He turned to look at Meyer, but Meyer averted his face and stared numbly out of the window.
The Villa
2 pm: Friday 9th June 1944
Max sat in an anteroom of the sequestered villa, his hands stuffed inside his pockets, and glared at his brilliantly polished boots. He had been sitting in the same spot for nearly three hours.
It was gradually dawning on him that Lammerding and his staff were out to prove some point. Perhaps that bastard Burkhardt had finally found his way, through channels, to one of his cronies on the General Staff, with his protest about Max not receiving him in uniform whilst on leave last December? That would be the final straw.
‘The Colonel will see you now.’
‘The Colonel? What Colonel? I thought you people called me all the way out here for a conference with the Brigadeführer?’
‘Then you were misinformed.’
Max followed the man down the corridor, inwardly cursing all staff officers, their lackeys, their bureaucracy, and their superciliousness.
‘In here, Major.’ The lieutenant bowed him inside. ‘Colonel Jaspert, Major von Aschau.’
Max saluted the colonel. He expected the colonel to offer his hand, but no offer was forthcoming.
‘Please sit down, Major. I am delighted that you have been able to make it to Tulle. You may smoke, if you so wish.’ Jaspert retreated behind his desk, the splendour of his immaculately cut uniform serving as an unconscious punctuation mark to each of his observations.
Max checked for decorations on Jaspert’s chest, and his heart sank. Another desk jockey. He seemed destined to encounter them whenever he ventured away from his unit.
‘I have been speaking at length to your sergeant-major…’ Jaspert consulted a note on his desk, ‘…your sergeant-major Meyer. I would now like your version of events.’
‘Events? What events?’ Max thought about rolling a cigarette, then decided against it. There was something very wrong here.
‘The shooting of the terrorist Hervé Najac. I believe you ordered the man shot, did you not, Major?’
Max froze in the act of replacing the unused tobacco pouch in his pocket. ‘Who told you this?’
The colonel consulted his notes once again. ‘Your adjutant, Lieutenant Halder, affirmed it to us. You chose not to run the order past him, but to issue your instructions directly to your sergeant-major. Why did you do this, may I ask?’
Max thought swiftly. This was beyond his worst imaginings. It had never occurred to him that anyone would remotely think to ask about Najac in all the chaos surrounding the Allied landings. Trust Halder to be involved in it somewhere. Halder was a hardliner and a coward. Hated Max’s guts. He must react quickly or they would sink him. He must go on the offensive, just as you did when the enemy launched a surprise attack.
‘We had secured all the information we needed from Najac. I interviewed him myself. Personally. The invasion was imminent. I didn’t want to leave any loose ends behind me.’
‘Ah. You had prior and exclusive information as to the date of the invasion, perhaps?’ There was a heavy note of sarcasm in the colonel’s voice.
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why didn’t you pass Najac over to the SD for further questioning, as would have been customary?’
‘For the very same reason.’ Max crossed his legs, exhibiting a calmness that he did not feel. ‘Look, Colonel. Is this a formal inquiry? I see no witnesses here. No one taking notes.’
‘You may assume then that we are still at an informal stage of the proceedings.’
‘Thank you for confirming that.’
Colonel Jaspert leaned back in his chair. ‘So, will you please answer my question?’
‘I’ve already answered it. I used my judgement. In my opinion Najac was of no further use to us, in any measurable sense, as far as raw information was concerned. He had attempted to shoot me. I thought it better to make a swift example of him, rather than to allow the town to think that we were soft on terrorists.’
‘Why didn’t you make a demonstrable example of him, then?’ Jaspert indicated vaguely out of the window in the direction of Tulle, obviously with the hangings fresh in his mind. ‘Why did you order Meyer and Private Eberle to transport Najac thirty kilometres away, to an isolated valley, before dispatching him?’
‘I judged that the situation in St Gervais was tense enough already without the necessity of my adding to it. I had privately made quite certain that the news would filter out about his execution, and felt that this was more than sufficient to prove to the local population that we meant business. After all, Najac hadn’t actually succeeded in killing anybody – the damned fool was simply found asleep in a drunken stupor with a rifle in his hands. In my opinion he was acting alone.’
‘But you didn’t mean business, did you, von Aschau? You allowed Najac to escape.’
‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Private Eberle reports that he saw Najac, face to face, and apparently enjoying excellent health, a full two days after his purported execution. An almost Christ-like reincarnation, wouldn’t you say, Major?’
Max kept his expression as deadpan as possible. Jaspert knows I’m a practising Catholic, he told himself. And he also knows that formal belief is frowned on by the SS. He’s prepared all this, the bastard. He’s enjoying my discomfiture. He’s counting on me to lose my temper, and then he’ll have me. Well, I won’t give him that satisfaction.
Jaspert smiled at Max’s stone-faced response to his intended blasphemy – almost as if he were anticipating Max’s thought processes and prodding them in a specific direction. ‘Najac attacked a reconnaissance unit that you had sent out on precautionary patrol, killing…’ he glanced down at his notes again, ‘…killing a certain Corporal Nordeck with a single shot through the eye.’
Max uncrossed his legs and leaned slightly forward. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. Of course it wasn’t Najac. Dead men don’t kill people.’
‘But Private Eberle identified him.’
‘Private Eberle is a womaniser and a drunkard. Only a few days before all this occurred I had ordered him downgraded in rank for harassing one of the local women. If I were you, I would take whatever evidence he offers you with a large pinch of salt.’
‘A large pinch of salt?’ Jaspert gave a dramatic flinch. ‘Such a British expression.’ He put on a mock upper-class English accent, his face contorting to suit his supercilious tone. ‘A pinch of salt, my dear fellow?’ His features turned abruptly serious again. ‘Do you think, perhaps, that we should take terrorist outrages with a pinch of salt, too?’
‘I entirely fail to see the connection.’
Jaspert’s eyes wandered idly over Max’s decorations, coming to rest on his Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves. ‘Where did you win the tin-ware, Major?’
‘Kharkov. The Oak Leaves were awarded to me after Kursk.’
Jaspert nodded sagely. ‘As you may imagine, von Aschau, the last thing we want is for an officer with such a high profile as yours to come up before any formal inquiry.’
Max could sense that he was approaching firmer ground. ‘Then may I suggest that you consign Private Eberle’s allegations to the dustbin, where they rightly belong.’
Jaspert nodded. ‘We shall certainly do that, Major. Certainly. After we have accompanied Sturmscharführer Meyer back to the temporary grave – near Flairac, wasn’t it? – and exhumed Najac’s body. Then we shall certainly consign this whole report to the dustbin. I can personally assure you of that.’
Max’s face went white. ‘But we are at war, Colonel. I need Meyer. You can’t seriously sit here and tell me that with the Allies knocking at the gates of Caen, you are going to take a veteran, combat-hardened, senior non-commissioned officer away from his unit simply in order to dig up an already dead man?’
Jaspert smiled. ‘We intend to do exactly that. This war is being fought on many fronts, Major von Aschau, and not exclusively in Normandy. Y
ou yourself have had experience of the Russian front, and I believe you witnessed yet another front when you passed through the centre of town earlier today? All, as I’m sure you’ll agree, are equally valid.’
Max stood up. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. How can you possibly equate the repelling of an invasion force with the execution of a minor member of the local Maquis? Or with the massacre of ninety-nine men, some of whom were patently too young to have conducted terrorist activities even if they’d wanted to. Are you people mad?’ Realising that he’d finally gone too far, Max dropped his gaze and snapped out a formal salute. ‘Colonel, I apologise for my last comment. It was quite uncalled for. May I respectfully request permission to rejoin my battle group?’
Colonel Jaspert sprang to his feet on the opposite side of the desk, his demeanour ruffled, his expression furiously disdainful. ‘Certainly not. Until this situation is clarified, you and your sergeant-major will put yourselves at the service of Major Dickmann, 1st battalion Der Führer regiment, at St Junien, and hold yourselves in readiness for further orders.’ Jaspert flipped through the files on his desk until he found the piece of paper he wanted. ‘You will report to Major Dickmann at the Hôtel de la Gare, and assist him in any way he sees fit. With your in-depth knowledge of terrorist activities and your fluent French, I am sure that you and Meyer will prove invaluable to him. Even if only in a temporary capacity.’ Jaspert tossed down the piece of paper he was reading from and selected a cigarette from an ivory case in front of him, fitted it inside an amber holder and lit it, the corners of his mouth turning petulantly down. ‘Your second-in-command, Captain Kremmler, will take over your battle group for the time being.’
‘So. You are relieving me of my command?’
‘Temporarily, as I’ve indicated.’
For one heady moment, Max had a vision of Jaspert hanging from a telegraph pole, just like the French hostages, his blackened tongue protruding from between his teeth, his immaculate uniform pissed and shat upon.
As if picking up on Max’s thoughts, Jaspert glanced away from Max and out of the window again, in the general direction of the town. His eyes were dangerously hooded behind the plume of cigarette smoke issuing from his mouth. He no longer appeared to need his notes. ‘By the time your unit has finally reached Normandy, Major von Aschau, I am sure that this whole situation will have been cleared up to everybody’s satisfaction. And that you will be able to rejoin your men and continue on with your normal duties, as you so obviously yearn to do. Until then, you have your orders. You may consider yourself dismissed.’
The Road To St Junien
5 pm: Friday 9th June 1944
‘I’m desperately sorry, Paul. This is all my fault.’ Max stared gloomily at the map spread out on his lap, as if it contained some esoteric secret he might tease out if only he could demonstrate sufficient commitment.
‘No. It’s mine. I should never have let Eberle accompany me. The man is a snake. I knew it, but I refused to act on my instincts. I should have gone alone – even explained the realities of the situation to Najac, and tried to secure his word of honour. But I convinced myself that the whole thing would look more believable if I had a witness.’ Meyer squinted at the fuel gauge, then leaned forward and tapped it with an impatient finger. ‘How much further do we have to St Junien?’
‘Seventy kilometres or so.’
‘Then I shall stop here and refuel. We’re down to our last half litre.’ Meyer pulled the car over onto the verge. He checked that no one was about, then stepped out of the vehicle and began manhandling the spare jerry can from its mountings.
Max got out of the car, lit a cigarette and stood gazing at the surrounding countryside. ‘I hate paper-shuffling bastards like Jaspert. I hate them for forcing us to turn our backs on our own people. I hate their smell – that elusive odour of self-satisfaction they waft around with them like cheap cologne. I hate them, period. What are they sending us all the way out here for, anyway? Why can’t this Dickmann – Dickmann for Christ’s sake, what an absurd bloody name – why can’t this Dickmann conduct his own damned war?’
‘May I speak freely, Herr Sturmbannführer?’
‘This is hardly the time to stand on ceremony, Paul.’
‘We are both being punished.’ Meyer rammed the spigot into the mouth of the jerry can. ‘I don’t think for one moment that Colonel Jaspert actually believes I let Najac go. Such an apparent dereliction of duty would be quite beyond his imaginative capacity. No. His sort simply enjoys tormenting frontline soldiers. Wielding power. Cracking the whip. I could see it in him. The man could hardly bring himself to touch my file when he interviewed me. As though it might leap up and bite him – rip a chunk out of his ear.’
‘Yes. I got the same impression.’
Meyer straightened up from what he was doing. ‘So what happens when I take them to the spot and they don’t find a body?’
Max flicked away his cigarette. He undid his fly buttons and began to urinate where he stood. ‘You simply tell them that you can’t remember exactly where you buried him.’
‘You’re forgetting about Eberle. They’ll have him there for certain. He won’t have forgotten. And he’ll take a keen delight in revenging himself on me for losing him his stripes.’
‘Shit.’ Max shook himself with an almost superstitious vehemence, then buttoned up his flies.
‘If you ask me, Major, neither one of us is going to get out of this alive. They’ll put us up against a tree and turn us into sieves. Look at what the bastards did in Tulle. They’ve got no conscience anymore. No sense of justice.’
‘And you think we have?’
‘Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer. We do. We behaved like soldiers in Russia. And we’ve behaved like soldiers here, too. I’ve been thinking about Najac, and I don’t regret what I did. I know it cost Nordeck his life, but those are the fortunes of war. From what I hear, it was plain bad luck that the scouting party came across Najac like that. I think he was simply waiting for the Maquis to join him there for a prearranged attack.’ Meyer let the empty jerry can fall to the ground and screwed back the petrol cap. He shrugged. ‘One could even argue that our main column was not ambushed on the Montauban road specifically because the Maquis thought Najac had betrayed them, and, as a consequence, they refused to risk a surprise attack. Have you thought of that possibility, Herr Sturmbannführer?’
‘No. It hadn’t occurred to me.’ Max picked up a stick and lobbed it into a nearby field. ‘It puts Nordeck’s death in a different light.’
‘Not for Nordeck and his family.’
Max hesitated, his arm stretched back for a second throw. ‘No. I take your point. I doubt the poor bastard would have volunteered to be sacrificed for the greater good, Führer or no Führer.’
‘So what are we going to do? Wait for the guillotine to slice down and cut off our own heads? Or trust to the fortunes of war, like Nordeck?’ Meyer secured the empty jerry can back onto the Kubelwagen.
Max leaned back against the side of the vehicle, his hands in his pockets, and stared at Meyer. ‘What are you suggesting we do? Infiltrate ourselves inside the Wolf’s Lair and assassinate the carpet-eater? Or desert across to the English, perhaps, and ask them to forgive and forget?’
Meyer shook his head. ‘No, Herr Sturmbannführer, I couldn’t desert. I would find it impossible.’
‘I agree. So then what?’
‘I don’t know yet. But it will come to me. Then I will act. I just wanted to tell you about my decision in advance. So that you will not feel compromised when the moment comes.’
‘But, Paul. I’m already compromised. I’m your friend.’
‘I’m very glad to hear you say that.’
Max glanced across at him. ‘Why? Why are you so glad? You should be hating me for what I’ve done to you. For the disasters my ill-timed and ill-conceived passion for Lucie has brought down on all our heads.’
Meyer twisted his head away. ‘We’re war comrades. I owe you my life. It’s
as simple as that.’
Max pushed himself away from the vehicle. ‘You’ve more than repaid any debt that you owe me, Paul. I am the one indebted now.’
Meyer glanced back towards Max, his expression masked, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. ‘Then whatever we do we must do together. As brothers and free men. No?’
Meyer’s Dream
4:15 am: Saturday 10th June 1944
That night Meyer couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his unfamiliar bed, frenzied images surging through his head. He saw fallen comrades magically restored to life, but with their wounds still intact and bleeding, beckoning to him.
Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he reverted to a trick he had learned as a child from his father. In his imagination, he began to make his way painstakingly through each field, each thicket, each covert and clearing on his former employer’s estate. He thought back to his life as a forester. Imagined himself taking his own son by the hand and leading him on a grand tour of inspection – a learning tour – in which he would pass on to the boy all the lore and all the knowledge that he had picked up over his years of apprenticeship in the natural world.
First, in his waking dream, Meyer conducted Anton across the vast expanse of the Hirschberger Wiese, and showed him the great ash tree, twenty metres around, that he had triumphantly climbed as a child. Then he took the boy far up into the Bayerwald, and showed him the elusive spoor of deer, and hare, and wildcat – the droppings of badgers and foxes and weasels, and their marks in the snow. He showed Anton caves, and lairs, and holes in trees, in banks and under the ground. He showed him how to make traps and snares and nets to catch animals in. How to pick up a fox’s scent on the wind, and how to judge in which direction he was going. How to trail wild boar, and stags, and mountain goats. How to whittle antler horns to cap sticks with, and how to spin and grope for trout in the lakes and high rivers – and even, when you had the time and when the luck was with you, how to take them on a fly you had tied yourself and which mimicked the food they were taking in that exact part of the season, as the caddis will mimic a leaf.
The Occupation Secret Page 30