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ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE
JULY 16, 1999
Mulder’s legs are beginning to feel as though they may give out if he doesn’t get to the top of these stairs soon. There’s a telltale tremor in his left leg, where the arthritis is worse than it is in the right, and it’s a struggle to keep from favoring it as the day wears on.
Scully can’t know. The subject of his leaving his cane behind in Washington has already been exhausted, in his opinion.
Still, Mulder needs to do something, and so as they continue along the stairway, he takes Claire’s arm, doing his best to hide that he’s leaning on her. His daughter looks up at him with one eyebrow cocked, her “I know exactly what you’re doing” face a carbon copy of the expression her mother’s been giving him for years. Claire doesn’t betray his confidence, though; she merely smiles at her father and covers his hand on her arm with his own.
Ahead of them, Scully walks next to William, her stride at eighty nearly as strong and sure as it was at forty. She still wakes up early every morning and walks a mile around the neighborhood before breakfast, and whenever she can, she makes Mulder join her, no matter how much he grumbles that, at eighty-three, he’s earned the right to sleep in when he wants to. She still bakes at least some of the pies served in the Cafe Pequod, and their long-time regulars swear they can tell which ones are from her, and which are from their employees in the kitchen, even though it’s always the same recipe.
Convincing Scully to leave the cafe long enough to take this trip has not been easy. Officially, Scully has retired, both as a doctor and as a cafe manager; in reality, she has never learned to slow down, and Mulder doesn’t expect that she’s going to start now. Ian and Sarah’s oldest, Declan, took over management of the Cafe Pequod nearly ten years ago when his parents retired (actual retirement, not the Dana Scully version of retirement), and not a week goes by that Mulder isn’t thankful that Declan is every bit as patient under scrutiny as his parents always were. Plenty of managers would have been insulted at their employers’ reluctance to leave them solely in charge for a week and a half; Declan had barely batted an eye.
So here they are, in France, for the first time in over fifty years. It had been William who had read about the memorial center while it was still in its planning stages, and the family had followed its progress until its completion earlier this year. When Mulder had heard that an inauguration ceremony would be taking place in July, he had immediately suggested to Scully that they should attend. She had agreed, provided Claire and William accompany them, so that they could be on hand, should anything happen. Arrangements were made for Claire’s and William’s children to stay with other family while their spouses at working, and now, here they are, making their way up the long stairway in front of the Centre de la Mémoire d'Oradour. The long, low, glass-sided building is set into the ground, almost like a bunker, with jagged, reddish-brown panels surrounding the entrance.
As they climb, Mulder glances around at the other people visiting the memorial today. He supposes at least some of today’s attendees will be survivors of the massacre, or at least their families. He has to remind himself that this far on, there aren’t likely to be many left of the twenty or so villagers who, by some circumstance or another, managed to escape the tenth of June, 1944, with their lives.
Inside, the memorial center is divided into five sections, and the four of them make their way slowly through. The first gives a general history of the war itself: the rise of Hitler, the fall of France, the Vichy government, and the Resistance. The second space details the massacre itself, and Scully, her jaw clenched tightly, examines the exhibits in detail. Mulder reaches for her hand, and she squeezes it tightly, but says nothing. In fifty-five years, neither of them have found the words to truly encompass what they experienced that night, and Mulder doubts they ever will.
Scully unexpectedly balks at the third section of the memorial, a small screening room where visitors can watch a short film about the discovery of what had happened in Oradour-Sur-Glane. “I lived it,” she says, her voice flat. “I don’t need to watch it.” So Mulder waits in silence with her, outside the screening room, while William and Claire watch the twelve-minute narrative.
When they emerge, both of their children have tears in their eyes.
The fourth section details the rebuilding of the village, not on the site of the original, which has been left in ruins as a memorial, but right nearby. Mulder and Scully had lunch there, before coming here. It’s a charming place, but to Mulder, it had felt slightly… off. It was as though his mind had been trying to superimpose decades-old memories on top of the present, creating a sense of double vision that had left him feeling distinctly unmoored.
The fifth and final stop is a wide, open room, lit by narrow skylights along the ceiling that give the light a bluish tint. The space is meant for reflection and meditation, for visitors to think on all they’ve just seen and read about before venturing out to see the place where it actually happened. Mulder and Scully don’t stay here long; the final stop on their tour today beckons, and it will take all of their strength to make it through.
Beyond the memorial center lies the village.
It’s called the “Martyred Village” now, and it takes Mulder’s breath away to remember just how close Scully had come to being one of those martyrs, how close Claire had come to never being born. William, too, for that matter… and their grandchildren… and their first great-grandchild, who is due at Christmas. How many generations had been saved by Walther Skinner’s well-placed bullet that night?
How many had been lost to Spender’s cruel insanity?
They make their way through what had once been the high street, passing through the burned husks of buildings, crumbling walls of stone. Mulder can remember what it looked like before… the pharmacy on his left, there, where he had procured medicines and bandages, at Scully’s request, to treat the injured airmen and refugees who passed through her care on their way to safety… the tavern where the German officers had preferred to spend their evenings, after the cafe had closed for the night… and there, ahead, Mulder recognizes the shape of what was once the Cafe Pequod itself.
His sense of memory is suddenly overwhelming. He can almost see the cafe as it once was, the white, whale-shaped sign swinging on its hinges above the door. He can see Scully in the window, waiting for him on New Year’s Eve, her red hair sleek atop her head and her blue eyes full of promise. He can almost feel the snow cutting into his cheeks the way it did so many nights, when he had walked back to camp, warm with the memory of Scully’s lips on his. As they continue to approach, Mulder’s gaze is drawn to the street in front of the ruins of the cafe.
A man stands there, looking up at the burned building. A most familiar man.
“It’s not possible,” Scully says softly. “He’d be in his nineties by now.” But apparently it’s very much possible, because at that moment, the man turns to face them, and Mulder’s doubts are immediately washed away. It’s true that, in three years under his command, Mulder never saw Walther Skinner smile quite this widely… but even smiling, there’s no mistaking him.
Skinner approaches them and clasps Mulder’s hand… but within moments, the two men are embracing. When they part, both have tears in their eyes. Skinner turns and embraces Scully, who is also crying.
“I had a strong suspicion you two might turn up here today,” Skinner says. “It was enough of a hunch for me to get on a train and see if I was right.” He gestures at the ruins of the cafe. “I thought if I waited here long enough, I might get to see you.” He looks behind them, to Claire and William, who are whispering to each other, no doubt trying to figure out who their parents are talking to. Mulder waves them forward.
“This is Claire, our daughter,” he says, and Skinner smiles widely. “Claire, you remember us telling you about my captain? Walther Skinner?” Claire’s eyes grow wide, making her look more like her mother than ever.
“Your captain,” she says, reaching out to shake Skinner’s hand. “The one who saved you both?” Even all these years later, Skinner is uncomfortable with the recognition.
“They would have gotten themselves out of there somehow, I’m sure,” he says modestly. He turns to William. “And this must be your son?” Mulder nods and gestures for William to come closer.
“William Walter,” Mulder says, and behind his glasses, Skinner’s eyes go wide. He looks from William, to Mulder, to Scully.
“Mulder,” he says softly, “I suspect you’ve blown the part I played that night out of proportion.”
“Not at all,” insists Scully. “We wouldn’t have made it out without your help. We’ve never forgotten that. You were a hero that night, Walther.” Skinner shakes his head.
“No,” he insists, “I wasn’t.” Skinner looks away from them, his eyes brimming. “For years, every night, before I went to sleep, I would repeat a number in my head. The same number, over and over: 642. The number of people who died here that night. I never wanted to let myself forget, not for one day, how great a loss it was. At the time, I told myself I had no choice, that to reveal myself by trying to stop it from happening wasn’t an option. But I’ve had a long time to think about it, Mulder, and now….” He hangs his head. Mulder puts a hand on his former captain’s arm.
“Scully and I made it out, thanks to you,” he says. “Claire and William were born, thanks to you. Claire’s an emergency room doctor. She saves lives every day… and she wouldn’t be around to do that if it hadn’t been for you. William was a soldier who helped save a group of children from a madman not much different from Oberst Spender- and he wouldn’t have been there to do it if it hadn’t been for you. Those kids have kids of their own by this time. My children have children now. There are generations of families who are alive right now, Walther, all because you took that shot and saved our lives.” Skinner leans heavily on his walking stick and doesn’t look at any of them, but from the set of his jaw, Mulder can see that he’s moved. Finally, he looks up.
“Did my package ever find its way to you?” he asks. Scully smiles.
“It’s been sanded down, repainted, and is hanging outside the Cafe Pequod in Georgetown, in Washington, DC,” she says. “It’s been one of the most popular restaurants in the neighborhood for forty years.” Skinner grins.
“And are you still serving your famous cherry pies?” he asks.
“Of course,” says Scully, smiling. “There aren’t any messages tucked underneath them these days, though.” Skinner laughs.
“No, I suppose not,” he says. “I’ll admit, there were times I thought about contriving some imaginary circumstance or other, something that would mean getting you to pass me information, just so I could enjoy your pie.”
“I know the feeling,” quips Mulder.
“Dad!” exclaims Claire, and William looks mortified. Skinner, though, chuckles.
“Good to see you haven’t changed much,” he says. He claps Mulder on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you with children of your own to torment you, Mulder. I only hope they’ve provided you with at least half as many headaches as you gave me.” This gets a laugh out of everyone, causing other visitors milling about the village to look at them, frowning. Mulder glances around, then looks at his wife.
“Maybe we should take the conversation elsewhere,” he suggests. “What do you think, Scully?” Scully looks up at the remains of her cafe.
“You go on ahead,” she says quietly. “I’ll meet you back at the memorial center in a moment. Walther, you’ll have dinner with us, won’t you?”
“I’d love to,” he says.
“See you in a minute, Mom,” says Claire, and she, William, Skinner, and Mulder start back down the way they came. But after a moment, Mulder stops.
“Listen, I’ll meet you there, all right?” he says. They nod and continue on ahead without him, and Mulder doubles back, coming to stand beside Scully, who is still looking up at the ruined walls. Tentatively, he puts his arm around her shoulder, and she leans into him.
“It’s funny,” she says softly. “I forget, sometimes, that I only lived here for five years. That’s how large this place looms in my mind.” She wraps an arm around his waist. “And I forget, too, how short a time you and I had together here. The way I fell in love with you… I fell so deeply and completely that I think it feels like it should have taken much longer to happen.” Mulder’s breath catches in his throat. He can count on both hands the number of times, over the years, that Scully has openly talked about how she felt in those days. “Maman always loved this place so much because it was what she had left of her family,” continues Scully. “But me….” She looks up at Mulder. “I think I loved it so much because it was where my family began.”
Mulder knows, as he bends to kiss Scully, that he’s going to earn the disapproving glances of others visiting the Martyred Village today. He knows they’ll think it inappropriate on this, a solemn day of remembrance, to behave this way in public. But they cannot know, not any of them, the number of nightmares that have plagued both of them in the years since the horror that happened here. They cannot know that every June tenth has been, for them, a solemn day of remembrance, that they can never celebrate their daughter’s birthday without thinking of how close she came to not being born at all.
Mulder and Scully have told the story of Oradour-Sur-Glane to their children, to their grandchildren, to their nieces and nephews. Their grandchildren will continue to tell the story long after he and Scully are gone. It will never be forgotten.
It’s important to remember, to keep the past alive, to keep it real and immediate so that past mistakes might not be repeated. Mulder, full of painful memories of his sister and his family, has always known that better than everyone. But Scully taught him, in those hours together in the Cafe Pequod, that there is much, much more to life.
It’s important to remember. But it is just as important to live.