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briskly through the
     doorway and back to the bar.

3
    ‘You should have said no.’
     Madame Durant poked a bony finger into my shoulder. I jumped. She wore a white frilled
     bonnet, and a faded blue crocheted cape was pinned around her shoulders. Those who
     complained about lack of news now that we were not allowed newspapers had evidently
     never crossed my neighbour’s path.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Feeding the Germans. You should have
     said no.’
    It was a freezing morning, and I had wrapped
     my scarf high around my face. I tugged it down to respond to her. ‘I should have
     said no? And you will say no, when they decide to occupy your house, will you,
     Madame?’
    ‘You and your sister are younger than
     I am. You have the strength to fight them.’
    ‘Unfortunately I lack the firearms of
     a battalion. What do you suggest I do? Barricade us all in? Throw cups and saucers at
     them?’
    She continued to berate me as I opened the
     door for her. The bakery no longer smelt like a bakery. It was still warm inside, but
     the scent of baguettes and croissants had long since disappeared. This small fact made
     me sad every time I crossed the threshold.
    ‘I swear I do not know what this
     country is coming to. If your father could have seen Germans in his hotel …’
     Madame Louvier had evidently been well briefed.She shook her head in
     disapproval as I approached the counter.
    ‘He would have done exactly the same
     thing.’
    Monsieur Armand, the baker, shushed them.
     ‘You cannot criticize Madame Lefèvre! We are all their puppets now. Madame
     Durant, do you criticize me for baking their bread?’
    ‘I just think it’s unpatriotic
     to do their bidding.’
    ‘Easy to say when you’re not the
     one facing a bullet.’
    ‘So, more of them are coming here?
     More of them pushing their way into our storerooms, eating our food, stealing our
     animals. I swear I do not know how we will survive this winter.’
    ‘As we always have, Madame Durant.
     With stoicism and good humour, praying that Our Lord, if not our brave boys, will give
     the Boche a royal kick up their backsides.’ Monsieur Armand winked at me.
     ‘Now, ladies, what would you like? We have week-old black bread, five-day-old
     black bread, and some black bread of indeterminate age, guaranteed free of
     weevils.’
    ‘There are days I would consider a
     weevil a welcome hors d’oeuvre,’ Madame Louvier said mournfully.
    ‘Then I will save a jam jar full for
     you, my dear Madame. Believe me, there are many days in which we receive generous
     helpings in our flour. Weevil cake, weevil pie, weevil profiteroles: thanks to German
     generosity, we can supply them all.’ We laughed. It was impossible not to.
     Monsieur Armand managed to raise a smile even on the direst of days.
    Madame Louvier took her bread and put it
     into her basket with distaste. Monsieur Armand took no offence:he
     saw that expression a hundred times a day. The bread was black, square and sticky. It
     gave off a musty smell, as if it were mouldering from the moment it left the oven. It
     was so solid that the older women frequently had to request the help of the young simply
     to cut it. ‘Did you hear,’ she said, tucking her coat around her,
     ‘that they have renamed all the streets in Le Nouvion?’
    ‘Renamed the streets?’
    ‘German names for French ones.
     Monsieur Dinan got word from his son. You know what they call Avenue de la
     Gare?’
    We all shook our heads. Madame Louvier
     closed her eyes for a moment, as if to make sure she had got it right.
     ‘Bahnhofstrasse,’ she said finally.
    ‘Bahnhof-what?’
    ‘Can you believe it?’
    ‘They will not be renaming my
     shop.’ Monsieur Armand harrumphed. ‘I’ll be renaming their backsides.
Brot
this and
Brot
that. This is a
boulangerie
. In rue
     des Bastides. Always has been, always will. Bahnhof-whatsit. Ridiculous.’
    ‘But this is terrible!’ Madame
     Durant was panic-stricken.
    ‘I don’t speak