58.

May 10th.

This is the first evening it is warm enough to sit out,. A warm wind from the south west stirs up the grass. The cut fields shine in stripes until Monsieur Raymonde turns the haylage with his tines, way into the evening gloaming. The shrieking swifts are here once more. A just off full moon rises in the grey-blue sky, behind the white flowered horse chestnut, while the sun leaves its last pink tint on the west facing edges of the crags. A flock of bee eaters darts and dances, way up, chirruping all the while. A pity that such lovely birds raid already beleaguered bees.

Emile has told me about Marcel Benoit, this afternoon. Apparently he joined up with the resistance, the Maquis in 1940/1 at the age of nearly 18. He lay out in the woods near the top plateau, took refuge there with a small group, received air drops from the allies into a tiny airfield until it was discovered and the Maquis routed. At this point in the story Emile tilted his head and sharply raised it and I was meant to read into this that someone’s family was tainted with the scent of betrayal.. I couldn’t interrupt though, as this was the longest talk I had had with Emile, to date. Three young men escaped into Spain, two were shot and the other two sank into the shadows of the mountains and their own families, returning to the harvests, the cultivation of their land and the movement of their beasts. People around stayed stumm and grew up beyond the war. One of these was Benoit. Probably silent for many years but now boldly speaking of his history, as he enters his 87th year. Is his conscience clear, I wonder?

I wanted to ask about the two brothers shot outside my house; whether there was a connection, but I thought better of it.