Suzanne's Peace

By Verity Blethyn

There are a lot of stories about World War one, which explore the soldier’s world of fighting, sacrifice, courage in adversity, brutality, nobility and hardship. This story takes a different perspective. It takes the year June 1918 to June 1919 from the viewpoint of a teenage girl, not a combatant, but a victim of the displacement of war, a daughter, sister, niece and cousin of combatants, a refugee from her home in the combat zone.

We follow Suzanne and her family as she lives through the last slow months of the war, and the first slow months of the peace, as she waits to return home, not knowing what will remain of the places she holds dear. We travel with her towards what was called at the time “the devastated lands”, to Ypres, and to the family farm in the battle area. The wartime survivors were learning how to live in a post-war world, and there was no model to follow, they had to make it up as they went along.

Verity’s first novel was written to tell a story that she had been looking for a long time. Suzanne and her family are characters you will remember, and find yourself pegging for, as they navigate the tragic landscape of the end of the war to end all wars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verity Blethyn
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310149047

Book preview

Suzanne’s Peace

Verity Blethyn

Published by Verity Blethyn at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Verity Blethyn

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Rue Louis Warein

Chapter 2 - Laundry

Chapter 3 - Waiting

Chapter 4 - Journey

Chapter 5 - Ypres

Chapter 6 - Negotiations

Chapter 7 - Plans

Chapter 8 - Meetings

Chapter 9 - New Ideas

Chapter 10 - Mr Big

Chapter 11 - A Drive

Chapter 12 - The Farm

Chapter 13 - Discovery

Chapter 14 - What Next?

The Next Installment

About the Author

15th June 1918 – Rue Louis Warein, Hazebrouck

In a stuffy, crowded apartment above a general shop selling cards, cheap wine, groceries, and other miscellaneous items, five people sat expectantly around a scrubbed pine table.

Louise, a rosy cheeked and buxom blonde was next to her mother Josephine, straight-backed and austere. At the foot of the table was Josephine’s father Robert, in a checked suit shiny with age, with a black beret perched jauntily above his bushy grey eyebrows. On his left was his youngest grand-daughter Amelie, then a vacant seat and finally, at the head of the table, his other grand-daughter Suzanne. Her chestnut hair was neatly brushed and dressed very carefully in a grown-up style, an elaborate bun decorated with plaited strands. Her sea green eyes glowed with excitement at her first grown up event as she hosted her 15th birthday tea.

The door opened to reveal a third woman, carrying a small birthday cake and carefully shielding the single candle flame.

Gelukkige verjaardag Suzanne she said. This was repeated by the old man and the young girl, and followed by Bon Anniversaire Suzanne from the other two women. Then Suzanne leant over, closing her eyes, she blew out the candle and made her wish. The third woman sat on the vacant chair, carefully smoothing her worn black dress and sandy hair.

This cake is nice, Mother, what’s it made of? said twelve year old Amelie.

Well, it’s as good as I can make with what I could get; said Mother, maybe best not to know. Shall we say it’s made with a mother’s love?

The thoughts of Robert, as well as Suzanne, Amelie, and their mother Marie, strayed to cakes of earlier years, before the war. Living on a prosperous farm near Ieper, in Belgian Flanders, there had been plenty of home-grown eggs, butter and milk, and good white flour from the local mill. Supplies were not so good in wartime Hazebrouck, at least not for civilians anyway.

After the cake was finished the family offered Suzanne their modest gifts. Her mother gave Suzanne a diary, leather bound and with a tiny key and small pencil. Amelie had painstakingly embroidered a handkerchief with her initials, and Grandfather had carved her a decorated wooden box to keep her grown-up valuables in. She was already wearing her gift from her aunt Josephine and cousin Louise; Louise’s former second-best outfit refurbished for her. It was a white blouse with full sleeves, lacy cuffs and collar, a smart high-waisted ankle length brown walking skirt and nearly new shiny brown boots, only a little bit too big.

Suzanne thanked everybody for their thoughtful gifts and retreated with them to the attic room she shared with Amelie. Everybody dispersed to their usual evening activities. Grandfather went off to the corner bar to meet his new cronies and linger over a glass of cheap wine. He had always been a farmer in Flanders, and he found town life in a garrison town tiresome. The recent moves of the war had brought the front line very close to Hazebrouck, so there was plenty to gossip about in the bar. Grandfather could speak French, but with a strong Flemish accent, so mostly he listened to the gossip and tried to pick up news to take home to his family about the progress of the war. He especially listened for news of Ieper and the area of the family farm. Grandfather knew only that the farm was in the battle zone and was almost certainly destroyed. He desperately missed his land and was eager to go back as soon as possible. Every twist and turn of the war only delayed his return.

Louise headed off for work at another bar. They were all a bit mystified as to what Louise did at the bar, she wouldn’t let her family call in on her at work, and she came back late every evening, but always had plenty of money. She also managed to find nice clothes to wear, although nobody knew where she got them because there were few clothes to be had in the shops in Hazebrouck.

As Grandfather adjusted his beret and left, Mother and Aunt Josephine put on their long white aprons and went downstairs to open the shop for the evening trade. The apron was a uniform, over their respectable dresses. Mother’s faded black dress was her widow’s garb, as yet unlivened with purple, which the unwritten rules suggested she now could after 3 years of widowhood. Her high collar and long sleeves were modest, fitting for a woman in her forties, as was her floor length skirt. Josephine dressed a little more rakishly, her purple dress was silk, and she wore an enamelled brooch at her throat.

The shop stayed open until 9:30 in the evening, so Suzanne knew that she and Amelie would have a bit of quiet time while Mother and Aunt Josephine were occupied. They weren’t allowed to go out in the evening, being young ladies under age. Amelie settled down to re-read her favourite book, and Suzanne opened her new diary.

Dear Diary, she wrote.

That looks strange, but I suppose I will get used to it. Hello Diary, I think the first thing I shall write in you is Happy Birthday to me. Then Thank you Mother for the gift of this diary. No gifts from my brothers yet, but I expect they will say I’m sorry I didn’t get you a gift Suzanne, but it’s the war, there’s nothing to be had. Happy 15th birthday anyway, maybe next year your birthday will be better." That’s what they have been saying since my 11th birthday, and they say it to my little sister too.

Shall I tell you about me? Why not, you don’t seem to be answering me back. My name is Suzanne Mertens, and I live in Hazebrouck with my sister Amelie, my mother Marie, and my grandfather Robert at my Aunt Josephine and Uncle Victor’s house. Well, this is where we live now, since May 1915. Our home is a farm in Flanders near Geluveld; we haven’t been able to go there since September 1914 when we had to flee from the Germans. I can only guess that all our animals are dead and pray that our house is still in one piece. I long to go there, and yet I dread what I will see. Grandfather says that when the war is over they will let us go back, but nobody knows how long that will be. I hate this war! It has taken nearly everything I loved and so many of my family and friends and neighbours.

Stop, Mother says to just take one day at a time and not to think too much about the past or the future. Well, I’ve had a fun evening. After the shop closed we had a birthday dinner and cake – Mother apologised for the quality of the cake but I can’t quite remember what real cake tastes like so I thought it was lovely. Aunt Josephine and Grandfather started sighing, but me and Amelie just tucked in. Everybody wished me a Happy Birthday, and it was really lovely, despite the rotten war."

Just at this point she heard Mother shouting her name rather insistently, so she closed the diary and put it in her pocket before going downstairs to see what the trouble was.

Outside the shop there was an argument going on. Two soldiers were looking angry and Aunt Josephine was between them looking worried.

Ah, Suzanne she called, can you help me understand the problem with these men?

Suzanne sighed. She wished the rest of her family would bother to improve their English instead of always getting her to do the translations. Grandfather said he was too old. Mother said that she had already learnt Flemish when she married Father and two languages was enough. Suzanne thought that was unfair. She spoke Flemish and French already, but had picked up English quickly after starting it at school in Hazebrouck. English was new on the curriculum since the war, before that they had taught German, but who wanted to speak the language of the enemy?

It wasn’t easy to walk up to two angry looking men in uniform shouting at each-other, particularly when you had been raised not to speak to men at all until you had been introduced, but her mother was always saying wartime was different, and young ladies had to do things they shouldn’t normally do when circumstances required it. She braced herself, and stood before the men, saying gently:

Excuse me gentlemen, may I help you?

Both soldiers stopped shouting and stared at her, and then the older one took a deep breath, appeared to calm himself down, and said

Well miss, I’m sorry you’ve been bothered, but me and my pal here were just disagreeing over who should have the last one of these pretty cards to send home.

Shall I ask if there are any more? said Suzanne, relieved that the problem was something simple.

Oh yes please, said the other man, we tried to ask the lady but she couldn’t understand us.

Suzanne knew there were some very similar cards, they were the ones Mme Albert made and she had delivered some more yesterday. She went into the shop to have a look, and found suitable ones, so she invited the now much calmer soldiers to select their favourites. Whilst they were deciding she asked the soldiers where they came from.

We’re Aussies miss said the older one, and when she looked puzzled explained, we come from Australia, on the other side of the world.

Never thought I’d find myself in France facing the business end of a machine gun! offered the other man.

They were cheerful now, and friendly. ‘What strange times we live in’ thought Suzanne, ‘where men travel thousands of miles to fight and die in a muddy field. How must their wives and daughters feel with them fighting and maybe dying so far away? No wonder they get flustered about choosing a nice card to send home.’ The soldiers made their choices, paid, and left arm in arm. Aunt Josephine smiled at Suzanne and thanked her warmly. Suzanne went upstairs to have a look at Daniel’s globe and find Australia.

Once she had found it and showed Amelie where it was and how far away, Suzanne reopened her dairy and carried on with her writing:

"I’ve decided to pretend you are my new penfriend. Of course, I’d like a real penfriend, but Mother says you can’t do these things in wartime; maybe she will help me find one after the war. I’d like a penfriend in America – I wonder if anyone in America can read Flemish? Perhaps I will write in English, it would be good practice. I’m getting some good speaking practice in English, sometimes the British soldiers come in to look for things to send home to their girlfriends in England, and Mother and Aunt Josephine can’t speak a word of English, so they always call me. The soldiers can hardly ever speak French, sometimes the officers can though. You can tell the officers because their uniforms look nicer and they have a tie and shoes instead of boots, and they have more money. We have some lovely silk postcards, Mme Albert makes them in her backroom, and all five of her daughters help, they have to do something for money since M. Albert was killed.

Can I be frank, Diary? I desperately want to talk with Mother and Grandfather and Amelie about Father and Mathieu but I don’t know how to. It’s as if everybody has a private wall to hide their feelings behind. I’m sure when we were all at home in Geluveld and something bad happened we all had a long talk in the kitchen and everybody cried – well, not the men of course – and we were all sad for a week or so and then we felt better. It’s as if this is too big and too difficult for anyone to talk about. It’s as if once we start crying for Father and Mathieu we won’t be able to stop. Of course, I’ve cried on my own, I know Mother has, and Amelie, I’ve seen their red eyes and they’ve seen mine. But somehow we can’t be honest and open about it. I wish we could but someone has to start and I don’t know how, and the wall just seems to get higher and higher.

I think Grandfather wants to cry and talk as well. Maybe he can’t expose himself in front of Aunt Josephine. Perhaps when we get back to Geluveld we can all let our walls down a little bit. Dear Lord I hope so, please let it be so. I feel like I live behind a dam and the pressure of the water just builds and builds.

We are lucky that Aunt Josephine gives us somewhere to live and that she lets Mother and me work in the shop to pay for our keep. Mother gets very little money from Father’s pension since he was killed two years ago last month. Maybe when the war is over and Robert and Etienne come home, they can help Grandfather run the farm and we will have money again. I bet Robert never thought he would come into the farm instead of Mathieu, but now I am third eldest instead of fourth. I wish I could go to Dixmuide to see Mathieu’s grave, and to Nieuwpoort to see Father’s. I hope they have a grave. Mme Soissons went to look for her husband’s grave after she got the letter with the black border from the President, and the army told her she would have to wait for the end of the war, and there might not be a grave even then, she must be brave and patient. When she came back and told Mother and Aunt Josephine they were crying for hours. I don’t want to think about that now, one day at a time, like Mother said. That’s enough for now."

Suzanne turned to Amelie. As it’s still my birthday, would you like to play a game?

Yes, please replied Amelie, can we play Happy Families?

They played the card game for a while, and then played a spooky story game, and then cards for a while longer until Mother came up from the shop. There was time for one more round of Happy Families with Mother before bedtime.

One afternoon, a couple of days later, Josephine called Suzanne and Amelie down to the shop.

I have an order for the hospital; I need you to deliver it. You can take the shop bicycle if you like.

Where do we go to at the hospital? asked Amelie. I don’t like it there; the people are so stern and busy.

I’ve been there before, said Suzanne. There’s a delivery entrance and a man looks after it. He’s nice, he’s English but he can speak French and he will find out where the delivery has to go.

Is he a soldier? asked Amelie.

Yes, I think so. He only has one eye and he has a patch like a pirate, and I think his leg is a fake one. He has a very tidy uniform though.

Amelie was intrigued now; she wanted to see the pirate soldier. Josephine handed them a big cotton sack which was heavy and clanked.

Be careful, its glass jars inside. I should put them in a box but I haven’t got one spare.

What is it? asked Amelie.

It’s preserves for the wounded soldiers. Pickles and nuts and onions and some jams.

We’ll be careful Aunt, said Suzanne. Is that the order? See you later.

Pushing the heavy shop bike the girls made their way through the busy town. They had to pass the station which was always bustling with military transports, soldiers, great quantities of food and wagon after wagon of ammunition for the guns in the front line. Today there was a delivery of horses being unloaded from the train. They were skittish and fretful, starting at each new sight and sound.

Amelie loved the horses and she wanted to linger to see if she could stroke one, but the army handlers were briskly careful of their charges, and the squad of horses were quieted and led away.

Where do they take the horses? Amelie asked Suzanne.

I think they use them at the Front, for guns and wagons and ambulances.

But isn’t it dangerous?

Oh yes, as dangerous for the horses as for the men. I suppose if they get killed they could always be eaten.

Oh Suzanne, you’re so mean!

People need to eat, Amelie. Horses are lovely but they’re still flesh, and a dead one is meat.

They walked across the main square towards the hospital. A big group of soldiers were just standing up and forming into a column to march. An older man with a big bristling moustache who was in charge barked out orders as the men changed direction and all stopped together. The girls didn’t linger, this was daily stuff in Hazebrouck. They headed to the back door of the hospital.

I suppose the men in the square will end up here sooner or later, said Amelie.

If they’re lucky, replied Suzanne. Not like Father and Mathieu. No, I’m sorry Amelie, forget I said that.

Amelie put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Let’s just hope Robert and Etienne are still safe, she said.

Suzanne tried to