.
I miss her. I will always miss her timeless elegance and her eloquence. She never did write as promised, as she deteriorated steadily following her departure from Treignac. I will remain forever thankful for her generosity of spirit, fine intellect and endless cups of China tea.