The Funeral Wake

It is not very warm on this 6th of October 1962. The sky is a solid sheet of grey, not the slightest breath of wind to play with those heavy clouds and offer us even the faintest variation of colour. In truth, it mirrors the mood of the day itself. I am making my way to 44 Rue Martyn in Calais to offer my condolences to Catherine’s family. Her great-aunt Léonie Bourgeois has passed away at the age of seventy-eight. For the past few months, she had been living with Emile and Marguerite (Margot) Courageux.

Dressed in black, as custom requires, I leave my home. I cross the park, walk along Boulevard Jacquard to Place d’Alsace, then continue through Rue des Fontinettes and finally Rue Martyn. Black draperies cover the façade of the house. I ring the bell. A young woman carrying a baby in her arms opens the door and leads me into the sitting room.

I shake hands, offer my condolences, and pause in silent reflection before the body of Léonie, affectionately known as Aunt Ninie.

Seated to the left of the bed are Alice and Marguerite, the deceased woman’s sisters ; on the other side sit Anaïs and Céleste, her sisters-in-law. Both women endured the same cruel fate during the war : their husbands, Fernand and Gaston, were victims of gas attacks and died several years ago.

At the foot of the bed, nieces and nephews keep watch over their beloved aunt in turns.

I recognise the brothers and sisters of Marguerite Le Petit : Georges, Michelle, Roger, Pierre, and Margot, who is trying to keep her five children still for more than a few moments. Catherine is there as well, her little face perfectly round, her cheeks delightfully plump. No fear of being recognised ; sixty years from now she will invent me, but she will never suspect who I truly was.

I know that Ernestine and Gaston never had the happiness of children, therefore André Bourgeois must be the son of Anaïs and Fernand. And that couple, Monsieur and Madame Troy-Bourgeois? The young woman must surely be André Bourgeois’ sister. No matter ; I shall simply ask Georges Bourgeois.

He has just stepped out into the courtyard, and I follow him.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Bourgeois. How are you?”

“How do you expect me to be? My aunt has just died!”

“I am sorry ; my question was inappropriate. I have heard that thanks to you, your aunts were able to spend time with their sister and sister-in-law.”

“Indeed. Since the beginning of September, I have travelled constantly between Paris, where I live, Amiens, Saint-Pol-sur-Mer, and Calais.”

“Your aunt’s health declined very quickly.”

“Yes, and she refused to call the doctor! It took a great deal of persistence, daily visits from her sister Alice, from my mother, and from her sisters-in-law before she finally agreed. Michelle, her niece, could not leave work.”

“So many people gathered around her bedside must have made her realise the seriousness of her condition.”

“Indeed. On the 17th of September, she finally agreed to summon the doctor. By then it was already too late ; at her age, pneumonia offers little mercy.”

Without another word, he returns inside, lifts two children into his arms, and climbs the staircase. Catherine and Nadine follow behind him. I have no opportunity to ask any further questions.

Suddenly, peals of childish laughter float down from upstairs, cracking the veil of sadness spread across the house. A few smiles appear upon weary faces. Life continues ; it will always prove stronger in the end.

With a glance, I observe the gathering once more. Conversations are carried out in hushed voices. The flickering light of the candles illuminates Léonie’s face. Stern in appearance yet tender-hearted beneath, she shall soon be accompanied to her final resting place by her entire family.

I thank Margot for her kindness and quietly take my leave.

The wind has risen now. The sun cautiously sends a few rays through the abundance of clouds racing swiftly eastward. I adjust my scarf, catch hold of my hat, and make my way back home.