‘What is that in your hand?’ She motioned with the barrel of the gun. ‘Put it down on the floor.’ Carefully he stooped and dropped the object on the floor. She recognised it as the oilcloth packet that Alain had carried to the house and which the SD man had taken.
‘How did you get that?’
‘I got it from the man in the copse – the one who stopped you.’
Evangeline looked suspiciously at him. ‘And where is he now?’
‘Back in the copse where I left him.’
‘Is he with you?’
The man smiled. ‘No, he is with his maker – actually more likely he’s gone to hell so he’ll be with the devil.’
‘You killed him?’
‘I did.’
‘So you are?’
‘I’m Kasha. I believe you were my rendezvous.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Can you prove that?’
‘I am the lion that never sleeps.’
‘So you know the password. That doesn’t make you Kasha.’
‘Well, if it doesn’t nothing will. So either you trust me that I am who I say I am or you shoot me; it’s your decision.’
‘Did you know Patrice?’
‘No.’
‘Who do you know?’
‘Only Cigale.’
‘What about Cigale?’
‘I gave her the package. I brought it from Berlin but I thought the Gestapo were on to me so I gave it to her. She brought it over from Stuttgart and delivered it to the baker. He came here to give it to me.’
‘That wasn’t the baker, it was my brother.’
‘Was it – well, he was betrayed; there is an informer. Are you satisfied?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘We have to get you out of here. They’ll come back for me – and we have to get that dead German out of the copse. We can stick him in the baker’s van and dump him in a ravine in the hills. The wild dogs will eat the body before they find it.’
By the time they reached the body it was already quite stiff and the face had taken on a greyish hue. ‘Who is he?’ she said, pointing at the SD man whose neck was clearly broken. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Sicherheitsdienst, German homeland security; like your Deuxième Bureau. His name was Ludwig Kraus. He has been trailing me for some time. Give me a hand.’ They dragged Kraus down from the copse, sliding the body along on its back like a toboggan, pulling it by the arms, until they reached the van still stranded with one wheel in the gulley. There they bundled the corpse into the back.
‘What about her up there?’ Kasha inclined his head in the direction of the farmhouse.
‘Don’t worry, she has friends. Patrice was a Pur Sang – they will look after her.’ She looked at the van. ‘Can we move this?’
Kasha nodded. ‘Get in and start it up. When I say so let the clutch up. Do it gently and don’t rev the engine too hard, it’ll just make the wheels spin. I’ll push on the front. Maybe we can get it free.’ The sun had taken the temperature to just above freezing; the ice was thawing and the van moved more easily than they had hoped.
‘I have to get to Lyon,’ Kasha said as he got in, the oilcloth packet now in his overall pocket. ‘I was planning to take the express from Strasbourg.’
‘That’s not safe – they’ll probably be looking for you at all the big stations. We should go to Epinal; it’s a small provincial station. You can get a train to Dijon and head south from there. They probably won’t be looking for you in Epinal – leastways I hope not.’
It was late afternoon when they finally found somewhere to dump the body. They stopped on a winding country road, almost a track, and after stripping it they rolled the pale corpse over the edge and watched it tumble down into the ravine below. Almost at the bottom it caught on a tree growing out of the steep rock wall and there it hung, the torso wrapped double round the slender trunk; it would be seen by anyone who happened to look over the edge as they passed along the road. They were about to get back in the van when Evangeline paused and looked over the edge of the ravine. ‘We shouldn’t leave it like that; it could be found too soon’.
Kasha sat behind the wheel for a second or two, then got back out. He went to the edge and peered down into the bottom of the chasm where an icy stream snaked and tumbled, frothing around the rocks. ‘I’ll try to get down but it will be difficult – I’m not sure if I can do it.’
She watched as he picked his footholds on the precarious descent and it struck her that if these had been different times she could have made a play for him. He was a handsome man, strong with a straight body and nice eyes, but he would be gone like so many others – caught, killed or just disappeared, and no one would know where or what had happened. It would be terrible to lose someone close and not know how or in what place they had finished it all. In that moment it occurred to her that might be the fate of the body they had just thrown over the edge and, though she had no feelings for it whatsoever, someone in some other place would probably miss him and mourn a lifetime for him. The spot was so remote the body could lie there undiscovered for a hundred years, maybe longer. The wild dogs would find it and gnaw away at the flesh, but the bones might lie there from winter to winter and summer to summer until they bleached to a fine brittle white and dropped apart; and whoever it was he left behind would eventually go to their own death still wondering what happened to the one they missed. It made her sad to think of it, but she shrugged it off and instead set her mind to worrying about Alain. Whether it was the Gestapo or the SD who had him it made little difference – they would torture him and he would resist until, finally, it was too painful to resist any more, and then he would crack; and once they had drained him of everything they thought he had, then they would execute him. That was their way.
‘You’d better drive the van,’ she said when he finally hauled himself up over the rim of the precipice and stood upright again. He nodded and got in behind the wheel. ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘he would be a good catch in a different world.’
The light went and it started to freeze again. The main road to Epinal had been scraped by a snow plough but there were rafts of sludge left by the blade and they were now turning to solid ice, causing the little Peugeot van to shudder and skid erratically. It was six by the time they reached the town. Kasha drove slowly past the station, scanning the pavement for anyone suspicious, anyone out of place. He had developed a sixth sense for danger and had an eye for things that were not quite in their right place. Satisfied it all looked normal he parked the car in a side street outside a café and waited.
‘Stay here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll go and see if it’s clear and find out when the next train to Dijon is due.’
In the waiting room she found the ticket office. She looked around casually at the other passengers, noting what they wore and how they looked. Gestapo always managed to look like Gestapo. There was something in their demeanour, an arrogance in the way they carried themselves; the body language gave them away. There was one man she thought suspect but she was sure he was French.
She stood in the short queue that had lined up for tickets. When she got to the small booth with its arch-topped glass window and worn wooden dished sill over which money passed one way and tickets came back the other, she noticed that the man about whom she had harboured suspicions had now been joined by another – about this one she felt less sure. She tried to look casual and unconcerned, glancing idly about her, but she was sure they were looking at her. She felt her heart rate increase and tried to control it; it was a common giveaway and she knew the Gestapo were trained to look for it. Keep calm, she told herself. The ticket clerk looked at her and waited; she hesitated.
‘When is the next train to Dijon, monsieur?’
The clerk consulted a paper timetable then pulled out a pocket watch. ‘The Paris Express is the next train, mademoiselle,’ he said condescendingly. ‘It goes via Dijon. It will be here in 37 minutes and will wait only 5 minutes before its departure.’ She t
hanked him and, looking out of the corner of her eye, noticed the two men were leaving the station. Good – she felt better, her pulse slowed to normal. ‘Two single tickets to Dijon, please.’
Walking back to the van, she again saw the two men from the station. They were standing in the street talking and she noticed them only when it was too late to avoid them. They were no more than ten metres away. It was impossible to turn back; there was nothing for it she would have to keep walking. As she passed them one looked up briefly, lifted his hat and greeted her, ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’ Then he continued in conversation with the other man.
Good, she said under her breath; he had spoken with a Parisian accent. He was French so probably not Gestapo; she let go a small sigh of relief. As she reached the corner of the street where the van was parked she once more glanced around and, seeing no one, walked quickly into it. She could see the café a bit further on, but there was no van – it had gone. At first she thought maybe she was mistaken and she was in the wrong street but she quickly dismissed it; it was the same café where Kasha had parked. Something must have happened to make him move on, but what? The thought flashed through her mind that he had abandoned her, taken the van and gone. She was here alone – there was nothing she could do about that; she had to look out for herself. She couldn’t go back to Turckheim; they would be looking for her. Even if Alain didn’t break, Joseph probably would, unless he had already turned informer. Someone had betrayed their rendezvous with Patrice and now it looked like the finger pointed to the baker. Who else knew? No one.
Losing the van was beginning to seem less important – they would be looking for it anyway. She needed help; she had to make a phone call. Inside the café the owner put the instrument on the counter top. She gave him two sous and he removed a small lock from the dial. She was on the third digit when Kasha walked in.
‘God,’ she said, putting the handset back on the cradle, ‘what happened? Where did you get to?’
He ignored her and immediately went round behind the bar. ‘It’s the Carlingue,’ he said urgently to the patron, ‘two of them. We can’t stay here, we have to go.’ The owner nodded and jerked his head towards the kitchen. Grabbing Evangeline by the arm Kasha pulled her round the end of the bar in the direction of the kitchen. They emerged into an alley filled with refuse bins.
‘Go that way,’ the patron said, pointing towards what looked like a dead end. ‘Chef will show you.’
The chef led them quickly to the end of the alley, then opened a gate; it let them into a yard. They crossed over to the far side and stood looking behind them as the chef unlocked a heavy door and switched on a light; they were in a large barn. In one corner she saw there was a vehicle partly covered by a sheet; then she saw it was green – it was the baker’s van. They stood in the dim light of the barn and waited. Nothing; it was quiet. The chef went to the front of the building and, opening a small door, stuck his head out into the street. ‘No one,’ he called back quietly over his shoulder in not much more than a whisper, ‘it’s all clear. Wait here, I’ll be back – and switch off the light.’
‘What’s happening?’ Evangeline whispered as they stood side by side in the dark.
‘I took a chance on the café owner. I told him I needed to garage my van for a week or so while I went to Paris, but he guessed we were on the run. We put the car in here and then I saw you coming back. You were being followed.’
‘Gestapo! I think I saw two of them at the railway station.’
‘Worse, Carlingue. They’re something new: Frenchmen – your fellow countrymen – working with the Gestapo. They operate out of a building in Paris; ex-criminals and gangsters most of them. They’ve thrown in with the Germans but they are much nastier.’
‘What’s that?’ There was the sound of voices, then someone tried to open the door. Evangeline felt an arm go round her then Kasha pulled her close to him. ‘Shush,’ he whispered, pulling her tighter to him.
The door opened. ‘It’s me – Julien, the chef,’ a voice hissed in the dark. There were two of them framed in the doorway – the chef and a girl of no more than 15. ‘This is Régine. She will take you to her parents’ house. You’ll be safe there,’ Julien said in a whisper. ‘Follow her and be quick. Those Carlingue scum have gone back to the station. You can’t go there. Not tonight anyway.’
Outside the street was deserted and cloaked in darkness save for dull puddles of yellow light leaking out from half closed shutters. Régine looked shyly at her two charges. ‘Come on,’ she said in not much more than a whisper, ‘it’s not far.’
They walked as quickly as they dared but at a pace they hoped would not attract attention. Several times they encountered people coming from the opposite direction. The first time Régine deftly stepped between them, taking a hand from each, making them look like a family. Who would suspect a young couple with their daughter hurrying home for the comfort of their house and dinner? After that they kept the same formation. Half a kilometre further on and still close to the town centre they emerged from the small side street onto a well-lit junction where it joined two larger roads to form a star. There was no sign of traffic or people but the smell of food being cooked hung in the air; it was the hour for eating and everyone was in behind their shuttered windows. Evangeline caught the aroma and was reminded she had eaten nothing since the dry bretzel that morning; the thought of food had been closed out by the urgency of the day as it had unfolded and stress had kept her hunger a prisoner. Now she felt it nagging in her stomach.
Régine slowed then stopped at the kerb. ‘We’re here,’ she said softly, ‘just there.’ She pointed towards a restaurant on one corner of the junction close to where a bridge crossed a canal. Evangeline looked up – there was a street name on the wall, she noted, ‘Rue du Maréchal Lyautey.’ It was good to have a point of orientation.
They waited until a solitary car had passed, keeping back from the reach of its headlights, then crossed quickly to the entrance of the restaurant. ‘Go in and sit at a table,’ Régine said quietly; try to look like customers. I shall go in the back way.’ The room they entered was not particularly large and the handful of diners made it feel crowded. Evangeline took off her coat and went to a table, indicating that Kasha should sit opposite her where he could watch the door. She looked around for a way of escape if they had to but it did not look good. If the Carlingue came in on them now they would be trapped. She looked anxiously at Kasha. ‘What do we do if they come in through that door?’
He put his hand on the pocket of his coat patting the pistol she had seen him take from the SD man when they’d stripped the body. ‘You run for the kitchen and find the back way out – there must be one, the kid came in that way. I’ll take my chances and shoot my way out. It won’t be the first time.’
A middle-aged woman in a black dress with a white pinafore came to the table; she was armed with a pencil and a notepad. Over to one side Evangeline saw that Régine was now also in the room; she too was waiting on tables.
‘The plat du jour is rabbit stew,’ the woman announced. ‘What do you want to drink?’
Evangeline ordered a carafe of coarse red wine. ‘Let me do the talking,’ she told Kasha, ‘your French is good but your accent gives you away as a foreigner.’
The woman returned with a basket of bread, two glasses and the carafe of wine. She spread a paper cover over the red checkered table cloth and set everything in front of them. They both immediately picked out chunks of bread and started eating slowly, trying not to look out of place. Two deep plates of stew arrived. Kasha slowly examined the bread before dipping it in the sauce. ‘They eat better here than in Berlin,’ he said softly.
‘Farming country,’ was all she replied, then poured some wine.
As they finished Régine came to their table to clear the dishes. ‘Stay here till the other clients have gone.’ she said quietly, without looking at them. Then in a clear voice she told them the only dessert was an apple tart. ‘There is no real coffee,’
she concluded, ‘only ersatz, but we have plum brandy if you want. Papa makes it; we don’t tell the Germans.’
By nine o’clock they were the last in the restaurant. Régine pulled down the blinds, locked the front door and began to clear away the debris from the tables, shaking the crumbs from the paper slips if they were unstained by wine or spilled food and setting them aside to be used again.
The woman in the black dress came to the table and sat down next to them. Then a man who had clearly been cooking came out from the kitchen and joined them. He was short and robust with a drooping moustache and a ruddy complexion that Evangeline guessed had more to do with his home distilled pruneau than exposure to the sun.
‘I am Manette,’ she said simply. ‘This is my husband, Thibaud.’
‘I have to thank you,’ Evangeline started to reply but Manette waved it away.
‘We’ll do what we can. The Boche are pigs but the Carlingue are worse than the shit coming out of the pig’s arse. Stinking Frenchmen turned traitors and informers – even some of them women – criminals all of them. The rats’ nest is in Paris but they snoop around everywhere. Nowhere is safe.’
Her husband nodded. ‘When this war is finished we will take our revenge. They think the Germans will win but they won’t. We’ll beat this scum just as we did in the Great War. Then they shall see.’
He stopped and considered what he had said, smoothing down his bushy moustache, pulling on it with both hands. ‘I know the station master; he can be trusted. Stay here tonight and in the morning I will see what is to be done. You don’t need to tell me where you are going – I don’t want to know.’
Manette led them up to the very top of the house to a small attic room with two beds. ‘You will have to share,’ she said, not as an apology but a statement of fact. ‘There is a toilet downstairs, the first door on the landing. Please don’t use too much paper – it blocks easily.’
The Girl in the Baker's Van Page 3