UNE DISTRIBUTION DE DONS
At length, the survey of Canizy was completed: its crooked streets traced
on a map, its houses numbered, and the pre-war and the post-war status
of each of its families noted thereon. But long before these facts had
been collected, the articles found to be most necessary had been bought
for the homes. It only remained to wait their arrival. Even the number
of sheets and blankets in each household was listed, and against them,
the number to be given out. The honesty and unselfishness of most of the
villagers in setting down their needs, was a constant joy. There was
Mme. Regina, for instance, who had five pairs of stout linen sheets and
four soldiers’ blankets on two Boche beds. I proposed a new bed for the
baby, and covers to go with it. Mme. Regina acquiesced at first, but
later drew me aside: “I can get along,” she said, “I know you have not
enough to go around,—and when one is so poorly lodged anyway, it does not
matter. When I get my _baraque_, then I will come to you.”
There was good sense in Mme. Regina’s decision. The housing rested not
with us, but with the Government, through the mayor of the commune. Long
delay ensued in Canizy, when ten families had applied, and only three
_baraques_ had been set up. Of these, two were for the domestics of M.
Lanne. Mme. Picard and the Mayor himself were among the waiting; nor
could one decide which was the more miserably off. Even Mme. Picard’s
vegetables were comfortably bedded compared with her children, in her
dark and windy barn, and as for M. le Maire, a water-spout built within
his hut carried the rain from his bed. But at last one day, loads of
_baraques_ began to arrive, and red-fezzed Moroccans, to erect them.
There were five shacks in all, and four, it transpired, were for Mme.
Picard and M. Thuillard. I could understand that Mme. Picard had need of
her two apartments, but the Mayor,—well, he wished to reopen his store.
And his wife, all smiles at their prospective installation, offered me
myself a guest room so that I could live in my village at last. But this
offer was tendered before the distribution of gifts.
It was Dave, or strictly speaking, the Red Cross, which made possible
an early allotment of blankets and sheets in Canizy. Though they had
been overturned in the mud, even Mme. la Maire did not complain of their
condition. “It matters nothing; they can be washed,” she said. On the
day we had chosen, word was passed to each family that a distribution
would be made at Mme. Lefèvre’s at four that afternoon. There was no
need of a _garde champêtre_ such as they had in Esmery-Hallon to cry
the news. The children flew with it; the mothers halted at the corners
to talk about it; and at four o’clock, when the jitney drove in with
its wonderful cargo, a line like a bread-line had formed in front of
the door. Mme. Lefèvre herself came out to help us; the older boys lent
a hand, and within five minutes, piles of single blankets and double
blankets, and single sheets and double sheets, were ready to be given
out. Then a window was opened and the names were called. “Mme. Carlier:
6 blankets; 3 single sheets; 3 double sheets.” “Mme. Lecart: 3 double
sheets, 2 blankets.” So ran the list. One after another the mothers
stepped forward, received their quota and went away. There were order,
good nature, and no unkind comment. Even afterwards, there seemed to be
little dissatisfaction. The distribution had been made, as every one
knew, on the basis of actual need, and the result was accepted as just.
If Mme. Lefèvre had only one blanket, that was because she had plenty
of linen sheets, much better than the cotton ones we gave, a woollen
blanket, and a warm red eiderdown quilt. Only the mayor’s wife and that
very human lady, Mme. Charles Thuillard, of whom I have before spoken,
raised protesting voices,—but such was their bent.
Our first distribution having gone so well, and we being still received
as friends, we proceeded to the second, which consisted of cast-iron
beds and stoves. The single beds we had been fortunate enough to buy
ourselves; but the double beds and the stoves came from M. le Sous-Préfet
and were signed for by the recipients as a part of their _indemnité de
guerre_. Heavy loads these articles made, and Dave and his truck were
requisitioned for the day. We first had to secure the double beds, which
were stored, together with other civilian supplies, at the Moroccan camp
at Nesle. To Nesle, then, we tore, coasting the long hills, and chugging
up the inclines as if the Germans themselves were in pursuit. Arrived
at the camp, we found that we had not made the proper entry, and must
reverse, disentangle ourselves from the railroad embankment, plough
through mud to the axles, and back up to the warehouse at the other end
of the yard. All this Dave did. Bedsteads, mattresses and bolsters were
then piled aboard. Dave and one of my comrades precariously balanced
on the front seat, and I high on the load, expecting a landslide every
minute, we steamed away for Canizy. A house to house visitation with a
truck down its narrow and uneven streets was also an adventure, and we
were thankful enough when the day ended with only minor injuries, and
every family that needed them supplied with beds. Stoves were simpler,
for the reason that they were smaller. Wardrobes, buffets, chairs and
tables would have followed, could we have secured them. But these, even
when I left, had not yet been crossed off the village lists.
Failing to obtain furniture, we distributed clothing, for by this time
the winter was well upon us. Individual families had been taken care
of before as the need arose. In order not to pauperize, or hurt the
genuine self-respect of the people, I tried a plan known by them as
“an arrangement,” whereby I took vegetables, or rags, in exchange. This
system of barter was also one of coöperation with our travelling store,
which supplied the wants of families able—and glad—to buy. The coming of
the store made a red-letter day, like a market-day, in the village. Even
the soldiers gathered around, commenting humorously on the bargains, and
urging the ladies to buy. They asked on their own part for mufflers or
sabots or cigarettes. Once a small tradesman, transformed by his uniform
in appearance but not in nature, wondered audibly how long we thought
we could remain in business and lose in each purchase from a third to a
half of its value. Our storekeeper laughed. “_Toujours_, M. Soldat,” she
answered, and forthwith beguiled a hesitant grandmother into buying an
entire bar of laundry soap at four francs instead of twelve.
But our “arrangements” did not lack humour or interest. There was Mme.
Laure, for example, who was purposely absent when we brought the new
clothing for her family, and undressed and bathed it and filled the
boiler in turn with what we had taken off; and Mme. Gense-Tabary who
conspired with her husband to get vegetables in Ham and resell to us at a
higher price in payment for her dozens of new garments, and Mme. Payell
who, hearing a rumour that We were about to outfit her babies, bought
extra buttons to have them ready to sew on. There was also conscientious
Mme. Regina, with her box of clean rags all ready for the new suit We
gave fifteen-year-old Raymond.
The purpose of the rag industry was twofold: to clear the cluttered
interiors, and with the rags themselves to make rag rugs. After Mlle.
Suzanne’s washing, the clean pieces went to a class of three young
girls, who met once a week, divided the stock, and sewed and braided the
strands. To them went also the snippings of the hundreds of garments we
cut and let out through the district to be sewed. A pretty picture my
girls made of a Tuesday afternoon around the big table in Mme. Noulin’s
store; Elmire fair and delicate as a lily, Albertine black-haired and
black-eyed, and quick, graceful, thirteen-year-old Cécile. Fingers and
tongues were busy. Mme. Noulin herself bustled in and out, and finally
served us with the inevitable coffee. This ceremony concluded the lesson.
But the yards of braiding grew week by week,—though not without some
small heart-burning and rivalry. “Cécile,” Elmire complained, “takes all
the longer pieces and gives me only the scraps. Perhaps Mademoiselle
would speak to her.” But it was the Government which unintentionally
interfered most with my rags. I had bespoken the mayor’s hut for our
headquarters as soon as he was ready to move out. Only a few feet from
the best well, where we planned to install our new pump and our Village
_chaudière_, it was to be a centre of neighbourhood industry. But the
mayor still waits on opportunity and the rags still wait in sacks.
As winter advanced, it became obvious, even at mass, that Canizy went
cold. The children’s noses and mittenless hands were red. True, there
was Mme. Gabrielle, who came in furs and smart black hats; and several
other ladies sufficiently warm if rather rusty and old-fashioned. But
one noted among the children an absolute lack of the capes which are
the characteristic dress of French school children. Throats wrapped in
mufflers, hands thrust into pockets or skirts,—this was their method
of keeping warm. The older boys especially looked pinched in trousers
which had become too short, and tightly buttoned, threadbare coats. One
day, when a biting wind and a powdery snow impressed their discomfort
upon me, I made a raid on our store-room, with the entire permission of
my colleague in charge. Woollen shirts, stockings, caps, overcoats and
suits, whatever article of warmth I could find, I gathered up. The roads
were too drifted for the truck, or for walking, but I had asked for the
horse and wagon. Carlos, our soldier, helped me pack my plunder, and
conveyed me on my way. But a difficult way it proved to be, and it was
not until nearly twilight that we drew up at Mme. Lefèvre’s door, too
late to distribute that night. I left the warm clothing in her care,
asking her at the same time to make me a list of those to whom she
thought it ought to go, and promising to return the following day. But
Mme. Lefèvre’s enthusiasm exceeded her instructions. When I came, she
met me with a triumphant smile. “I knew, Mademoiselle, that it would
please you were the clothes on the backs of the poor children. Voilà, I
have given the clothing according to the list.” A cramped and illiterate
list it was she handed me, devoid of capitals, but it accounted for
every article, even to a boy’s coat given to Lydie Cerf. “Lydie?” I
queried mentally, yet not for the world would I have questioned or
criticised good Mme. Lefèvre. Lydie herself I did question. “But, yes,
Mademoiselle,” she replied, “I am keeping the coat for Papa. He is with
the Boches. It will be ready for him when he returns.”
When they return! It was a phrase on every lip. “If the children were
here, it would be different.” “No, I do not wish to touch my indemnity.
I and my wife, we are saving it for the boys when they come home.”
“Mademoiselle, I need another bed.” “But you have two.” “Yes, but there
is my mother, who may return any day.” So ran the undercurrent of longing
in every family, mutilated as were the apple trees girdled in the
orchards, uprooted, like them, and left for dead.
For my next distribution, which was to be a more important one, I went
to Mme. Gabrielle. “Madame,” said I, “it is true, is it not, that the
parents of most of the children have enough money to buy capes?” “Yes,”
she admitted. “But it is not true that they will not do so?” “Yes; there
are so many things to buy when one has lost so much. We fear to spend
the money.” “Very well. Will you make me out a list for all the world?”
The list was made; a list so orderly that it could be used as a shopping
guide. Coats for the women and capes for the children were bought,
including a coat for Lydie Cerf. They were brought down by our own truck,
which had made a special trip to Amiens in the bitterest weather, and
deposited with Mme. Gabrielle. “Madame,” I said again as we brought the
heaped armfuls in, “will you not make this distribution yourself?” “But
it is very difficult,” she remonstrated, “and all the world will say
that I am partial.” “I will tell all the world that the distribution is
mine,” I urged. “You can see yourself that we are very busy,—and you know
the size for each child.” Reluctant though she was, Mme. Gabrielle’s
kind heart could not refuse. On a Sunday not long after, a strange yet
strangely familiar audience sat in the little church, the women in coats
all of one pattern, “but of different colours, the children in smart
blue hooded capes. No one looked self-conscious, or thanked us. The
distribution, like the snow, had fallen on the just and on the unjust; it
was a providence for which one thanked God.