It was a futile thing to write. There was no way of knowing when the letter would arrive, it could take two weeks, it could take four. Besides, the die was cast. Albert was writing this purely for himself. He did not regret helping Édouard change his identity, but unless he saw things through to the end, he found it difficult to imagine the consequences, which, he suspected, were dire. He lay on the ground, wrapped in his greatcoat.
He tossed and turned most of the night, nervous, fretful.
In his dreams, a body was being exhumed, and Madeleine Péricourt immediately realized that it was not her brother, he was too tall or too short, sometimes it was immediately obvious because the face was that of an old soldier, sometimes it was the body of a man with the head of a dead horse. He could see the young woman take his arm and say, “What have you done with my brother?” Capitaine d’Aulnay-Pradelle was gleeful, of course, his blue eyes shone so brightly they lit up Albert’s face like a torch. His booming voice was that of Général Morieux. “Answer the woman, Soldat Maillard! What have you done with her brother?”
It was from one such nightmare that he woke with a start sometime before dawn.
While the whole camp was sleeping, Albert brooded, and as the minutes ticked past in the gloom of the vast hall, as he listened to the muffled breathing of his comrades and the rain hammering on the roof, his thoughts grew darker, gloomier, more menacing. He did not regret what he had done until now, but he could not bring himself to go further. He kept picturing that young woman crumpling a letter filled with lies. Was it cruel, this thing that he was doing? Was it even possible to undo what had been done? There were as many reasons to go on as to turn back. After all, he thought, I am not going to dig up bodies to cover up a lie I told out of the goodness of my heart! Or out of weakness, it amounts to the same thing. But if I don’t dig him up, if I reveal everything, I’ll be court-martialed. He did not know the dangers he risked, simply that they were serious; the whole thing had taken on terrifying proportions.
When day finally broke, he had still not come to a decision, endlessly deferring the moment when he must resolve this terrible dilemma.
He was awakened by a kick in the ribs. Dumbstruck with astonishment, he scrambled to sit up. By now, the whole hall was buzzing with the sound of voices and commotion, Albert looked around, utterly lost, unsure where he was, when suddenly from above, he saw the harsh, cruel face of Capitaine Pradelle swoop down and stop inches from his own.
The officer stared at him for a long moment, gave a heavy sigh, and slapped his face. Albert instinctively brought his hands up to protect himself. Pradelle smiled. A broad smile that boded nothing good.
“Well, Soldat Maillard, you learn something new every day. So your comrade Édouard Péricourt is dead? It came as a shock to me, I can tell you . . . Because the last time I saw him . . .”
He frowned, as though trying hard to remember.
“. . . I do believe it was at the military hospital. And I have to say, at the time, he seemed very much alive. Well, I’ll grant you he didn’t look his best . . . In fact, I’d say he looked a little drawn. Tried to stop a shell with his teeth, a very rash decision, now if he’d asked my advice . . . But I certainly did not expect him to die, Soldat Maillard, the thought never even occurred to me. But there seems little doubt that he is actually dead, you even sent a personal letter to his family to inform them, and such style, Soldat Maillard, such old-fashioned gallantry!”
When he pronounced the name Maillard, he had a disagreeable manner of giving it a derisory and contemptuous drawl that made Maillard sound like merde or something very like it.
He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, like an outraged man trying hard to contain himself.
“Now, I don’t know what has happened to Soldat Péricourt, and I don’t want to know, but Général Morieux has instructed me to help the family, so obviously I can’t help but wonder . . .”
The statement sounded almost like a question. Up until now, Albert had not been able to speak, and Pradelle had no intention of allowing him to do so now.
“There are two possible solutions, Soldat Maillard. We tell the truth and settle the matter. If we do that, you will be had up for identity theft. I don’t know how exactly you went about it, but I can guarantee it would land you in jail for fifteen years minimum. On the other hand, if that happens, you’ll start demanding an inquiry into the assault on Hill 113 . . . So, for both of us it is the worst possible solution. Which leaves only one: the family have asked for a dead soldier, we provide them with a dead soldier, case closed. You may speak now.”
Albert was still attempting to piece together the beginnings of this speech.
“I don’t know . . . ,” he said.
In situations like this, Mme Maillard would explode: “That’s you all over, isn’t it, Albert! When you’re called on to make a decision, to be a man for once in your life, there’s no one at home! It’s always ‘I don’t know . . . We’ll see . . . Maybe . . . I’ll think about it . . .’ Come on, Albert, make a decision! If you honestly think you can get through life, etc., etc.”
Capitaine Pradelle shared some of Mme Maillard’s characteristics. But he was quicker to cut to the chase.
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to get off your ass and, tonight, when Mlle Péricourt comes back, you’re going to produce a corpse neatly tagged ‘Édouard Péricourt,’ have you got that? A day’s work and you can leave here with a clear conscience. But you’d better think fast. Because, if you’d rather be sent to prison, I’m just the man to do it . . .”
Albert asked a number of his comrades, and they talked about the various graveyards nearby. They confirmed what he already knew: the largest cemetery was nearly four miles away at Pierreval. This would offer the greatest choice. He set off on foot.
At the edge of a wood were dozens and dozens of graves dug seemingly at random. In the beginning, they had been dug in neat rows but later, as the war churned out more and more bodies, they were buried in a slapdash manner as they arrived. There were graves everywhere, some with crosses, some without; on some the crosses had already rotted away. Here a name. There the words “a soldier” crudely carved on a wooden plaque. There were dozens that simply bore the words “a soldier.” On others, an upturned bottle had been planted in the ground containing a scrap of paper with the soldier’s name scrawled on it in case someone later wanted to know who was buried there.
Albert could easily have spent hours wandering among the crude tombs in Pierreval cemetery before finally choosing, the victim of his sempiternal indecisiveness, but reason finally prevailed. All right, he thought, it’s getting late, and it’s a long walk back to the Demobilization Center, I have to make a decision. He glanced around, spotted a grave with a cross that bore no name, and said to himself “That one.”
He had taken some nails from a placard ripped from the barrier at the Center, now he looked around for a rock, hammered the broken half of Édouard Péricourt’s name tag onto the cross, memorized the location, and then, like a wedding photographer, he took a few steps back to consider the overall effect.
Then he headed back, racked with fear and guilt because, even when well intentioned, lying was not in his nature. He thought about the young woman, about Édouard. He thought about the soldier whom fate had chosen to take Édouard’s place and who would never now be found, a soldier who, until now, was unidentified, had vanished forever.
As he walked away from the cemetery back toward the Demobilization Center, the immediate risks occurred to him, flashing through his mind like falling dominos. It would all be fine, thought Albert, if all she wanted to do was pray. A sister wants to visit her brother’s grave, so I find her a grave, what matter if it’s her brother’s or another man’s, it’s the feelings that matter. But things are more complicated now she wants to dig. Go looking at the bottom of a hole and who knows what you’ll find. No papers, well that’s one thing; a dead soldier is a dead soldier. But when you dig him
up, what will you find? Some personal trinket? A distinctive mark? Or even simply a corpse that is too tall or too short?
But the choice has been made, he said “That one,” and his fate is sealed. For better or worse. It has been a long time since Albert has trusted fate.
He arrived back at the Center exhausted. To make sure he catches his train to Paris—and he cannot miss it (assuming there is a train)—he will need to be back by 9:00 p.m. at the latest. The Center was already bubbling with excitement, men hopping around like fleas, their knapsacks packed hours ago, shouting, singing, yelling, clapping each other on the back. The worried noncoms are fretting about what they will do if the scheduled train does not arrive, as has happened all too often . . .
Albert left the hall. Standing in the doorway, he stared up at the sky. Would it be dark enough?
Capitaine Pradelle was looking dashing. A preening peacock. Freshly pressed uniform, freshly polished boots; all he lacked was a row of shiny medals. A few strides and already he was thirty feet away; Albert still had not moved.
“Well, are you coming?”
Just after six o’clock. Behind a large truck, a limousine was idling, its engine making a hushed purr as smoke streamed almost tenderly from the exhaust. Albert could have lived for a year on the price of a single tire for this car. He felt as poor as he was miserable.
When he got to the truck, the capitaine did not stop but walked on to the limousine, and Albert heard the car door closing softly. The young woman did not appear.
A driver with a thick beard who stank of sweat was sitting behind the wheel of the brand-new truck, a Berliet CBA worth thirty thousand francs. Business was obviously booming. It was clear that this was not his first job and that he trusted only himself. He stared at Albert through the rolled-down window, looked him up and down, and then took him aside. His fearsome fist gripped Albert’s arm hard.
“If you’re coming along, then you’re implicated, you know that?”
Albert nodded. He turned toward the limousine, which was still exhaling its sweet, soft fumes. God, how cruel that warm breath seemed after so many years of suffering.
“So . . . ,” the driver whispered, “how much are you stinging them for?”
Albert sensed that to this kind of man, a disinterested act would not go down well. He did a swift mental calculation.
“Three hundred francs.”
“Fool!”
But there was a certain satisfaction on the face of the driver that he had played a better hand. A small-minded man, he got as much fulfillment from watching others fail as he did from his own little triumphs. He twisted around to look at the limousine.
“You not seen her? Strutting around in fur coats, living in the lap of luxury! You could have pushed her to four hundred, easy. Five hundred, even!”
The driver seemed about to reveal what he had negotiated, but discretion prevailed and he let go Albert’s arm.
“Right, come on, we’ve not got much time.”
Albert turned back to the car, the young woman had still not emerged to—I don’t know—to say hello, to thank him . . . nothing, he was a servant, an underling.
He climbed into the truck, and they drove off. The limousine followed some distance behind, thereby reserving the option of overtaking and disappearing should the gendarmerie suddenly appear and start asking questions.
It was now pitch dark.
The truck’s yellow headlights lit up the road, but inside the cab, Albert could not see his feet. He put his hand on the dashboard and peered through the windshield at the landscape. Now and then he said “turn right,” or “this way,” scared of losing his way, and the closer they came to the cemetery, the more his fear mounted. And so he made a decision. If it all goes wrong, I’ll take off on foot through the forest. The driver won’t come running after me. He’ll get back in the truck and head for Paris, where he probably has other clients waiting.
Capitaine Pradelle, on the other hand, might well come after him; the bastard had already proved he had quick reactions. What could he do, Albert wondered. He felt a desperate urge to piss, and held it in with all his strength.
The truck climbed the last hill.
The cemetery extended almost to the edge of the road. The driver maneuvered the truck to park facing down the hill. When they left, he would not even need to use the accelerator, just release the brake and coast.
When the engine stopped, a strange silence descended, like a cloak falling around them. The capitaine immediately appeared at the door of the truck. The driver was to stand lookout while the body was unearthed, carried to the truck, and loaded into the back; then it would all be over.
Mlle Péricourt’s limousine looked like a white animal crouching in the darkness ready to pounce. The car door opened, and the young woman appeared. She seemed tiny. To Albert, she seemed even younger than she had the day before. The capitaine made as if to stop her but did not have time to open his mouth; she walked on resolutely. Her presence in such a place at such a time was so preposterous that the men were speechless. With a curt jerk of her head, she signaled for them to set off.
They started walking.
The driver was carrying two shovels, Albert was dragging a large rolled-up tarpaulin in which to pile the soil, making it easier to fill in the grave. The capitaine strode ahead. Among the dead, he had always had a confident swagger. Scurrying after him, between Albert and the driver, came the young girl, Madeleine. It was a name Albert was very fond of. His grandmother’s name.
“Where is it?”
They had been walking for a long time, first on one path, then another . . .
It is the capitaine who asks the question. He has turned around nervously. Though he is whispering, he cannot hide his irritation. He wants this thing over and done with. Albert looks around, raises his arm, realizes he is mistaken, tries to get his bearings. They can see him thinking, no, not that way.
“Over there,” he says finally.
“You sure?” the driver sounds skeptical.
“Yes,” Albert says, “It’s over there.”
They are still talking in whispers as though this were a ceremony.
“Get a move on, man!” The capitaine is getting angry.
At last, they are there.
Nailed to the cross, the broken name tag: Édouard Péricourt.
The men withdraw. Mlle Péricourt steps forward. She sobs discreetly. The driver has already dropped the shovels and gone back to keep watch. The night is inky black; they can barely see each other. Just the fragile figure of this young girl. Behind her, they bow their heads respectfully, though the capitaine continues to glance around anxiously. It is an awkward moment. Albert takes the initiative. He reaches out and gently places a hand on Madeleine Péricourt’s shoulder, she turns and looks at him, she understands and steps back. The officer hands Albert a shovel, the young woman stands aside. They dig.
The ground is muddy, and digging is slow work. Near the front lines where there was little time to dig, graves were seldom deep; sometimes they were so shallow that rats had discovered them by morning. They would not have to dig long before they found something. Albert, now in a blind panic, stops regularly to listen. He can sense Mlle Péricourt’s presence, standing stiffly next to a withered tree, as tense as he is. Nervously, she smokes a cigarette. Albert finds it striking that a woman like this would smoke cigarettes. Pradelle, too, glances at her, then come on, man, we haven’t got all night. They get back to work.
What takes patience is digging without striking the corpse that lies beneath. Earth piles up in shovelfuls on the tarpaulin. What will the Péricourts do with the body, Albert wonders. Bury it in the garden? At night?
He stops.
“About fucking time!” hisses the capitaine, leaning down. He says it softly, he does not want the young woman to hear. Part of the body is visible, though it is difficult to see exactly what. The last part of the digging must be delicate; they need to scoop out the soil so as not to do any
damage.
Albert works carefully. Pradelle is impatient.
“Get a move on, come on, it’s not like you can hurt him now.”
The shovel rips part of the greatcoat that served as a shroud and, instantly, the smell rises, nauseating. The officer turns away.
Even Albert takes a step back, though he has smelled his fair share of rotting flesh during the war, particularly when he worked as a stretcher bearer. Not to mention when Édouard was in the hospital. Thinking of him suddenly, Albert looks up toward the young woman who, though she is some distance away, is holding a handkerchief to her nose. She must truly love her brother, he thinks. Pradelle shoves him viciously and climbs out of the hole.
In a bound, he is standing beside the young lady, he lays his hands on her shoulders and turns her away from the grave, leaving Albert alone in the pit, in the stench. The young woman demurs, she shakes her head, she wants to stand at the grave. Albert stands, frozen, unsure how to react as the figure of Pradelle towers over him. Being in a hole, however shallow, he finds himself sweating despite the chill air, he is in a crater, the capitaine is standing on the edge, it all comes flooding back, he feels his throat tighten, terrified he is about to be buried alive, he starts to shake, but he thinks about his comrade, about Édouard, and forces himself to bend down and go back to his task.
These things can break your heart. With the tip of the shovel, Albert cautiously scrapes at the dirt. The heavy clay, the body carefully wrapped in the greatcoat, all this has slowed the process of decomposition. The thick fabric sticks to the gummy mud, the man’s chest appears, the yellowish ribs, scraps of black putrid flesh crawling with maggots because there is still much left to eat.
The Great Swindle Page 11