Le Boulangerie

On the eve of June 6, 1944, a popular Normandy bakery suddenly finds itself in the centre of the war.

The dough stretched and relaxed beneath the gentle force of her slender fingers. It was getting late, soon Marie would retire to bed, however first she must prepare the dough for its long overnight rise. Her father, the Boulanger, had already gone upstairs to bed, in preparation for his early start in baking the loaves, baguettes and delightful patisserie for which they were modestly famous. Marie hummed and sang softly to herself as she worked the dough, feeling its elasticity gradually tighten, the dough strengthening. Perfect. Satisfied, Marie placed a cloth over the large bowl and, yawning, went to wash her hands.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. That’s odd, Marie thought. Who could be knocking at this time of night? She made her way out of the kitchen and through the shopfront. Through the glass of the shop’s door, Marie could make out the forms of several dark figures standing in the lane. Cautiously, she peered out, straining to catch a glimpse of some form of identifying feature. The two men closest gazed back at her through the glass and gave her a friendly wave from beneath their round helmets. Soldiers, she realized, and her heart rate increased. What could they want? As she took a moment to inspect them further, Marie realized that these soldiers were not the kind she had become accustomed to, for they were not wearing the usual field grey of the Germans.

Warily, Marie turned the key and pushed the door open slightly.

“Bonsoir,” Marie greeted the soldiers.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” replied the soldier closest to the door. His pronunciation was appalling. “Parlez vous Anglais?”

“Non,” Marie answered, surveying the soldiers who were now crowding around the doorway. There were six of them, all much taller than her. They all wore the same khaki, with round green helmets, large backpacks, and rifles slung over their shoulders. Despite being alone at night with the soldiers crowding around her, Marie did not feel threatened. Somehow, she sensed that these soldiers meant her no harm, were here to help.

Another man spoke up, his French much better. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Nous sommes Américains.”

Marie let out a short gasp which she quickly covered with one hand as she contemplated this development. Americans in France? So they have finally come.

“We are looking for directions, as we have only just arrived in your fine country,” the French-speaking soldier continued. “Could you please tell me, how much butter goes into a croissant?”

Absorbing the soldier’s bizarre request, Marie pushed the door open fully and stepped aside, beckoning the soldiers into the Boulangerie. “Please, come in, have a seat,” she gestured to some tables and chairs in the corner, normally reserved for customers. Marie contemplated the question again, how much butter goes into a croissant. What an odd thing for these men to ask. But she knew, for she had been forewarned by her father. If anybody comes to the shop and asks how much butter we put in our croissants, he had told her, you come and get me immediately, no matter what time of day or night. Initially Marie had shrugged this off, had thought it a strange thing for her father to say, however had rationalized that of course her father, as the Boulanger, would like to be the person to answer any questions about their products. But now, with these American soldiers sitting in her café, Marie realized that perhaps her father had been anticipating their arrival. But what would the Americans want with a Boulanger?

Fetching a large plate with some leftover pastries for the soldiers, Marie indicated she would be right back with the Boulanger to answer their question. Feigning calmness, she disappeared behind the counter then raced upstairs to the house and into her father’s bedroom.

“Papa, papa!” Marie whispered, shaking her father gently, who stirred. “Papa, there are some men downstairs. American soldiers. They have asked how much butter-“

Marie’s father sprang out of bed. “American soldiers? Here? Surely not?” He donned his night gown and slippers, seemingly very animated for a man who had just moments ago been fast asleep.

“I couldn’t believe it, either, Papa, but they are downstairs eating pastries as we speak!”

“Oh, what a wonderful night it is,” Papa replied, reaching into the drawer of his bedside table and producing a large brown envelope and a handgun, which he holstered in the cord of his nightgown.

Marie gaped. She had not realized her father owned any weapons. “Papa, why do you have a gun?” But he did not reply, had already left the room, so she followed him downstairs.

The Boulanger greeted the soldiers jovially, with handshakes and slaps on the back. Marie could not help but notice how comical the old man looked, dressed in his nightgown complete with holstered pistol, amongst these young, fit men. Papa pulled an extra chair over and joined the soldiers at the small table, producing the envelope he had taken from his bedside. From within, Papa withdrew a large map, which he unfolded onto the table. Moving closer to get a better look, Marie was astonished to discover that the map was of the local and surrounding Normandie area, and her father had enhanced it with scribbles depicting the locations of German Army installations, roadblocks and defences. Marie was in awe as Papa described in detail the movement of German soldiers, their regular patrols and daily patterns. The soldiers listened intently as the Boulanger told them of the German planes that flew over daily, the houses that had been taken over as barracks, and the trains that delivered ammunition and other supplies from the Reich. Marie was dumbfounded when her father even described how he and several others had planted explosives on the tracks to sabotage the railway!

The soldiers were grateful for the Boulanger’s information, and thanked him profusely. Breezing past the awestruck Marie, her father stepped back into the kitchen, then returned almost immediately with a bag of baguettes, boules and other delicacies, which he gifted to the soldiers. Then, with tears in his eyes, Papa thanked the soldiers for coming, to “finally rid the lands of the Nazi plague”, as he put it, and, wishing them the best of luck, bade them farewell.

Returning upstairs to their home quarters, Marie and her father did not discuss the matter any further, yet Marie lay awake in her bed, deliberating on what had occurred. She could hardly believe that her father, the quiet, hard-working Boulanger, had been involved in the Resistance, and struggled to understand how she had not noticed! Part of her was cross at him, for in his misguided heroism he had placed both of their lives in danger, but this anger was overshadowed by her pride and admiration.

The next morning when Marie awoke, her father was already at work in the Boulangerie. She promptly prepared herself for another day at work, then made her way downstairs where her father was already removing some pastry from the oven. Greeting Papa with her usual affection, Marie went to work on some cream with which to fill the eclairs. Together they worked in their usual manner, and not a word of the bizarre events of the previous evening was mentioned. As the Boulangerie was nearing opening time, Marie realized that she was not going to receive any explanation from her father, so she brought it up.

“Papa, who were those men last night? They seemed to be looking for you.”

Marie’s father stopped his work and turned to her for a moment. “Marie, my dear, those were American soldiers. They have come to liberate us from the Germans at last!” He then went back to work glazing the croissants.

“That information you gave them last night… Are you… in the Resistance?”

Papa dropped the pastry brush onto the bench and pressed a finger across his lips. “Sssh, Marie,” he whispered. “We cannot talk about this. You know what you saw, but you must never mention it. Those men were indeed here to see me, but we must never discuss it again.”

Satisfied that she had received as much explanation as she ever would, despite longing for more detail, Marie obediently dropped the subject and resumed her work.

Business continued in a usual manner that morning, the shopfront busy with customers coming in for their morning loaves and sweets. But there was an excitement in them, news that was slowly beginning to spread, that perhaps things were about to change.

“The Americans have landed,” an old man announced as he purchased a baguette. “They are down on the beach. The Germans are in a panic! Step outside and you can even hear the distant gunshots!”

Marie followed the man out of the store, and sure enough, she could hear the distant drone of battle. Excitement gripped her as she pondered the idea of liberation. But then the thought crossed her mind, what if the liberators were unsuccessful? What if they were beaten back into the sea? Would the Germans retaliate? If her father had been as involved in assisting the invaders as it seemed, what would the consequences be for him? Marie did not want to think about that.

It was not until late in the day that the German soldiers arrived. The half-track came to a halt in the road outside the Boulangerie, and Marie glanced out nervously from behind the shop counter as the Germans approached.

The soldiers waited outside whilst an officer entered the store, politely removing his peaked cap as he stepped over the threshold. 

“Bonjour,” the man greeted, his cold grey eyes glancing at the rows of bread and patisserie, then back to Marie.

“Bonjour, Leutnant,” Marie responded. She was trying her best to hide the fact that her knees were shaking. “What may I get for you today?”

“Your breads are fantastic,” the officer complemented. “Like none I’ve ever tasted anywhere else. Your Boulanger truly is talented.”

“Thank you,” Marie murmured.

“Is the Boulanger in?” The officer peered past the counter into the kitchen. “I have something for which I would like his expert opinion.”

Marie felt her stomach churn and she stared down at the counter for a moment, conscious that the blood was rapidly retreating from her face. What do they want with Papa? Then Papa stepped into the shopfront from the kitchen. 

“I am the Boulanger. How can I help?”

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” greeted the German officer politely. “May I just point out, that your bread is possibly the finest I have ever had the privilege of tasting.”

“You are most welcome,” Papa replied insincerely. “What do you want?”

The German recoiled slightly at the Boulanger’s gruff manner. “I have something in my truck,” he gestured outside, “I would like your opinion.”

With a grunt, the Boulanger followed the German outside to the half-track. Marie also went along, curious and apprehensive as to what might be in the truck. As they exited the shop and passed the German soldiers, Marie felt overwhelmingly uncomfortable, like they were staring at her, and they also began to make their way to the half-track.

The officer motioned toward the back of the truck and Marie and the Boulanger peered in. Then Marie let out a scream. In the truck were six bodies, clad in bloodstained khaki. Marie stared in horror and recognized the face of the young soldier who spoke to her last night.

“Do not be alarmed,” the German officer comforted. “There is a war going on, as you may have heard. We found these American paratroopers sneaking around in the early hours of this morning.”

The officer reached into the back of the half-track and rummaged through one of the paratrooper’s backpacks. Marie’s heart sank as the German produced from the backpack a perfectly-baked boule.

“As I was saying, dear Boulanger,” the officer exclaimed dramatically. “Your bread is of the finest I have ever had. I would be likely to remember it if I were to see it somewhere, it has left such a lasting impression on my palate.” 

The German held the boule out in front of Marie and her father, as if to give them a closer look. The Boulanger remained silent, staring at his loaf in conviction. Marie began to weep.

“I could have sworn,” the German continued, “that this boule I found in the backpacks of these Americans, is just as high quality as yours. In fact,” he paused to take a deep, theatrical sniff of the bread, “I think it is quite the same.”

There was a long silence as the officer smugly eyed the Boulanger, who stared speechlessly at the bread. Marie continued to sob.

“Surely, Boulanger, you would not serve your fine bread to these… enemies of the Reich? In fact, I’m certain, that a good man such as yourself would promptly let us know if he were to come across such scoundrels?”

The Boulanger remained silent.

“Exactly!” The Nazi continued his bombast. “In fact, when I came across this loaf in their backpack, I had just one thought. These filthy American dogs have broken into your good Boulangerie, and stolen your bread!”

There was another long pause.

“But then,” continued the German, “I found this, and I was most disappointed.” Reaching into his pocket, the officer produced the brown envelope the Boulanger had provided to the paratroopers last night. “This kind of inside information could only come from a local. Did you give it to them?”

The Boulanger looked at the officer and opened his mouth, his bushy grey mustache quivering as he attempted to stammer a reply.

“Please, Monsieur, could you hold this boule?” The German handed the loaf to the Boulanger, then drew his pistol. Marie gasped in terror as her father’s eyes widened. “Now, tell me, Monsieur. Is this your bread?” He pointed the pistol at the Boulanger’s head and Marie began to wail.

“He didn’t do it! He’s never seen that map!” Marie shrieked.

“Map?” The officer turned to Marie, pointing the gun at her instead. “I didn’t mention a map. How do you know there was a map in this envelope? Are you the traitor?”

“No, no!” The Boulanger interjected. “She knows nothing. My daughter is innocent. I am the Resistance man! Those were my maps.”

The officer turned his pistol back to the Boulanger and fired. Marie screamed as her father fell to the ground. The boule fell from his hands, bounced as it hit the ground, and rolled a few turns before it settled on the pavement next to its creator.

The German now turned to the sobbing Marie. “Mademoiselle, do you know how to bake?”

Marie looked up through her tears into the face of her father’s killer and nodded slowly.

“Good. We would not want our favourite Boulangerie to go out of business.”

Then the German officer and his soldiers climbed into the half-track and drove away.