Scream of engines crashing into high gear: then the first one’s tyres showering dirt and stones as it swerved into the entrance track. Second one then – same skidding turn, thumping over the rise and into the dip, on the leader’s tail.
She’d stopped. Hearing Bruno barking his head off. Crouching, to reduce her silhouette – right out in the open here. Not that they – Boches, or anyone else – had any view this way at this moment. But – God, the cowshed looked like a trap now, too. Open, easy access and easy reach, pitch-dark inside: but a trap for sure. They’d search outhouses as well as the house itself – unless they were stupid, which regrettably they seldom were – and the milking-shed being bang-up against the house might be the first one they’d look in. Michel might be in the house with Thérèse: or someone else might be. Another mental picture – irrespective of whether Thérèse was alone or not – was of the attic ladder still in place under the open trap-door: they’d left it up, this evening. Thérèse for the first time not bothering; partly because she’d had an old hen boiling in a cast-iron tureen, with onions and turnip.
Car doors slamming: a German shout, and a crash as one of them kicked at the door, shouted again in that brutal language.
Thérèse upstairs getting the ladder down, Rosie hoped.
Get over to the hedgerow.
Thinking about it for about a second: then moving. More German shouting, and Bruno sounding frantic. To get to that undergrowth along the roadside made sense: from where she was – where she’d so stupidly put herself. Well – what alternative, for God’s sake… From those windows for instance, one of which was Thérèse’s – once they got up there, with a grandstand view of everything out here…
Thérèse had screamed: Alsatian-German, high-pitched protest. Then a shot: pistol or rifle. Pistol-shot, she guessed. She was running, her breath coming in short gasps. Bruno had stopped barking. Thérèse’s wail again, starting in German and ending in what sounded like French but wasn’t comprehensible; a real scream then, and German fury responding, drowning her out; one of them might have hit her, and the door into the kitchen either crashed shut or flung back against the front wall of the house. Shut, Rosie guessed: there were still German voices and other movements in the yard but nothing of Thérèse in it now, the others must have taken her inside with them. Those still outside would be checking the barn and other outhouses, of course. Lights moved here and there, a torch-beam flickered along the roof-line, paused to spotlight the attic window in that end wall. Down at ground level then: the vegetable area and the pathway through it. And if the sod was coming through there—
‘All right, Clotilde, all right…’
She’d slithered to a stop: there was no hope of making it to the roadside hedge. She had her arm round the cow’s neck – up close, leaning against the animal’s smelly hide – using her for cover – of sorts, and as long as the animal allowed it. Clotilde restive, swinging her big head round, shifting her feet… Rosie sure some Boches would soon be looking out of the windows. Should have stayed at the top of this field; could have got to the roadside cover up there easily. OK – easy hindsight too: the priority had been to warn Thérèse. As it was she’d been taken completely by surprise; they’d search the whole place, and whether or not there was anyone else here now, once they looked in the attic they’d know damn well there had been.
Thérèse alone in there meanwhile, facing questions, threats, fists. They’d shot the dog – had come meaning business, were in their own view on a certainty, not just enquiring. Shoot anything, any one. But on business connected with that gazo?
But if so, wouldn’t one car have gone on after it, once they’d seen it wasn’t here?
Alternatively, therefore – might be looking for one escaped female prisoner? No connection with the gazo, the timing of tonight’s two visits just coincidental? If there’d been a tip-off, for instance?
‘Stand still, Clotilde!’
Having to move with her, though – sidling along. Imagination turning cartwheels: and thinking ahead just a little way – if the beast decided to turn round – simply duck under her belly to the other side. Ridiculous: she could see that on the face of it it might even be comic. But in reality – since the result of being spotted might be a bullet—
Even less comical for Thérèse in there.
Flare of light – inside the cowshed. She’d glanced that way because she’d heard something – the door in the back wall opening, probably – and seen a torch beam probing around inside. It was shining out into the field now, sweeping the smooth slope of grass dotted blackly with Clotilde’s muck. Sweeping this way – she ducked her head, blinded, the beam holding steadily right on her.
No. On the cow. Or he’d have reacted by this time. He’d seen a cow – not Rosie close up against her, stooping, heart drumming… The light flicked away, was illuminating the inside of the shed again, allowing glimpses of a thickset man in plain clothes turning his back this way, poking that beam around and some of it reflecting back at him. She’d seen white shirt-front: guessed there’d be a pistol in his other hand. Plain clothes and general appearance indicative of Gestapo.
‘Clotilde – damn you…’
Turning. Suddenly, and not slowly either. Rosie edged back, keeping the animal’s swivelling bulk between herself and the man in the shed: at the same time sharply aware that it was not now between herself and the first-floor windows. That bastard still inside the milking-shed, torch-beam wavering around, despite there being nothing in there except a fixed feeding-trough and Thérèse’s milking stool – as far as she remembered, from the conducted tour on Friday. Clotilde had got all the way round and for some reason best known to herself was starting towards that Boche – towards her shelter. Slow, lumbering progress, Rosie up close again, side-stepping, abreast of the animal’s fore-quarters in the hope that any visible leg-movements might coincide. But why the Boche should be hanging around in there—
Examining the shed’s back wall, it seemed. His stocky figure showing up blackly this side of the light. She realized suddenly – having a pee. Had been – was now bouncing on his toes, shaking the drips off, then buttoning himself up – torch still in hand, one-handed therefore for the rest of it; pistol holstered, presumably. And all finished – torch shining downward as he stepped out into the yard and pulled the door shut behind him. Clotilde had heard that closure, and stopped, stood gazing that way as if the man’s departure had perplexed her.
No way to get her moving again if she didn’t want to. You’d have needed a stick. But – OK, distance to the shed now only about twelve or fifteen metres: one quick dash…
German voices: the kitchen door no doubt open. Gruff-toned exchanges, what sounded like orders and acknowledgement; then a car door opened, and shut. Second door, ditto. Starter whirring: the engine fired. One car and two men leaving, was her analysis. Another of them went back into the house. Rosie deciding, now: good a moment as any. Clotilde still immobile, staying put behind her out there in hazy moonlight as she darted across this almost grassless patch of open ground, into the shed’s darkness.
Reek of urine…
They wouldn’t check in here again, she thought. That one wouldn’t, anyway. But the car that was on the move wasn’t going out to the road, it was heading slowly along the track leading to the poultry and pig areas. Engine-sound diminishing, already barely audible. Those two on their way to inspect the sheds and styes, no doubt. It did seem fairly evident that they’d come looking for some person or persons who’d have been in the gazo and who for some reason had been assumed to have dropped off here, but in fact had not been made welcome by Thérèse. Forget about Michel, therefore, he didn’t fit into any such scenario. But guessing at what might be happening – for the sake of understanding this and anticipating future moves: Thérèse, she imagined, in there protesting, ‘No, not a soul, nobody’; and maybe ‘That’s where my nephew sleeps when he spends the night – because of curfew, sometimes…’ Then he – the Boche in charge �
� telling his minions, ‘Check the rest of the place. Outhouses…’
Then curious about the clothes she’d been fixing up? Smaller than could possibly fit Thérèse – and most of them in the attic?
Thérèse: ‘Of course they’re not for me. Helping out young friends in the village – old clothes don’t need ration coupons, do they… Yes, up there’s where I do most of my sewing.’
Because the kitchen and her bedroom were cluttered enough already and there was nothing to sit on in the other rooms. Which was the truth – two other rooms on the bedroom floor were bare, nothing in them except Thérèse’s winter garments in an ancient wardrobe in the larger one, no other furniture either there or in the little box-room, which was big enough for a baby’s cot but no more than that – and empty anyway. And the ground floor mostly kitchen – the big room one virtually lived in – a whole family would have – and a larder, and the WC in what must have been the farmhouse scullery, a largish stone-floored space which now also had a bathtub in it – only a cold tap, hot water obtainable by bucket from the kitchen. Two thoughts out of all this: one, whatever line of evasion Thérèse dreamt up there was really nothing she could have said that the Boche would easily believe: and he didn’t have to disprove anything. They never had to: were cleared to kill or torture merely on suspicion. Effectively, on whim… But point two, how could it take several men more than a few minutes to search just a few small rooms, two of them empty?
That car was coming back – faster, bouncing over wheel-ruts. Rosie had heard the hens kicking up a row, heard the car now instead. She was in the shed’s rear right-hand corner, where she’d be out of sight if one of them decided to take another quick look inside: final check before departure…
Which might be imminent.
Leaving Thérèse here, unharmed – please God?
Car braking to a halt. Doors opening: muttered exchanges between the two men as they disembarked. There’d have to be at least four altogether, two to each car. Could indeed be more: half a dozen, say. By the sound of it, at least that number outside now: as if those inside had been waiting for the others and had now gone out to join them.
Thérèse’s voice, high and thin – and in French again, surprisingly, the forbidden language: ‘– told you over and over, why can’t you believe—’
Loud, brutal-sounding German, Thérèse pleading in Alsatian. More shouting. Some of them might have got into the other car: its engine starting now. Turning it round, she guessed. That Boche bawling at Thérèse: and what sounded like a scuffle. A guffaw of laughter was startlingly incongruous: actually, foul, in terms of how one was envisaging the scene… Rosie stiff and still in her corner, hardly breathing. Knowing that once they took you… Thérèse would know it too, of course: she’d know it all. One car had gone: by now she’d have been forced into the other. Yes – second engine starting: spurt of tyres in farmyard dirt as its driver gunned it forward.
* * *
The clock’s noisy ticking seemed like betrayal of Thérèse: as if the house and everything in it should be lifeless – with her, its heart, torn out of it. Surveying the mess in the kitchen, Rosie hearing her in memory: Survive, then start again, God gives us strength – up to us how we use it…
She’d be needing all her strength.
The suddenness of such events was shocking in itself. One minute safe – you thought – as safe as caution and your experience could ensure it – then wham, no safety anywhere, no such thing existed.
Hadn’t for poor Bruno, either. Shot in the head, a dark heap in the yard.
They’d gnawed chicken-bones and dropped them here and there. Taken other food as well. Cupboards and shelves had been emptied, pots and pans and everything else pulled out, strewn around.
Looking for what, among saucepans and suchlike?
Well – what might be stored among such items, that was relevant to the present situation… Guns, maybe, plastic explosive, ammunition? Or other Maquis stores – tins of food of British or US origin, which might have been parachuted in. Or radio equipment. With Maquis up there in the forests, if the Boches thought they had reason to believe Thérèse was involved with them?
The ladder was still in place, and the attic had been ransacked, bedding pulled off and the clothes she’d mended tossed around. There’d have been nothing else for them to find, but it would still have been obvious that Thérèse had had someone living here. She’d have denied it, of course – for Rosie’s sake, to give her a chance to get away – and the denial would be enough to convict her. They’d most likely have troops here in the morning, turn the whole farm over. And since Thérèse almost certainly did have links to the Maquis, there might well be an arms-cache somewhere on her land.
Sooner one got clear of the place, the better. They didn’t have to wait until morning, quite likely wouldn’t. She was sorting out the stuff she’d take with her – not all of it, because some of tonight’s team might return and remember there’d been female clothing lying around. Wouldn’t have counted or memorized items, one might hope… Anyway – be quick: there was no way hanging around could help Thérèse. Just cross your fingers for her, count your own blessings and bloody scarper… Although the prospect of setting off largely directionless and severely handicapped in various ways didn’t have all that much going for it either. No papers, was the crucial thing. Papers – identity, residence, work, travel, food and clothing ration cards et cetera – were all that entitled you to exist. Compared to that really crippling lack, having no money – literally not a sou – was only a minor drawback. Especially considering that by daylight the surrounding countryside might be lousy with road-blocks and patrols. You’d only need to be stopped once – just one routine check, you wouldn’t get any further. Especially with the language complication. No papers and wrong language, for Christ’s sake… Sweating, panic flaring: deep-breathing to counter physical reactions, slow the pulse-rate, pounding heart. Telling herself that nothing as far as she was concerned was new, or any worse. She’d stick to the same programme – somehow establish contact with a local SOE réseau, then perhaps with their help stay out of sight and circulation until either a pick-up was arranged or papers covering a new identity could be provided. Either locally, or from London, but preferably the latter. Because one couldn’t trust all local sources all that far… But one had only to survive for that length of time: then you’d either be out or – well, comparatively secure. And for a start – now – find Marie Destinier, who’d surely provide temporary refuge – until whatever had stirred this up blew over – and she might have practical suggestions for the next stage, a move westward towards Nancy, for instance. Although – all right, any such move, without papers… Despite recalling only too vividly that road-blocks had been frightening enough, sometimes, even with bloody papers – and where it was OK to talk French…
Sitting, for a moment. Heart going at about twice normal speed. Telling herself well, it would, give the poor thing a chance… And get help from or through this Marie person. No papers or Alsatian, so make the journey – to Nancy, or wherever – in some way hidden. In a farm-cart under farm produce, or in a gazo’s boot, say. If she – Marie – was associated with Thérèse in running part of an escape line, she’d have ways and means, or links to those who did have. Then in any place the size of Nancy there should be some representative of SOE, and some way of making contact – doing so without getting one’s throat cut in the process.
Water was still hot in Thérèse’s battered kettle; the Master Race having enjoyed her hospitality and left dregs in several tin mugs. There was also a wine bottle smashed in the sink. Angry at finding it empty or near-empty, perhaps: it was how those thugs were, that was all. She rinsed out a mug, and found the chicory mixture. Also milk, bread, and a few salvageable scraps of chicken. It was worth a few minutes’ delay, made sense to eat while one had the chance – sooner than spend the night lying in some ditch wishing one had. She was ignoring her heart: when it was ready to slow up, it would. Soo
n, please. One felt – shaky, weak… Moving around in search of a container for her gear, while taking the edge off her hunger. Settling for a basket – deep, with two flap-up lids and a central carrying-handle – in which Thérèse had on occasion carried poultry on her visits to the market. Didn’t seem to be a suitcase anywhere, and this would do just as well. Better, in fact, in some circumstances. She took it up to the attic, packed into it one skirt, one shirt, two blouses, a spare pair of knickers, a nightdress which only today she’d washed and ironed, some stockings and a pullover. Her bra she’d have to wash and dry overnight, when necessary. But also – importantly – a scarf which Thérèse had said she could have – cotton, blue with white stripes and a white edging. She tied it on, covering the scar on the side of her head and most of her grey-dyed hair, in front of the yellowed mirror.
Like a waif or stray, she thought. Desperate-looking waif or stray. No chicken, either. Leaving the mirror abruptly, cramming in a last mouthful of food and trying to put that image of herself out of mind.
The sling?
Yes. For the time being, and while still in this locality, i.e. quite a few hours by gazo from where she and Lise had left the train. It seemed unlikely the Boches would be looking for her here, not only because of the distance, but they might also see it logically as being in the wrong direction, from an escaping British agent’s point of view. Why head for the German border, for Christ’s sake? Clever old Michel – to have brought her over to this side of the mountains. Even if his decision had been dictated by Thérèse being here and his knowing she’d cope. From where they’d picked her up they’d come about eighty kilometres as a crow might fly, and probably half as much again, Thérèse had estimated, when you took account of the winding mountain road. But – on the subject of this sling – be sensible, continue wearing it this side of the Vosges, then anywhere towards Nancy, ditch it – so as not to look like walking wounded. And with that in mind, a coat of some sort might be worth having – useful anyway, but to wear half-buttoned and rest the arm in if it still needed that.
In at the Kill Page 7