Chapter Text
When the weather turns cold, nothing beats a glass of Calva. At least, that’s what her father used to say—and he was usually right.
It was close to noon, and she should have been heading back to the farm already. But after a damp and chilly November morning at the Dieppe market, Jeanne Morteau needed something to lift her spirits. So much for propriety—she was going to stop by Violette Tissier’s bar for a small drink.
“Jeanne! What brings you here?” Violette called out with a broad grin. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“I’m here for a glass of Calva, in memory of Papa,” Jeanne replied as she slid onto a barstool.
“And one Calva, coming up!” Violette shouted, pouring her a generous measure. Serving herself another glass, she lifted it and clinked Jeanne’s glass. ‘To your Papa.’
“Thanks, Violette.”
Jeanne took the smallest sip and let the liquor warm her—throat, stomach, heart… Her father had been right: the world already felt a little softer.
“So… I hear you’re housing some Germans?” Violette asked.
Jeanne sighed. Violette loved gossip far too much to let Jeanne enjoy her drink in peace.
“I’m not housing them—they requisitioned the house.”
“I know. You’re far from the only one. The Guiberts have so many of them, they have to share their bedroom with their own teenage son. Can you imagine?”
Jeanne shuddered, picturing herself having to share a room with one of her three boys. She’d rather sleep in the shed with the cows.
Violette went on: “And yours—those Boches—what are they like? Around here, there’s a bit of everything. Some are pretty decent, and some are absolute monsters. The Charnays have one who refuses to let them speak in his presence… can you believe that?”
“There’s one we refuse to speak to. He’s unbearable. Steals apples, kicks the dog, acts like he owns the place. I just hope they won’t be here too long.”
“Well, we’ll see. Word is the Maréchal is doing everything he can to keep the peace and bring the prisoners home. All we can do is wait and see.”
Jeanne drank another sip. “For the sake of peace… Sure. Though if you ask me, he’s going a little too far.”
Violette’s eyes widened and she scoffed. ‘How can you go too far for peace?’
“Listen—if there’s one thing three boys have taught me, it’s that sometimes trying too hard to smooth things over just makes matters worse. The Maréchal is giving the Germans food now. Why would they leave? They’ve got everything they want.”
Violette didn’t answer right away. She looked around, then leaned in closer and whispered: “Do me a favor and don’t say that in my bar again. Especially if Durand or Guibert are around.”
“You think they’d rat me out? Come on!”
“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Just be careful, alright?”
“Alright, alright…”
Violette straightened up and returned to her gossip.
“So, the other Boche—what’s he like?”
Jeanne thought for a moment, then admitted reluctantly: “Otto’s kind. When he’s around, Hans behaves a little better. And he asked me to teach him French, so… he can’t be all that bad.”
“You just said yourself he was kind, didn’t you?”
“As my father used to say: ‘Not every kind man is a good man.’ It’s better to look for the good ones.”
“And what’s a ‘good man’ to you?”
Jeanne took another sip of Calva, thinking it over. “A man with courage. Does what’s right, not just what’s expected of him.”
“Oh dear, you’re setting the bar way too high. No wonder you are not remarried.” Violette laughed, pouring her another drink.
By the time Jeanne finally made it back to the farm, her legs felt like lead. The Calva had taken the edge off the cold, — but dulled her wits, too. She was walking straight enough, though every step felt heavier, her mind moving as slowly as a plow in clay.
She fumbled through her pockets for the key when the door swung open and Otto stepped out. He smiled, easy and warm, like he belonged here. On instinct, Jeanne leaned in for a quick kiss on each cheek, the Norman way… then froze.
Not a friend, she reminded herself. Just a German soldier, living in her home. A Boche—a gentle one for sure, but a Boche nonetheless.
She straightened up, shot Otto a dark glare. He stared back, wide-eyed and confused. She slipped inside without another word.
That evening, Otto and Jeanne avoided each other, both embarrassed in their own way. Otto was so unusually quiet that even Hans remarked on it. He went to bed having barely touched his dinner.
Lying in her own bed, Jeanne made herself a promise: until the Germans had left, not another drop of Calva.