VII. L'Assemblado / The Muster
Monday, July 22nd, 1940
"And, oh, how painfully, fond hearts, ill fated,
Labour the bosoms by the dank weeds weighted!
Is it the water dripping that one hears
From their long veils of hair, or is it tears?"
Mireille burrowed further under her covers, savoring the sensation of being a castaway from the world. Here she could touch her lips and remember the way he had kissed them senseless or how he had carved his name into her chest with each frantic breath. It was odd to think how just a few short days ago she hadn't wanted to leave her bed for fear of running into her officer. Now she wished to remain in place for the sake of envisioning him and him alone. My, how the heart could sway.
Removing the sheet from over her head, Mireille brought the linen's edge underneath her chin to survey her surroundings with a mischievous smile. It was her room still, yet it was different now. It seemed as though everything around her was bathed in some brilliant hue, somehow more vivid than before. This wasn't his doing, no. This must have been what it felt like to step into one's true nature; it was more aligned, more real. Stepping out to follow her desire without reservation had given her this, and now that she had had a taste, Mireille wished to have more.
The sun had certainly crested the horizon considering the pink and orange waves that covered the blues of twilight. Mother and Honorine wouldn't be up for a while yet. Mireille took the opportunity to rise from the bed, her white night gown skirting the cool stone floor beneath her feet. She padded lightly to the door but paused with some trepidation.
Would he be awake? Had she a right to wonder such a thing? Should she want him to be so ardently?
A resilient pounding sensation caused her to place a hand on her heart.
Dieu.
It was beating with the same vigor as if she were cutting down the hay for baling. The prospect of seeing him again had her clutching her dress in anticipation. And the strangest part of it all suddenly occurred to her: she cared not a whit.
Her smile returned quickly as the anxiety left her body, and she grabbed the handle to open the door. Her movement forward was impeded by a rather large obstruction though, and she glanced up swiftly.
He was there, waiting for her.
"Oh," she breathed.
His eyes snapped up to meet her own, and he looked as if he had been contemplating something before she had interrupted his thoughts with her appearance. It was gone in a moment, though and was replaced with his usual air of planned nonchalance.
Mireille peered left and then right into the hallway to ensure no one had spied him yet. Satisfied with her inspection, she clutched his arm and dragged him further into her doorway. He was clad in his uniform, but it was left mostly undone. Her face was level with his exposed chest, and it took her a moment to remove her gaze to meet his own again.
"Are you so eager to have me again, mademoiselle?" he murmured, donning a smirk.
Mireille stifled a smile before responding, "Who was in front of whose door, Oberleutnant?"
He sniffed in amusement, but watched her without answering. Within moments, his face lost its jovial glow and was replaced with a new intensity. It wasn't the same as before; there was a softness around the edges now. He was still dangerous and had the power to take everything from her, but he knew she wanted to play along.
She was overcome by his stare, and did whatever came naturally to her. Mireille closed her eyes, leant her head forward, and placed a chaste kiss in the silken expanse between the opening of his shirt. The skin there was soft (just how she remembered it was) and her mouth lingered longingly for a few moments before she pulled back.
She heard him breathe out sharply through his nostrils and peered up. It was a testament to his control that he hadn't grabbed her yet. Everything about him had transformed into a tightened coil pleading to be loosed.
But with a flick of his eyes to the far end of the hall, he took a quick step back.
"Madam," he greeted in an even tone. Mireille furrowed her brows for a moment, but whipped her head to the right when she heard the sound of a door closing shut. Her mother stood at the end of the hall clad only in her dressing gown and house coat. She eyed the soldier wearily for a moment before turning to her daughter.
"Mireille, what is this?"
Mireille brushed her question aside easily enough, counting on the early hour and her mother's addled mind to her advantage. She stepped out of the door and down the hall quickly to encircle the older woman, "Mother, whatever are you doing up so early?"
Suspicion left the older woman like the ebbing moontide. Mireille glanced up to see if Bonnet had gone but was pleased to see him still standing in her doorway, a small smile upon his lips. She closed her eyes to breathe in his scent as she strolled slowly past; she wished to savor him throughout the day's work.
"Well, I thought I'd ready the tools for ploughing. You know I like to put these things off until the leaves turn, so I decided for a less hectic start this year," she explained, though pausing suddenly, she turned to look the young officer squarely in the eye. Mireille's eyes widened at the interruption to their progress. "And you'd better see to your uniform, young man," the older woman scolded, "If any of the village girls saw you walking around like that, they'd twist their ankles to have your back."
Mireille couldn't stifle the laugh that forced its way past her tight lips, and she glanced up to see his own smug look. Nevertheless, he clicked his heels and stood ramrod straight, "Oui, Madam."
She didn't have the chance to see him before he left for the day, so focused was she on ensuring Mother was occupied at such an usual hour for her to be awake, but she did find a small gift from him on her bedside table when she returned to her room later that morning.
They were not lovers in the traditional sense. No Miréio or Vincen reincarnate, breathing their soft, love-laden sighs. In fact, she thought they were very much not lovers at all. There were no profound declarations over the hedgerows or hushed words of admiration in the hall. They were an entirely different breed altogether. What kind of breed, Mireille couldn't quite be sure.
He had left her a book: Rainer Marie Rilke's Duino Elegies, and within that lay a pressed leaf, dry and forgotten from the summer sun. Turning to the page that was marke drevealed the start of the Second Elegy. Mireille read the first lines as if she were compelled by some unseen force, her attention held rapt the to the page, scanning the words over and over again until she had memorized them by heart,
"Every Angel is terror. And yet,
ah, knowing you, I invoke you, almost deadly
birds of the soul."
Such stark words stared boldly back at her, unapologetic on their white canvas. Mireille pressed a hand flat over her heart and felt it jump at his message. She was an angel, unknown and terrifying, but he called her in regardless. He found her terrifying?
She smiled at that. Surely not.
It was then Mireille knew that he had watched her more than she realized. A great deal more. Her spine tingled at the thought of it.
She could no longer so easily characterize him as a brute—not now. She could not so readily shove him down into a swastika-shaped box like so many of his comrades. He was less in some ways, of course. In others, he was more, but he was never the same.
Collect yourself.
One poem by her favorite writer and he was suddenly Casanova? He hadn't left his post for her, nor had he sabotaged the Heer headquarters. He had simply left a bloody book on her bedside table.
Straightening her nightgown, Mireille had every intention of walking over to her armoire and preparing for the day. It was with some confusion, therefore, that she found herself some time later sprawled over her twisted sheets and reading every one of Rilke's remaining Elegies.
When she saw him next, he was returning at the end of a long day's work in the village, and Mireille had to cover her mouth with her hand to prevent a smile. Her basket for collecting vegetables rested at the edge of the garden fence while she worked only a few meters away. Upon his approach, Mireille rose to her full height and put a hand up to shield her eyes against the dying sun.
He didn't return her easy greeting and instead cast a cool glance at the house as he drew alongside.
"Walk with me," he ordered. Mireille cocked her head at his odd countenance, and followed his stare to see Mother working in the kitchen window. He wanted to be away from prying eyes.
Without giving her a chance to answer, he turned and stalked purposefully through the garden until it opened up into a grove of plane trees and shrubbery. Here they were fully hidden from view, and Mireille watched him like a hawk. He was bold.
Has he been thinking about this all day?
She had been, and now that he had returned, she could barely stop her hands reaching out to feel his taut waist.
He stared at the ground for a moment, seemingly studying the fascinating grasses of the French countryside until he snapped his eyes up to take her in. They stood like that for barely a moment, and then he was smothering her in his arms.
His lips were eager, demanding every last part of her open up to him. Oh, how she wanted to. How she wanted to bare every last nasty part he had etched into her—along with some of the ones he had missed too. He inundated her, and she didn't mind the suffocation. She yearned for it.
He pulled away just as quickly as he had latched on, and Mireille kept her eyes closed for a few moments as she breathed. He was everywhere.
"Look at me," he urged. It was the pleading tone in his voice that caused her to finally open her eyes. She had heard him speak in a number of manners, but this had never been one of them.
"What's wrong?" she asked. She knew something had to be for him to behave so.
He fell silent for a moment and simply stared at her. He knew what he wanted to say, she could tell. He just didn't want to.
"Tell me," she insisted, a knot forming in her brow.
"We are to move on."
Her breath felt like it had been stolen from her.
"When?"
"I don't know," he said, stepping backward from her to face the trees, "Soon."
"Soon," she echoed, voice uneven. Despite it all, she was surprised at how much it affected her. "To where?"
"I don't know." He was growing frustrated with her questioning.
"You're lying."
He turned to look at her, surprise evident on his face.
"Of course you know, you're an officer. You work for the Major. You know everything," she asserted. His demeanor changed instantly.
"How do you know who I work for?" he asked, voice heavy with suspicion as he stepped closer to her once more, "Do you wish to know to feed information to your compatriots?"
This again.
"For God's sake, Kurt, I'm not a fucking spy!" she fumed. Of all times to accuse her, he chooses their potential parting. How could he be so blind?
He reached up to snatch her chin in a stronghold and pulled her closer, "Aren't you?"
His intimidation did nothing to her. Her emotions had her so thoroughly incensed that not even his most threatening show would sway her.
"Is it too much to say that I care?" she seethed, reaching up to grasp the hand that held her chin and hurl it back down to his side. He stood silently, watching her as he considered what she had said.
He would be gone, perhaps within hours, and she hadn't really considered the notion of it until now. The idea that he simply wouldn't be there anymore. From all accounts the war would carry on until Christmas, but even then, he wouldn't dare to return to her. He had a whole life waiting for him in Berlin, and she was just a farm girl from bloody Bussy.
They had to wake from this dreamy, high summer haze sometime. It appeared that sometime was now.
"You will be leaving soon."
"And?" he questioned, eyes narrowed.
"We mustn't pretend things are different than they are."
"And how are things?" he asked, sounding much more callous than she had heard him in a while.
Mireille stuttered over her next words, not really sure how to describe everything that now existed between them—the hate, the lust, the tenderness, and the agony. After a few failed attempts to issue any sound idea, she decided to recite the facts. Facts couldn't lie, and they certainly couldn't feel.
"You are a German officer who has taken up residence with a local family. It was only natural that your pride and your need would lead you to seek relief in their eldest daughter," she stated. It was so clinical, so dispossessed. She didn't like the way the words sounded leaving her lips.
Kurt's cheek twitched, a small gesture of defiance.
"What of the daughter? What did she think of the whole affair?"
Mireille paused, forgetting herself in the torrid depths of his eyes. They scorched her in their intensity, demanding a response—any response—that would give him the foundation from which to make his next move. Everything depended on her and whatever she let fly from her mouth in this instant.
How could she possibly hope to capture all the things he made her feel in something so insignificant as words? How could he expect her to sum it up so succinctly when the things he made her feel were anything but?
He grabbed her arms and with a sinister twinge of his jaw, gave her a violent shake. His impatience was getting the better of him.
Mireille's eyes widened tremendously, surprise coloring her features. He was impatient not because of his nature—no, this ran deeper. He was impatient because he needed to know. He cared about what she had to say, more than she ever thought he would. He cared about how she saw what they had done together. She searched his gaze anew at that, seeing every emotion she had not dared allow herself to previously.
He was there, all of him. Fury, madness, melancholy, and desire. No, not desire. More attachment, and a stifling one at that. He was bound to her, and he despised himself for it.
Without thinking, Mireille lifted a searching hand to cup his cheek. He relented harshly, burying his face into her open palm.
"What did she think of it?" Mireille echoed back to him, a giggle escaping her lips, "She sees now the benefits of throwing off one's yoke."
He whipped his head to look at her squarely, disappointment clouding his eyes, "Is that all then?"
Mireille hesitated at his abrupt change in demeanor, her mouth falling open as she watched him morph.
He didn't like her silence and swarmed her in his arms to push her back against a tree. She could not think for the way he clouded her senses. He was all she could see, smell, touch. Perhaps she could ask for a taste for the sake of completeness. Her eyes searched blindly upward until they met his, and her world was anchored once more.
"Is that all?" he shook her again, desperation seeping into his voice and stare.
Her hands escaped his confines and glided up to rest gingerly around his neck. She would miss the way his skin was always a touch warmer than her own. She would miss how he always seemed to engulf her like a sinner in the devil's hellfire. She was consumed, fully and frightfully so.
Mireille stared for one blissful moment, doing her best to capture him in all his vulnerability. He would miss her too, she knew. With a long sigh, she breathed her answer.
"How could there be more?"
The tension in his body peaked, and with a savage growl, he hurled his fist at the tree next to her head. His knuckles made a sickening crunch against the mottled bark, and Mireille knew there would be blood when he pulled back.
Her instant reaction was to soothe him, wholly disregarding her own safety. His heart might have been breaking, but he would make sure everything broke with him.
He pushed back off of her gruffly and grabbed the first thing he could reach—his officer's cap—and hurled it at the wall of trees. It disappeared into some bushes with a loud crashing sound but his heavy, ragged breathing was the only thing that Mireille could hear.
She reached out to take a hold of his arms but was violently tossed aside. He pointed a finger at her menacingly in a warning to stay back, and so she remained. Satisfied that she would listen, his exterior crumbled and he was overcome with disbelief. He smoothed his hair down and kept a hand over his mouth as he surveyed the area around them.
He looked at her one final time, heaved a leaden sigh, and disappeared into the garden back toward the house. Mireille jumped when she heard the kitchen door shut loudly behind him, but remained fixed in the spot where he had left her.
Tears sprung up unbidden in her eyes and began to spill silently. He had affected her, that much was sure, but was it really worth crying over? She had done the best she could given the situation. She had to let him go. There was no other way. Even if the stars and the planets all aligned to permit their being together—
But they never would, would they? So what did it matter what she would do given the right circumstances?
That was the trouble with freedom. Once one achieved it, they might not like the consequences it brought along with it. And nothing was worth losing her life. Not even a handsome man with a soul as twisted and boundless as she now recognized her own to be.
No, this was the way things had to be. It would hurt for a while, that much she knew. But time mended all things. And if it didn't, death would step in to perform the task.
That was the beauty of life—nothing really lasted forever. And if she made it out of this war alive, she would ensure that her heart mended to love a great many others in whatever capacity—family, friends, or lovers.
He didn't really want to stay, she knew, and she didn't want him to, but the soul was a funny thing. It tethered so readily to anything that would house it, and hers had found a nest in his hinterland of a heart.
She would come through, she vowed, even if the sound of his desperate voice and the look of his pleading eyes clung to her for the rest of her days.