Sunday, 4 December 2011

Tales from Argentina - The Story of Clorinda Sarracán (Part 1 of 3)

The events I attempt to recount here took place almost 150 years ago in a village called Santos Lugares, outside Argentina’s capital, Buenos Aires.  They concern the murder of Jacobo Fiorini, a portrait painter and farmer. 

Despite my research it has been difficult to separate fact from fiction.  The press got hold of the story and reported it exhaustively in the following months.  In addition, these were the days when forensic science was limited and also before fingerprinting had been devised as a means of identification in building up evidence in a legal case.  This system, known as dactyloscopy, was actually invented in Argentina in 1892 and the first country in the world to use it. 

My sources are a combination of contemporary records as quoted on the internet – trial records, newspaper reports, hearsay from reporters and father confessors – and one very interesting book written by Álvaro Abós (El Crimen de Clorinda Sarracán, Editorial Sudamericana, 2003, ISBN 950-07-2205-4).  My knowledge of the facts is consequently a mixture of truth and speculation by others, and I have found it impossible to distinguish between one and the other.  I have therefore preferred to opt for the role of mere storyteller.

-oOo-

(Double click to enlarge)

Part One – The Murder

According to a Buenos Aires newspaper of the time, on 12th October 1856 Clorinda Sarracán de Fiorini, aged 26, may have colluded in the murder of her husband aged 56, or even assisted by delivering some of the multiple blows to the head which killed him. 

Some days before the announcement was made, anonymous letters had been received by La Tribuna declaring that the formerly renowned portrait painter Jacobo Fiorini, who had retired to the country some years earlier to manage a smallholding, had disappeared and that foul play was suspected. 

Clorinda Sarracán on the cover of Álvaro Abós' book

Policemen and a detective by the name of Inspector Arnaud were despatched to the village of Santos Lugares, the location of the small farm where Fiorini, his wife and five children aged between 1 and 10 years resided. 

Their house was a relatively prosperous one for the area, and had been constructed according to Fiorini’s specific instructions.  It had a tiled roof with two floors as living quarters and an attic, where Fiorini continued to paint when he could.  There were seven rooms in all, with two simple columns on the veranda supporting a large beam.   Curiously, there were few windows, the main bedroom having only a small one with iron bars across it, and the attic a very small opening for light.  There was a strip of brick paving two metres wide surrounding the house to protect it from weeds; the grounds had a dovecote, fig trees, prickly pears and several varieties of weed which had been allowed to grow wild and high.  On the path leading away from the house there were willows, poplars and chinaberries. 

Pigs and chickens were bred on the farm and most of the work was done by foreman Crispín Gutiérrez and his younger brother Remigio.  In the house Clorinda was assisted by two servants, Claudia Álvarez and Nicolasa Merlo aged 16 and 15 respectively, illiterate girls whom Clorinda had obtained from a local orphanage two years earlier.  Jacobo Fiorini, who could no longer make a living from portrait painting because his hands were too stiff to paint, dealt with supplies and the general paperwork of the business, which took him to Buenos Aires on a regular basis.


It wasn’t long before the police discovered a fresh mound of earth under a rubber tree by the Fiorini property.  The recent wind and rain had sharpened the unusual shape of the rubbish dump and exposed a macabre hand, and below was a twisted body with a grisly head.  The autopsy later revealed that the victim had been wearing good quality clothes with splashes of paint down the front and there was a rope around his neck which had been used to drag him.

Many locals were willing to talk about what they knew of the couple.  Inspector Arnaud was told of their thirty year age difference, that they argued a lot, that he beat her and that she was probably having an affair with the foreman, Crispín Gutiérrez.  Clorinda’s mother had died many years earlier, and her father, Carlos Sarracán, had recently reappeared on the scene after having abandoned his family when Clorinda was little, and she had been seen having long and earnest conversations with him.  Claudia and Nicolasa also had plenty to say.

A week later on 30th October a mallet was found some distance away measuring about half a yard in length, of the type used to hammer down fence posts.  It had what looked like blood stains on it.

Inspector Arnaud didn’t hesitate.  He arrested Clorinda, the two servant girls, the foreman Crispín (24), his brother Remigio (18) and Clorinda’s father, Carlos Sarracán, and took them back to the city.

A story gradually emerged from Crispín, Clorinda, Claudia and Nicolasa’s initial statements.  There had been a fierce argument between Fiorini and his foreman Crispín, the latter claiming that he and his brother were owed back pay.  Crispín confessed to having murdered his employer because of the money and because he was angered by Fiorini’s abuse of his wife.  In addition he disliked the way the Italian-born Fiorini insulted Argentina. 

They had argued violently on the stairs and eventually Fiorini tossed him down a $500 peso bill and went back to the attic where he had been painting.  He must have been frightened by his employee’s demeanour however, because he had locked himself in and refused to emerge all day.  In the evening Clorinda persuaded him to come down for dinner, which he eventually did, insisting that it be served in the lounge, rather than in the dining-room with the children. 

Crispín returned accompanied by his brother, and at this point Clorinda thought it wise to withdraw the children and the servants to the garden.  Presently they heard a shot, and after saying “What was that?” to the others, Clorinda made her way back to the house.  According to Claudia, she seemed neither surprised nor in a hurry as she walked away.   She further asserted that her mistress had been having an affair with Crispín for some time, and that whenever the master went to Buenos Aires on business, Crispín moved into his employer’s bed.  However Nicolasa contradicted this statement and denied that they slept together.

For his part, Crispín confessed that he and his brother had returned to have it out with Fiorini.  Their employer had been in the lounge eating his dinner, with a bayonet propped beside him.  They re-started the argument and distracted him from the weapon at his side.  Presently Crispín pulled a gun which he had purchased from a pedlar the day before.  He was not however experienced with the firearm and missed, whereupon he tossed the pistol aside and grabbed the mallet used for pounding in fence posts which Remigio had brought with him, and while his brother picked up the gun and hit him with the butt, Crispín killed him with the mallet.  They then tied a rope around his neck and dragged him out to the back, leaving him on the rubbish dump under the rubber tree and covering him with soil.

When Clorinda returned she found herself alone in the house, and as she was joined by the others she ordered her maids to clean up the blood in the lounge.  Astonishingly, things went back to a sort of normal, while Clorinda told people that Fiorini had gone to the capital for a few days.  When that time had passed she travelled to Buenos Aires and contacted his family there to say she was concerned that he had not returned.  They searched the rented room where he always stayed but nothing had been touched.  Her father Carlos Sarracán returned with her to Santos Lugares and came under suspicion because he had been asking questions about Fiorini’s financial affairs.  He was under arrest for a while and was badly treated in jail, but was eventually released when he was able to prove that he had only been trying to collect Fiorini’s debts so that his widow could continue to feed and clothe her children, and had put the funds into an account for her use alone.  What little there was had now been frozen by the courts.

Clorinda made a statement confessing her guilt, but retracted it later, claiming that it had been made under duress.  She stoutly maintained she was innocent and said her husband had probably been murdered by a pedlar who had unfinished business with him, and she had thus not known he was lying dead in the grounds until he was found.

While she was in custody her children were being looked after by an aunt; she longed for their rare visits and yet these occasions were a torture to her.  She was allowed to see her one-year old daughter twice a week and only for a few minutes, during which she wept uncontrollably.  She had difficulty paying the rent on the property where her aunt cared for the children and she had no one to whom she could turn - her father had been badly affected by the time he had spent in jail and could not help.  Funds were short and her living conditions were difficult.  She shared her space with twenty or so other female criminals, and in addition to the total lack of privacy the guards constantly made advances. 

The case had taken Buenos Aires by storm.  Newspaper reporters had a field day dwelling on the grislier aspects of the murder, the abuse by Fiorini of his wife, her devotion to her children yet her probable wanton behaviour with Crispín and her reactions immediately following his death – all this counted very much against her.  The brilliant lawyer Carlos Tejedor was appointed to defend her, with Judge Miguel Navarro Viola presiding at the trial.

Carlos Tejedor, defending counsel


To be continued…  next time, the trial.

-oOo-

Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's non-digital archive

More pictures taken around Palermo,
Buenos Aires, argentina, 1994









"Living statue"



-oOo-

Sunday, 20 November 2011

The Two Old Geezers

Nothing much to report about myself, other than the 'discovery' of the iPod Nano which I purchased recently to help get me through some of the repetitive work I do during my working day.  It's been wonderful to find that I can actually do more while I listen to stories, live radio and podcasts on the dear little square of black glass created by Apple.

An oldie-but-goodie to keep you entertained until I finish my next story...  (I originally put The Two Old Geezers in my other blog, Eavesdroppings and Stories, last May, and though re-told by me, is not of course my story).  It makes me smile to reflect that if my father had been alive today he would have been holding his sides - just his sort of story.


The Two Old Geezers

Scene

Butch and Sid were in their 80s and reckoned they were close to their last days of going out on the town, so they decided to have a final fling. After quite a few drinks, Sid suggested they carry on to the local brothel.

The madam took one look at the two old geezers and whispered to her manager -

"Go up to the first two bedrooms and put an inflated doll in each bed. These two are so old and drunk, I'm not wasting two my girls on them. They won't know the difference."

The manager did as he was told and the two old men went upstairs and took care of business.

As they were walking home some time later...

Butch: You know Sid, I think my girl was dead.

Sid: Dead? What makes you say that?

Butch: Well she never moved or made a sound all the time I was lovin' her...

Sid: Could be worse, Butch - reckon mine was a witch.

Butch: Hell, what did she do??

Sid: I was makin' love to her, and kissin' her and such, and I gave her a little bite, and then she farted and flew out the window. Dang it, she took my teeth with her too...

-oOo-


Photo Finish
from Lonicera's non-digital archive


Buenos Aires 1994
- a walk in Palermo park and its environs on a spring day


The glorious jacaranda in full bloom


The blooms of the cockspur coral tree - Erytrina crista galli
known as the ceibo in Argentina, where it is the national flower.


There are canals through the park where you can hire
boats to drift round on lazy Sunday afternoons
under the shade of the ceibos...


Some living statues nearby hoping you'll drop a
coin in the hat, watched avidly by children waiting
for a fly to land on their noses...


The Japanese Garden section


Students idly chatting...


Having a snooze...


This picture was taken at Plaza San Martín,
but I wanted to include it because it made me smile.
The sign says "This park is cared for by the Fortabat Foundation
.... and You." 
I don't think that couple was paying attention...

-oOo-

Friday, 11 November 2011

Remembrance


I remember a great uncle and an uncle of mine, both with the same name, who died in the First and Second World wars respectively.  They joined up because they wanted to fight for freedom, but sadly did not survive long enough to see action.

I remember my grandmother’s desperate sadness and the large silver-framed portrait of the handsome young man in the RAF uniform, ever present on her dressing table for the thirty-eight years between her third son’s death and her own.

I remember my mother telling me about a generation of young men, her friends she had known since teenage years, who left one day in 1940 to join the army, laughing as they waved goodbye at the station, yet disappeared out of her life forever, and about whom until the end of her life she could not speak without weeping.

I will never forget all the BBC’s reports from Wootton Bassett in Wiltshire, a town not far from where I live, where for many years the RAF repatriated the British soldiers killed in action and where every single time the populace would spontaneously line the roads to pay their last respects as the soldiers who had perished were driven by, and which would reduce me to tears every time.  Although the location for this repatriation has now been changed, the Royal Family have recognised the loyalty of the town and re-named it Royal Wootton Bassett.

I will never forget that it is thanks to them and people like them that we continue to live in a free world, and I will always be grateful.

-oOo-

Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's non-digital archive











-oOo-

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Night Owl

Although writing is virtually the most important thing in the world to me these days, and I have stories queuing up waiting to be told, I’ve slowed down a bit.  The next story in the pipeline is the unusual tale of Clorinda Sarracán, an Argentine woman who may or may not have murdered her husband in 1856.  But it’s taking me longer than it used to some months back, as did the research and writing up of “A Foreign Field”, the World War I story I told you a couple of weeks ago. 
The reason is because I’m not getting enough sleep.  These days when I get home I don’t always have the energy to spread my books about me and select the lined notebook, fountain pen and ink colour of my liking (the planning stage) or sit at the computer and tap out the story and hunt for pictures (the final stage).  Recently I have been known to get home at 6 p.m. and sleep for 2 hours, then cook dinner, or sit with John watching something on TV and fall asleep in the chair.   I’ve only got to see an advertisement for beds or a scene in a film with someone’s plush bedroom with plumped up pillows and bedclothes folded back, and I’m fantasizing about being there, inside the telly… and zonk, I’ve nodded off.
Fridays are happy happy evenings because I’m going to have 2 days when I can let rip and sleep for as long as I want.  On Fridays and Saturdays I’ve been known to sleep for 9-11 hours, and even have siestas in between.  Invitations or suggestions which involve rising before 11 a.m. on weekends make me feel murderous, likewise weekday evenings which mean I go to bed later than usual – not because I’m home late (if you’re British and middle-aged you’re home by 10.30…), but because after the adrenalin rush of being out with friends I need time to wind down and get sleepy. 
Part of the reason is that there are times when I’m less in control of my diabetes than I should be.  If for example I’ve had more sugary or oily foods than usual over a couple of days, the normal insulin doses aren’t sufficient, and I’m always scared of giving myself too much insulin, so I wait a bit.  If I overdo the insulin I could lower my glucose levels too much and bring on a hypoglycaemic event, when I feel I’m under water and can’t move without a great effort of will, which scares the hell out of me.  It takes a few days to catch up because I increase the insulin gradually and bring the glucose back down again – the process of several days.  In the meantime, high levels of glucose in the blood make me feel very tired and sleepy.
The second reason is that I have to rise at 6.30 a.m. for work.  I’m 58, and throughout my working life have never had to rise before 7.15.  This agony has been going on for about 18 months now, because the hospital where I work is being re-built around us (see my irritable report on "How I earn my Crust", Part 2, here) and the parking areas have gradually taken on the characteristics of an African waterhole, which gradually dries up in the summer and the animals fight each other for the right to drink.  (Not a fair comparison, but you know what I mean). 

A multi-storey car park has been built, but employees are only permitted to park on two floors out of 5, consequently unless you’re actually parked by 8 a.m. (or earlier if possible) you won’t get in.  People do come in later, because they’re more relaxed about cruising around for 20 minutes looking at all the mini car parks around to see if there are any spaces left, and if they can’t find any then they don’t mind driving slowly up and down the main road looking for a space, then walking for half an hour to get to their desks.  But I get anxious and force myself to be in the car park by 8 (and still worry about it).  In these 18 months I’ve changed departments, from urology to orthopaedics, and people in both places have been as understanding and supportive as they can be – no pressure there at all as to my starting time.  But I still need to park, since I’m not near enough to cycle to work.
I suppose the main reason my tiredness levels have accumulated over the months is that I’m a night owl.  I’ve never worried about working late, staying up late, and I don’t consider myself to be lazy (except, ahem, where exercise is concerned).  I may be half asleep during the day, but from 7 p.m. onwards I’m on fire, inspired to write, full of curiosity and Google-searching, impatient when John understandably wants dinner and to go to bed at a reasonable hour, keen to reply to e-mails from people I haven’t written to for a while, read blogs, leave comments, in between playing the odd computer card game…  Suddenly it’s 11 p.m. and I’m nowhere near finished, but I know I need a proper night’s sleep. 
In addition the ritual of putting the cats to bed can take an age, because we like them to be indoors after dark (mainly because of foxes and a bully tomcat which patrols at night) and we alarm the front of the house.  There are evenings when they’re feeling mischievous and lead me a merry dance down our road, as I call out in babycat language to entice them in, and wonder what the neighbours think as they hear me.
We’ve tried to bring the whole process forward but it’s so difficult.  We’ve only managed to gain half an hour…
But I must try.  When I’m writing I’m way up in the air cruising on a thermal, detached from everything below, loving the breeze in my hair, my fingers flying across the keys as I live and breathe what I’m writing about.  I’m up on high, somewhere else.  So I must control the diabetes properly, get enough sleep and put aside being a night owl for the day I retire.
-oOo-

Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's non-digital archive

St Ives, Cornwall
and Bonfire Night







Look carefully - I only noticed it when I uploaded the picture -
that's John in the shadows front left holding the sparkler...




-oOo-

Sunday, 30 October 2011

Tales from Elsewhere – The Multi-Storey

“Well, I don’t know…” said my father doubtfully.

“It’s getting late” said my mother, we’re in a city we don’t know, we need a hotel for the night and we’ve already tried two and they’re full.  I don’t think it matters this time if it’s not too smart – why don’t you try that one across the street and see if there are any vacancies?”

“Well I suppose so”, he said reluctantly as he slowed down to look for a parking space.   “It  does look a bit run down though…”

I was just thinking about the steak and chips I was going to have for dinner; we had covered a great distance that day, mostly on crudely asphalted roads with often only one lane for both directions of traffic which necessitated playing dare with every oncoming vehicle to see who was going to drive past with two wheels off the road.  Now we were crawling along a very busy avenue with crowds of pedestrians milling around.

We were in Curitiba, Brazil, some 1,300 km/800 miles from Buenos Aires, from whence we had departed some days earlier.  This was early 1967, and I was travelling with my parents several hundred miles further into mid Brazil to visit my uncle and his family for a holiday. 

The journey had up to now been a great adventure.  My other ventures abroad thus far had been to Uruguay and Chile, both Spanish speaking, and it was exciting to be in a country so tropical and different from my own, and where another language was spoken.   My father’s attempts to communicate in Portuguese were supposed to be amusing to the Brazilians subjected to it, but to an awkward and insecure thirteen year old they were a pure and embarrassing agony.

But it was fun because the parts of Brazil through which we travelled – very far from the coast - were clearly not accustomed to foreigners, and the number plate on our car attracted a lot of attention.  Strangers would come up to us to ask us where we were from, what we thought of Brazil, and so on.  If they were a little over-curious, they were also invariably friendly and kind, and anxious to show us how beautiful their land was.  My mother was particularly impressed by gigantic government signs we passed regularly, which said simply “Aqui se trabalha!” (Here, we work!)

I remember most of all the enormous variety of strange fruit I tasted which I had never heard of before, and haven’t since, and the fabulously delicate and strongly fragrant flowers that seemed to grow in profusion everywhere.

Dad uncurled himself stiffly from the driver’s seat and shuffled across the avenue, with creased white shirt tails flapping, while Mum and I sat and waited.  We were idly looking out of the window at where he was going, and I remarked that there seemed to be quite a queue outside the hotel entrance.  “Precisely why we must find somewhere quickly” Mum remarked “there must be some festival or other going on and the hotels are full”.

Dad was struggling to get past the queue and he seemed to be having altercations with people.  Suddenly I said “Mum, look at the queue.  There are no ladies in it.  Why’s that?”

“I don’t know” she said tiredly, “let’s just wait for him to come back”.

Then we saw him making his way back across the avenue, dodging the traffic, and strangely, he was smiling broadly.  We heard his laughter before he even opened the door to get back into the car.

“Well?  Have they any rooms?”

He laughed again despite the irritated sound to her voice.

“I’ll say they do” he said “you hire them by the hour, though.  It’s a ….”

“Pas devant les enfants” said Mum sternly.  "Just drive on".  That old chestnut, as if I didn’t understand elementary French.  My sister had briefed me long ago on what these pearls of wisdom of hers actually meant, the others being “Laisse-moi faire” (let me deal with this) and something that sounded like  “Laisse leur” (supposed to be “leave it alone, no need to say anything further”).  

However I thought it strange that one should stay in a hotel and have to state for how many hours you required it.  I was about to learn more about the ways of the world.

“Stop treating her like a child”, said my father, and turning to me he said “it’s a brothel”. 

I felt proud that he had included me in on the joke, and was glad I already knew what a brothel was…

We eventually found somewhere to stay, and while we installed ourselves in our shared bedroom Dad went to park the car in the multi-storey car park nearby.  He took such a long time to return that Mum started pacing up and down the room, calling reception and asking in halting Portuguese how far away the car park actually was, not appreciating that making yourself understood in a foreign language was one thing, and understanding what was said back to you was quite another.

About an hour later Dad appeared at the door of the hotel bedroom, looking pale and shaken.  “I need a drink” he said, and sat down on the bed.

“I’ve been so worried.  What happened?”

“The multi-storey they sent me to is one of these circular ones, where you drive up in a spiral, and decide which floor you want – they all looked very full, so I carried on going up, counting the floors as I went, because there were no numbers anywhere.  At the eighth floor I found a space, but just as I was getting out of the car all the building lights went out – I’ve no idea why. “

He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and carried on.

“I was stuck there in the dark, and I admit to you I got quite nervous.  Then my eyes got used to the dark a bit, and I saw a series of doors.  But the signs were all in Portuguese, I didn’t understand what they meant.  I went down a dingy corridor and then I saw some little lights indicating a lift.  Such a relief!  It was obviously a goods lift though, because it was just a very small wooden platform, but what the hell I thought – it’ll do.  I just about saw a row of buttons and I pressed the lowest one, and again, such a relief when it started to go down, even though I had to hang on to a bar above me.  It was one of those lifts with no sides, so you could see the spiral driveway going up as I went down.  I counted the floors, and after four it stopped!”

He dabbed at his face again.

“I stood there wondering what to do next, I shouted, and somebody did answer me, but it echoed so badly and I didn’t understand anyway.  I was still in the dark, and eventually I realised that I was going to have to climb down the rest of the way  because it wasn’t going to go any further.  By my calculations I still had four floors to go.  I sat down on the floor and edged my way to the black hole beyond, and after a while I thought what the hell, I’ve got to get out of here.  I’m just going to jump.”

Mum gasped, her hand in front of her mouth.

“So I jumped.  And you know what?  I fell about thirty centimetres – I had been on the ground floor when it stopped!”

“But you had counted eight” I protested.

“Ah, but I didn’t realise as I was driving up that I had been counting half floors” he said, “if you’re going round in a circle it’s easy to get confused, I now know…”  He lay back on the bed holding the hanky to his forehead.

We didn’t even have dinner that night, we were all too overwhelmed by the evening’s adventures.

-oOo-

Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's non-digital archives


Fuerteventura and flower/fruit taken in England and Spain
















-oOo-

Saturday, 22 October 2011

Tales of War and Conflict – A Foreign Field (Part II of II)



Part II of II - Lost and found …and lost.

Claire Dessenne’s news that she would be having a baby the following autumn stunned them all into silence.  Marie Coulette saw the expression on her daughter-in-law’s face, and with rare tact ushered everybody out of the kitchen.  Claire suddenly found herself alone with her mother. 

.
The fear and tension Eugénie had been feeling reached an intolerable pitch, for now an innocent baby was to be thrust into the maelstrom their lives had become.  Not only would Claire’s situation become infinitely more vulnerable with regard to the occupying forces, but her position in the village would create scorn, disapproval and petty jealousies, for she knew that with the extreme shortage of eligible men, Robert had become a focus for many of the young women.  She could see nothing but trouble ahead, but Claire was blind to all but the wonder of the feelings between her and Robert, and the miracle that was about to enter her life.  She was quite convinced that the village would rejoice with her.

The reality was somewhat different.  As the war had intensified, privations grew and lives were increasingly at risk from a Kommandant who as a former small town magistrate before the war had been presented with the unique opportunity to indulge his obsession with petty bureaucracy and apply his power over others with relish.  The villagers’ lives became more confined, their initial kind heartedness towards the British soldiers gradually altered by their growing awareness of the danger they courted daily.  The diminishing stores of food were a constant reminder that if nothing else, these strong and healthy men represented extra mouths to feed.  In fact, a group of Villeret villagers consisting of the older women, the children and men who could not fight – the ‘useless mouths’ as they called them – were being taken away to a place of safety, because the food was running out.

The church in Villeret, before
the First World War
.
It was in this atmosphere that Claire’s baby was born one late autumn day in 1915, and the little girl was named Hélène, after Robert’s mother Ellen.  He was fiercely proud of his little daughter, and soon took to walking round the village with her in his arms to show her off to anyone who would stop and look. 

He would sing her a little lullaby...

My little cockatoo
With the bright blue eye!
My pretty little chou,
My cabbage butterfly.
I'll love you in the morning
I'll love you late at night,
When the new day's dawning
You'll still be my delight.
My little cockatoo
With the bright blue eye!
My pretty little chou
My cabbage butterfly.
                                                                      - Elizabeth Major


"...my cabbage butterfly..."

Of course the people of Villeret couldn’t resist the miracle of a new life, this tiny morsel of happiness in a world gone mad, and were charmed by her father’s devoted care.  For a time there was a truce towards the British men.  But the bad feelings returned.

Eugénie, ever the Cassandra of the community, was quick to point out that the British soldiers were not as welcome as they once had been, and that it was merely a matter of time before someone betrayed them to the German authorities.  She claimed they all felt that they should have made greater efforts to find a way through enemy lines by now, although Claire protested vigorously that Robert was preparing the necessary paperwork and they had not tried any harder because it was still too dangerous.

.
And that was another point, added Eugénie – it was pretty obvious that Robert had too many compelling reasons to stay. 

Some weeks later David Martin returned from the fields with grave news.  The Kommandant had put up new posters in the villages under his control stating that he – Major Evers – was well aware that the villagers were hiding guns and food, and that there were British spies in the locality.  All British soldiers being sheltered were to surrender by 30th April 1916, when they would be held as prisoners of war.  Any found after that date would be shot and their French hosts fined and imprisoned.

In the discussion that followed, Claire was urged to go with the ‘useless mouths’ being evacuated, taking her baby with her, but she refused to even countenance being parted from Robert.  Stress levels rose further when Marie Coulette returned from the village, furious because she had learned that Tom O’Sullivan had been talking to the German guards in his terrible French/patois, cheekily asking one to light his cigarette for him, and even teasing him a little.  No bright young guard would have been fooled by this, and he had just been lucky this time.  Tom was unrepentant.  He had just been having a little bit of fun, and he was determined to go his own way.

L to R:  Robert Digby, David Martin, Tom O'Sullivan, Charlotte Lelong

But it could only have been a gesture of defiance.  Evers’ latest pronouncement meant that the likelihood of betrayal was even greater, and they would have to leave.


The British men departed that night.  Robert and Claire bade farewell in love and sorrow, trying not to dwell on the fact that they were being torn apart, and dreamed of meeting again in a better place.  


Eugénie had barely had time to calm down a little when on the following evening the men returned, looking dishevelled and desperate.  They hadn’t been able to get anywhere near the German front line, let alone cross it.  Robert commented that he thought they had been sighted by German troops, and were only just able to get away.  Marie Coulette hastily took them into the barn for the night, but they would have to decide the following morning what to do. 

Time had run out for the young British men, and this time they would be lost forever.  A few days later in the night, German soldiers burst into the barn, and only Robert Digby was quick enough to jump out of the window and disappear into the woods.  Martin and O’Sullivan were captured and put in jail.

Thus was the random cruelty of war.  Robert Digby was once more wrenched from the home he loved, and was never to see his daughter or Claire again.

Other houses in the village were raided and among others, the mayor Parfait Marié was taken into custody. 

His father Emile Marié (a man of generous girth, known as ‘Le Gros’) took over as temporary mayor of Villeret, and he proceeded to devote all his energies to getting his son freed while still obeying Evers’ orders and doing his best for the village.

Meanwhile Robert Digby hid in the woods, surviving as best he could on the spring berries left behind from the bombardments, but he realised he could not do this indefinitely and the front line was still too near.  Emile Marié knew where he was, and would bring him food and news from time to time, until one day he came to meet him in the forest and told him that Major Evers had declared that if Digby were still in the area and were to give himself up, he would be sent back to his regiment without being punished. 

While Robert remained in the Villeret area, Claire and little Hélène would be in danger of being held as hostages by Major Evers, and he did not wish Marie Coulette and Eugénie to come to any harm on his account.  He was resolute.  The following time he saw Emile Marié he quietly told him he would give himself up, and a day later he walked back to Villeret and handed himself in to Emile Marié, from where he was taken to Le Câtelet and to Major Evers.

The German Kommandant never had any intention of letting Robert Digby return to his regiment, and the British soldier knew this.  He was locked in a cell within the same jail as his two other comrades, and one morning he heard their distress as they learned that they were to be shot that day.  Later on he heard the sound of their execution, and knew he was to follow shortly. 

On Tuesday 16th May 1916 he wrote letters to Eugénie asking her to look after her daughter and granddaughter for him, to his mother telling her about what had occurred and asking her to recognise Claire and Hélène as part of the Digby family, and finally to Claire:

“My darling Claire,

This is the last letter of my life.  I am condemned to die by firing squad at five past ten tonight.  Farewell, and never forget Robert, who dies happy and satisfied for France and for my own country.  I kiss you.  Embrace my baby girl and later, when she is grown, tell her the truth about her father, who has died content.  Send the letter I have already written for my mother.  I have given another letter for my family to the pastor, because the Germans have intercepted the letters of my comrades.

Farewell.

Your loving Robert”


-oOo-

Ben Macintyre came to the story in the nineties, when he met Hélène as an old lady, and she told him her story. Thus it is Hélène who tells the story in the opera.

Hélène

-oOo-

Epilogue

They had been betrayed. 

The Dessenne hayloft had been discreet and remote enough to conceal the British soldiers for almost two years, and there had been no interest by the Germans in the property.  If Major Evers had ever suspected Marie Coulette of harbouring British spies he would have seen to the consequences personally. 

There were various people in Villeret who had reason to want the British soldiers gone, and not least was the frightened Eugénie.  Then there were various women – Charlotte Lelong among them – who had a crush on Robert Digby, the most handsome of the three, and resented that Claire should have him.  There were various men – the postman among them – who secretly loved Claire and wanted her lover gone.  Emile Marié understood the danger in which these men had placed them, and there were many others who no longer wished to share their meagre supplies of food.  The truth was not to be revealed for a further ninety years.

Contrary to his wishes that he be buried in Villeret, Major Evers dictated that Private Robert Digby’s grave should be dug in a remote corner of Le Câtelet cemetery and only one modest bouquet of flowers would be allowed.  Villeret villagers disobeyed however, and the grave had a huge tower of flowers deposited upon it, to the Kommandant’s annoyance. 

This is a cross erected near Villeret for another
British soldier, who died in 1918.
(http://1914-1918.invisionzone.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=128161)
.
A few short weeks later their world went mad and the land exploded for four vicious months between July and November of 1916 while the Battle of the Somme roared around them.  It seemed at times that the struggle to stay alive was all that kept them alive, and yet for the people of Villeret there was worse to come.

In February of 1917 the order was issued that all should assemble in the village square.  From here they were forced to march into exile to the Ardennes, and Villeret was razed to the ground.  It was flattened completely, as was Le Câtelet.

The Dessennes were among the families which returned to their village after the end of the war two years later, and with struggle and great penury rebuilt their homes.  The Lelongs did not return other than briefly to view with dismay what was left of their property.

-oOo-

And finally…

Robert had a brother, Thomas, who coincidentally fought his war very close by to the fugitive and never knew it.  When their mother Ellen died during the twenties, Thomas found among her things the letter Robert had written to her, asking her to recognise his daughter.  From this yellowing scrap of paper he learned about Hélène for the first time, and that his mother had never wished to reveal it.  So in 1930 Thomas Digby visited Villeret and found Hélène, now aged 15, and drew up an official document at the mayor’s office in Villeret, recognising her as a Digby.

Hélene and Claire in about 1923


Hélène (left)
& Claire (right)
in later life








There is one thing left to say, which I have learned from an article written by Ben Macintyre for The Times in April 2009. 

He had recently been contacted by a Belgian historian who had learned from a forgotten archive in Brussels some facts about espionage during the First World War.  The historian had read Macintyre’s book, and thought he ought to know who had been responsible for betraying Robert Digby.

One of the documents says “…Robert was denounced by the mayor of Villeret and taken by him to the Kommandant at Le Câtelet, where he was shot with three of his companions.”

So Emile Marié – Le Gros – was probably corpulent at a time of great food privation because he had been receiving preferential treatment from the Germans, and he probably betrayed the soldiers to protect himself and get his son released from jail.  Macintyre remembered one of the villagers stating that Claire had hated Emile and wanted him dead.  Perhaps she knew.

-oOo-


The opera was very successful, playing to full houses every night, and received excellent write-ups.  (See here, here and here) and the Wetherells hope one day to be able to stage it again.  Elizabeth Major, the opera’s librettist, could not have used Ben Macintyre’s story in its entirety, as there were numerous families in the village of Villeret who played an important part in the narrative, representing too many characters to portray on a stage.   So what I have told you is the bare bones of the story, which I hope will prompt you to buy the book and be fascinated, as I was, by the background and what happened after the war. 

To encourage you in this endeavour, I have purchased two second-hand copies of the book, which I shall be delighted to post to the first two people who leave a comment and tell me they would like to have a copy, even if a little dog-eared (and give me their e-mail address so I can contact them).

Should you wish to purchase the book yourself, these are the details:

UK:  A Foreign Field, Harper Collins, ISBN 0-00-653171-7. 
US:  The Englishman’s Daughter, Random House, ISBN 978-0-385-33679-6

Ben Macintyre

-oOo-


Photo Finish -
from Lonicera's digital archive

The cast of "A Foreign Field" - second half

Niall Hoskin (Major Evers)


Ron Moncrieff & Peter Naish (German soldiers)


Ian Arnold (David Martin)


Paul Arden-Griffith (Tom O'Sullivan)


Geraldine Aylmer-Kelly (Hélène Digby)


Eric Wetherell, Composer and Musical Director

-oOo-
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