The forest of death

With the book in his hand, he directs her to a place that, despite repeatedly asking her why, he does not want to tell anything about. On an old, wooden table they display the picnic accessories. She looks at him in love and curious, and also a little worried. Since he got the booklet, he has changed and become quiet. Now she expects him to tell her what it’s about. And that happens, because he says: “My grandfather made this book himself and left it to me. It’s about a forest in which he had an adventure as a young man, which he has never told anyone, not even my grandmother Aurore. Now that I’ve read it, I know why.”
She looks at him and sees, to her relief, that his change of the last few weeks is gone.
“Now you can read it,” he continues.

On the cover of the booklet is the lugubrious text:

“The forest of death.”

“As you know, we are building a cheese factory in France. This is going way too slow. You go there for at least a year to help. With your organizational talent, it should be possible to do that faster.”
A nice compliment, though. What my boss apparently does not realize is that my far too limited knowledge of the French language is causing a problem. Before the holidays it is enough, to lead a large project for the French is not. Before I could formulate a question about this, my boss says: “You’re going to a crash course in French next Monday.”
So he has realized that.

On the way home, during the daily traffic jam, I can think about the consequences of the assignment. Because of the holidays with my parents, my love for France is as big as the country itself. They settled there permanently years ago, together with my younger sister. The hotel they bought years ago is a great success. I visit them a few times a year. Now I can go to them more often, because the factory is less than a hundred kilometers away from them. So far, nothing but advantages. Another lucky thing that my courtship is over, I think while getting out of the car.

In the first week in France, I furnish my house and see how people work and communicate with each other, without interfering with the course of events. As much as possible I learn the French way of working and thinking. Very calmly, I first start to settle the battle between the different departments. For this I organize dinners with the department heads on Friday afternoons. During these meetings, I let everyone explain their ideas continuously. After four weeks, a clear improvement is noticeable during construction. By respecting everyone, I get more and more respect from the French. Now I can very carefully put forward my ideas about construction.

Winter is disappearing. Because of the peace between the two seasons, my parents can come to me more often. My sister, a blond splash of twenty-two, also comes to visit me regularly. She is very welcome in my French circle of friends.

Spring is divine and I regularly eat with my friends. On these occasions there is sometimes also a girl named Aurore. After a few encounters, we feel something for each other, I think. Because I had no idea what people in the village think about that, I keep my distance from her, against my will. Because of the summer season, my parents and my sister are getting busier again. Very occasionally we can meet each other.

Summer seems, but is not endless. The grapes have been picked and the harvest festivals begin. On a Saturday there is a harvest festival in a small village. All friends, including Aurore and my sister, are present. Jean, a doctor who has also worked for Doctors Without Borders, is also there. The stories he tells give us a different view of life. My sister is especially interested in the man behind the doctor. This interest is mutual I see.

A suckling pig involuntarily turns on the spit over a charcoal fire. Of course there are wines to taste and discuss. There are heated debates about whether or not to bottle it. Some batches of wine sell them whole, the better ones bottled on the estate. The new wine is now being created in the stainless steel tanks. The pig begins its last task in this world and it tastes excellent. The wine does its job and the stories are stronger and stronger, until they are about a forest with the lugubrious name: ‘The forest of death’.
Of course my curiosity is aroused and I start asking questions about this. Those questions are avoided. People say it is there and nothing more. Very cleverly they lure me into a trap I think and I think it’s fine. The fires have been lit and the wine has been exchanged for homemade liqueur. This liqueur also goes on the pancakes, which are above the remains of the pork fire that they make into huge, black pans. The flambé gives beautiful, blue flames. My god, this is life I think. My sister and her doctor Jean come and sit with me.
“Shall I get something to drink?” offers Jean.
“Nice.”
“How do you like him?” my sister asks as soon as he is out of earshot.
“I think he’s a cutie.”
“You say that to bully.”
“That’s true. I think you’re a really nice couple.”
“He has asked me to go somewhere together tomorrow.”
“So it’s really on?”
Despite the glow of the fire on her face and the influence of the wine, I see her blush.
“Yes, I’m deeply in love.”
I give her a kiss and say, “I’m happy for you, he’s a very nice guy.”
Jean comes back with four glasses containing a poisonous colored substance. The taste is certainly not toxic. Now I have someone to give me more details about the infamous forest. Hesitantly, Jean answers my questions.
“During the war, the acts of resistance continued and many people who were wanted by the Germans went into the forest for shelter. What the villagers found strange was that the resistance people never asked for food or other help. Why they never heard anything from the refugees in the forest again surprised everyone. Why the Germans they wanted to arrest disappeared was considered less illogical; who were shot by the resistance, is the opinion. Towards the end of the war, a certain Hans, the then head of the Germans in the village, went into the forest with a patrol to eliminate the resistance. They were never seen again. The war was over and a few farmers went into the forest to tell the people there. They never came back and the people who had taken shelter and the resistance people were never heard from again. Since that time, the forest has been called: ‘The forest of death’. Nobody goes in there anymore.”
During Jean’s narration, a number of friends and Aurore joined us.
“I think it’s a wonderful story, but I don’t believe it at all,” I said.
“Allez, allez, he doesn’t believe it,” he sounds pitying.

The pancakes taste like I have never tasted them again, unfortunately. Then all kinds of sausages and cheeses are served. I leave the liqueurs and I switched to a beer. Again and again one starts, then the other over the forest. At one point I say: “You know what? It’s all superstition, I’m going to walk right through that forest and then you’ll see that it’s all nonsense; How big is it really?”
“A small forest, ten kilometers wide and forty long,” is the answer.
“That’s a two-hour walk at the longest,” I boast laughing.
That is true, they acknowledge, but still no one ever comes back from the forest. A scornful laugh is my answer and I think, I’ve fallen for that, now I have to walk through that forest tomorrow morning, with my dull head. I find the tenacity to their story strange. I know it’s a joke, but you can’t keep it up for very long, there’s always one who can’t keep his mouth shut.

The winegrowers begin to sing and make music and Aurore sings a sad song. After singing, the dancing begins. While we are taking a breather, I expect her to tell me that the story about the forest of death is nonsense. Surprisingly, she tells us that her grandmother has also disappeared into the forest when she goes looking for her husband and son.
“My mother is left alone. She grows up with one of her mother’s brothers. She marries a winegrower and that’s where I came from. My mother often talks about her, she must have been a fantastic woman.”
“Just like you,” I say.
Her laughter dances over the partygoers and she whispers earnestly in my ear: “Don’t go into the forest, it’s really deadly.”
With the promise that I will think about that, we dance on. The party really starts now and the forest disappears into the distance, where it belongs. Just in time I realize to switch to water.

The next morning, with a hangover, I am standing at the road that leads into the infamous forest, to start my journey. Of course, no shadow to be seen from my friends. I don’t really care either. With plenty of water and food with me, I am looking forward to the walk. Over the hill a car comes honking loudly. Now I’m going to get it I think and decide to let the coming mockery come over me, resignedly. Two friends, Aurore, Jean and my sister got out and started talking to each other in very fast French. The bizarre thing is that they don’t laugh, on the contrary, they beg me not to go. To play the game a little longer, I say:
“Don’t worry, I have food and drink with me for three days and a compass.”
Aurore and my sister keep their distance from the men. The only thing that worries me is that Aurore looks at me, frighteningly, piercingly.
They still persist and they even try to stop me physically when I start walking towards the forest. With a twist I shake them off and run into the forest. Behind me I don’t hear any more protests and I start my walk at a brisk pace. Joke or no joke, the walk will do me good, I think.

The road goes straight into the forest and I think, if it continues like this I will be on the other side in an hour and a half. What I don’t notice is that there is not a single twig or pine needle on the road, so the question of who keeps this road so anxiously clean does not occur to me. I turn around and want to wave to my friends at the edge of the forest. The road behind me has disappeared, instead there are trees as far as I can see. I can’t possibly have walked that far, I consider. For the first time I feel fear. I know how to suppress the urge to run in the direction I came from. Don’t panic, there is a logical explanation for it, it must be due to the drink, I tell myself.
I decide to continue walking in the direction where I started. Quietly I turn around. The road has disappeared there too.
“Well damn, how is that possible?” I shout.
No one answers. I sit down on a tree stump to think about the situation and make a plan of action. First something to eat and drink, I decide. After a sandwich with ham and cheese and half a liter of water, everything should go back to normal, I hope. To let this absorb my body properly, I sit on the ground in front of the tree stump and close my eyes for a while.

I wake up a little later with a loud snore because I am falling from a tree in my dream. I feel a lot better, but the way is not back. In order not to walk in circles, I grab my compass and start walking due north. With the sun on my left hand and the compass in my right hand, I walk on. After a hundred meters, the compass starts to deviate from the position of the sun. I wonder if the sun is out of place or the compass is not good. The deviation is getting stronger and stronger and I decide to keep the sun on. I put the broken compass in my pocket and I walk on. While I walk straight ahead, the sun starts to move, in my opinion. The shadow of a tree turns away from me as long as I walk. I stop, the shadow stops too. The vague fear I feel all the time is stronger. Now I have no grip on which direction to walk. I suppress my fear, my fear as much as possible and I start walking without paying attention to anything.

The familiar sound of crackling pine needles and breaking twigs disappears and the forest starts to look very different. The ferns that grow between the trees are getting bigger. The sun, which is of no use to me anyway, can be seen very occasionally between the huge ferns. Because I know that the trees will remain the same thickness, I realize that I am not turning into a gnome. After a while, I don’t remember how long, I see a small house. Above the front door hangs a flag with a swastika on it. Curious, I look inside. In contrast to the outside, the house looks fine on the inside. There is a table and a few chairs, on which there is no thick layer of dust. In contrast to the road at the beginning of the forest, I do notice this. For a house where no one ever comes, it looks very clean. Who is the cleaning lady here, I wonder.

On the wall are posters with a portrait on them. I go inside to look at the portrait in the semi-darkness. The fear that I have pretty much under control is now coming back to an infinite extent, because the poster shows my face. Under my portrait is the text in German: “Life-threatening, shoot immediately.”

Carefully I feel with my hand whether the image is real. A corner is loose and I start to pull carefully. A door slowly begins to open and a harsh voice shouts in German: “What are you doing?”
With a jerk I turn around and see an officer, dressed in the uniform from the Second World War, standing in the door. He recognizes me and grabs his gun. Pure survival instinct takes over my thinking and with a formidable leap I head for the outside door. The bang of the gun echoing in the forest. A terrible pain in my arm is the result and I start to run or actually fly more, because my feet don’t seem to touch the ground. I run until I’m completely exhausted. My arm is bleeding heavily and I try to stop it with a paper tissue.

With my hand on the wound, I start to walk on quietly. After a while I get cramps in the arm that I hold on the wound and I start looking for another solution. Around me are the large ferns, I pick a leaf. I strip off the side leaves and I am left with a long tough vein. I wrap this around the handkerchief on the wound. With my free hand and my mouth I can eventually get a knot in it. The bleeding seems to have stopped.
The silence in the forest is absolute and has only been disturbed by my pounding heart. A strange, pleasant feeling of well-being in my situation is starting to creep up on me. It doesn’t bother me because I survive everything anyway. Time and place are increasingly unimportant and curious about what may come, I walk on quietly.

In the silence I hear a barely audible and beautiful sound. Completely concentrated, I stop to listen. It is singing and beautiful too. It takes me a lot of effort to determine the direction of the sound. In the forest it always seems to come from a different side. Stretched to the limit, I can still determine the direction. With the shock of the house still in my legs, I carefully walk towards the song. Another, almost equally beautiful sound, comes through the voice. Rippling water, so that’s where the voice is too, I know intuitively. I walk as silently as possible towards the sound until I see a small stream. For a moment I look around, then I walk upstream towards the vocals that are getting louder and louder. The thought of a story about a man who has been lured by singing Sirens comes to mind.
“Fortunately, my name is not Odysseus,” I lisp in an attempt to reassure myself. The sound of the river is getting stronger. A waterfall, it gets more and more beautiful. Something in the vocals is starting to catch my eye. It is the song that I also heard last night sung by Aurore. It’s all an illusion, someone has put something in my drink, I consider. I almost run to her. The pain in the gunshot wound, which is bleeding heavily again, reminds me that it is very real for an illusion. Cautiously I sneak towards the voice until I see a woman washing clothes in a small pool, at the foot of a waterfall, through the leaves. They are her own clothes, because she is naked. With her buttocks on her calves, she sits with her back to me. Her curly black hair ends where her buttocks begin. Even in this position, she is a beauty. She doesn’t know I’m there, I notice, because she continues with her activities while singing. The beauty of the woman and her beautiful voice is in perfect harmony with the environment. The sunlight shines dancing through the branches in the treetops that move on the gentle wind. It illuminates the thousand shades of green at the bottom of the forest. The thick layer of moss on the stones and the shore of the small lake has a color range from light green to almost brown. Small ferns grow on the stones in the stream. By playing the tempered light on her skin, it seems as if she is made of liquid ivory. This must be much more beautiful than paradise. She stops washing and stands up. Slowly she turns around with a shirt in front of her face. She hangs the black, antique shirt on a tree branch. Unfortunately, the singing has stopped. The shirt hangs to her liking and while she steps aside and I can see her completely, she says: “Bonjour Hollandais.”
The tone and way in which she says this can only be done by a Frenchwoman. The mixture of seductiveness and modest sensuality, and yet also belief in one’s own strength, ensures that, before the last sound is spoken, I feel a tingling all over my body. The goosebumps that I get as a result remain pleasantly present.
“Aurore, what are you doing here?” I stammer, not realizing that she can’t know I’m here, because she can’t see me. With her slender hand she invites me to come closer. Her nakedness is so natural that I don’t see it anymore. Hesitantly I walk over to her, slowly it dawns on me that it is not Aurore. The similarity is striking, but I still saw the small differences.
“Who are you,” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Your lover’s grandmother.”
“Beloved,” I answer surprised.
“Come, come, Hollandais, don’t be surprised.”
She has exactly the same way of talking, moving and the same naughty way of looking at Aurore. Hesitantly I stretch out my hand to check if it is real. She takes my hand and places it against her velvet cheek. Very carefully I caress her face. She clearly closes her eyes in delight and whispers: “Aurore has chosen right.”
She opens her eyes again, looks at my wound: “You’ve already met Hans, I see.”
“That idiot shot at me.”
“Sometimes he’s the soldier, but most of the time he’s very nice to me and the others.”
“The others?”
“Some of us are still alive, but others are buried in the cemetery a little further on.”
I can’t understand this, so I left it at that. She takes my arm and takes the handkerchief off. She takes me to the lake and silently starts cleaning the wound. She takes herbs from the forest and chews a paste of them. She puts this mixture of her saliva and the herbs on the bleeding wound. She rolls the leaf of a small fern around it and puts a pointed stick through the leaf so that it stays perfectly in place. The pain is immediately less and I gratefully give her a kiss. She didn’t answer him, but she doesn’t disapprove of it either. Voices can be heard in the distance and she says hurriedly: “There is Hans. You have to go.”
“Which way?”
“Follow your own path, that’s always the best.”
Without looking back, I walk away. A new, awe-inspiring, power flows through my body. If I ever get out of this, I’m going to marry Aurore. After walking for a while I arrive at a neatly maintained cemetery. The old iron crosses stand proudly guard. One name catches my eye, although I have no idea why. On the cross is written in golden letters: “Jean Paul Balzac”.
I pause for a moment at the cross. Here too I feel the power that I have felt before flowing into me and I start walking again. The strange forest changes into the forest as it should be. Under my shoes I hear the crackling of pine needles and the breaking of twigs. Surprised, I look at the ground and see that where I put my foot, a spot of asphalt appears. I vaguely smell the smell of a barbecue and carefully I walk on. The patches of asphalt are getting bigger and bigger and I hear fragments of cheerful voices. In the distance I see a meadow and I know that I have walked through the forest of death. The road is back, covered with twigs and pine needles. Finally something normal, I sigh. At the end of the forest I see my French friends standing next to a smoking barbecue, they laugh at me and shout: “Another fool!”
Aurore, Jean and my sister are also there. Without exchanging a word, Aurore and I walked up to each other and kissed. There was an approving whistle and a few shouted: “It was about time.”
“What’s wrong with your arm,” Aurore asks worriedly.
“Oh nothing, I hurt myself on a broken branch on a tree.”
“Let me take a look at your arm,” Jean offers.
Surprised, he looks at the bandage around the wound: “That’s a technique I saw during my deployment to Africa, where did you learn that?”
“On the Discovery Channel or something.”
He removes the bandage: “That’s a gunshot wound, a graze shot, but definitely a gunshot wound.”
“No,” I laugh, that’s because of a broken branch on a tree. Who is to shoot me in the forest of death?”
Everyone laughs, except Jean. A little later I take him aside inconspicuously and whisper in his ear: “Never a word about this, you have to promise me.”
“Okay,” and he has always kept his word.
The wine from the cooler and the meat from the barbecue taste as wonderful as the forest of death.
To the question, what is your grandfather’s name? I get the answer from Aurore: “Jean Paul Balzac.”

While reading, he looked at her fine face, from which the emotions can clearly be read. She closes the booklet: “We are going to look for that grave.”
Behind them closes the forest of death.