In at the Kill

by Alexander Fullerton

  Thérèse’s rain-jacket, as she’d called it? If she hadn’t been wearing it?

  She hadn’t: it was in her bedroom. A sort of golf-jacket; quite old, with buttons, not a zip-fastener. Nondescript brown, and distinctly loose-fitting – which was fine, it flapped around her and reached below her hips, hid her shape. She could have been a woman of – hell, forty.

  At least. With unkempt grey hair in view, bloody fifty.

  * * *

  At the top of the field she climbed over the fence, out of Thérèse’s land into the roadside scrub, and plodded on uphill. Feeling it, by this time. Tired, and muscles aching. Even the basket with so little in it was a weight. She’d done more in the last few hours than she had in nearly two months.

  Humiliating. Considering how fit she’d been before that – cycling all over France…

  Wednesday now: getting towards 3 a.m. A quarter to, maybe. And the moon getting close to setting – no great worry, with a clear sky and about forty million stars. Plenty of cover – this stuff she was plodding through; if she heard anything coming she’d just drop down and wait until it passed. But nothing else was moving: not a sound, except the wind’s, no bombers overhead tonight. Stumbling on: wretched shoes weren’t meant for country trekking, either. In the course of her rummaging she’d tried on a pair of Thérèse’s, old leather ones, but they’d been far too big.

  Thinking of Thérèse again. Then of Lise – whether she’d drowned in the river, or been shot, or recaptured, or—

  Crossed fingers for that highly improbable ‘or’: and switching to thoughts of Ben. Old Bim-Bam: fast asleep in the Coastal Forces base at Portsmouth, she hoped – and managing to keep hope alive, please God. See you. Ben…

  * * *

  She’d found it: the fork off to the left first, best part of a kilometre uphill, then the entrance to the Destinier place after another – well, half-kilometre, maybe. It had felt like about ten. The farm track she was on now was lined on one side with firs; there were fields on both sides and a herd of cows in the one to the right. All lying down – lucky buggers. Thérèse had told her the Destiniers had this milking herd, a very large flock of sheep and a small acreage of vines. The old man had been a vigneron in a much bigger way in his younger days, she’d said, but this was little more than a hobby now, a superb wine but only enough for his own and family friends’ consumption, and she’d thought maybe a few special customers. It was the wine Thérèse had had – her only real luxury, for which she’d traded eggs. Although having adequate supplies of food was a luxury in itself. Some system of withholding marketable produce, worked presumably between fellow operators of an escape line, to ensure escapees could be fed – and the Maquis supplied, she guessed. They hadn’t discussed it because there’d been no need for her to know anything about it.

  Stone in a shoe: and not the first. She crouched to fix it. Warm, hard-baked earth with wheel-ruts in it. Bloody shoes, though… She’d have liked to have rested here for a while, but she was up again, hefting the basket, pushing on, keeping close to the trees where it was darkest. Only starlight now, the young moon had dipped behind the mountains.

  The Boches wouldn’t have found much food in Thérèse’s house tonight. There’d been times when they would have, but—

  Those were roofs, buildings, discernible ahead. Against starry sky, straight edges. For a moment she hardly believed it: from Thérèse’s description she’d expected about a kilometre of this track, not just a few hundred metres. Unless she’d been literally sleep-walking – which wasn’t impossible. At least, walking in a daze… She’d stopped again. Making out the house to the left – identifiable by a chimney on it – and a lower but similarly sloped roof to the right. Barn or barns, she guessed: other outbuildings, a winery maybe. A bird of some kind swept past her at about head-height: swoosh of wings, movement of air as proof of how closely it had passed. Probably an owl. Well, what else…

  A dog began barking – somewhere ahead, amongst the buildings. Inside, maybe. She kept going. The Destiniers were going to be woken in any case, and the animal was probably on a chain: seemed to be customary, around here, although you’d have thought they’d let the poor brutes run free at night.

  Let them run free was right. Dogs, plural, barking like mad now: and a glimmer of light showing suddenly in an upstairs window of the house. Rosie aware of dizziness now and then: from glancing up quickly like that?

  She hoped to God these people wouldn’t turn her away.

  If they did – what?

  Sufficient unto the day. More than bloody sufficient… Shuffling on. Sharp eye out for dogs… Pausing then as an iron latch rattled – and a door jerked open. Ahead and to the right, she thought, not at the house. Light there too now – an oil-lamp, yellowish radiance on an ancient timber door in the stone wall of a barn: then dogs visible for a moment bursting out. They hadn’t let themselves out… She’d stopped, prepared to defend herself with the basket, called, ‘Hello!’ The dogs approaching more slowly, crouched and snarling, with that light behind them. She called again, ‘Hello? Please – I’ve come from Thérèse—’

  ‘Tobie! Théo! Stay!’

  Female: but harsh, commanding. Rosie standing stock still, and the dogs crouching, motionless… The voice – Marie Destinier’s presumably – called in French, ‘Who are you, what d’you want? You say from Thérèse?’

  ‘I’ve come from her house, yes. Been living there. Are you Marie Destinier? I’m sorry to disturb you—’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Gestapo – taken Thérèse. I was outside, walking around, I—’

  ‘Taken her…’

  ‘Two car-loads of them, they—’

  ‘Come where I can see you. Into the light. When did this happen?’

  ‘In the last few hours.’ Approaching the shifting lamplight and the tall figure behind it. Exceptionally tall: like someone on stilts, almost. Trick of the light, perhaps. She explained, ‘A gazo came first and went off again. I don’t know who, or why, I wasn’t close enough. Then a few minutes later these two Gestapo cars – I heard them coming up the hill, petrol engines, coming fast – I tried to get down to the house to warn Thérèse, in case, but—’

  ‘Stop where you are. What’s that you’re carrying?’

  ‘This?’ It occurred to her to put it down. Rubbing that hand and arm with the one in the sling then. ‘Clothes, that’s all. Anyway – they left, taking her with them. Whatever they were looking for, they’ll have seen I was living there – that someone was – and Thérèse would have denied it, so –’ shaking her head ‘– that reason alone, I suppose…’

  The lamp-light was on her: Marie holding the lantern up high, lighting herself up too. Tall, and as straight as a hop-pole. Facially – well, Thérèse’s adjective ‘haggard’ hadn’t been any exaggeration. Of course the lighting didn’t help: but black hair swept straight back, fixed somehow behind her head; pale, hawkish face, deepset eyes.

  Wearing work-stained dungarees – at three thirty or four in the morning, for God’s sake. She’d lowered the lantern, having completed her own inspection. ‘What’s your name?’

  A window was pushed open, on the first floor of the house: a man’s voice, questioning shakily in Alsatian.

  ‘Excuse me. My father.’ Raising her voice then, but surprisingly answering him in French: ‘Thérèse Michon’s in trouble, Papa. And we may have an overnight guest. Another one – but I’ll handle it, don’t worry.’

  ‘What kind of trouble – Thérèse, you say—’

  ‘I don’t know – yet. Tell you later – or in the morning. Leave it to me – eh?’ Back to Rosie: ‘Well—’

  ‘My name’s Rosalie.’ The window had banged shut, and one of the dogs had shifted in closer to her, flopped down again, watching. Wolfish: long-legged and scrawny – like its mistress. Marie turning away, the lamp swinging, shadows even of the crouched dogs elongating… ‘Come in here. Théo – quiet… Stay, both of you. Come on…’

 
Inside a van was standing with its gazo motor dismantled. Partial explanation of the dungarees? Marie was hanging the lantern on a bracket: turning back to her now: a gaunt, strange-looking woman, frowning at her: ‘Are you ill? Better sit down.’ Reaching to flip down the lid of a tool-chest. ‘There. How did you know of us – this farm’s whereabouts, and my name?’

  ‘Thérèse spoke of you quite often. And she told me where you lived.’ Rosie sat down on the box very, very thankfully. ‘No, I’m not ill, just – rather exhausted… But you, and people called Roesch she talked about – over that way? I’ve been with her almost a month – you wouldn’t have known, I suppose.’

  ‘We knew there was someone, that she had her hands full. It was necessary to know that much. Do you think it might have been you they were looking for tonight?’

  ‘Might have, but I’d think more likely whoever was in the gazogène that came first. At least – how I’ve been thinking of it.’ She shrugged. ‘I was going to say – another reason for inflicting myself on you is a man by name of Michel – only one arm? He mentioned you when he brought me to Thérèse.’

  ‘He brought you to her…’

  ‘He was coming on to you, then. To fix a tractor – as a reason for being here? He and Luc?’

  A nod. ‘The last time I saw either of them. Yes – all right… How did you come to be with them?’

  ‘I was a Gestapo prisoner, with some others, in a train taking us to Ravensbrück. We thought Ravensbrück… Well – the train stopped because of another which Michel had wrecked – blown the line the other side of it, I think – I made a break for it, and I was shot. Killed, they thought. But I wasn’t, and – even more luck, later in the night Michel and Luc came along and found me.’

  ‘And this was – yes, nearly a month ago… You’re – recovered?’

  ‘Pretty well. Thanks to Thérèse. And – Lotte.’

  ‘Ah –’ a nod – ‘Lotte – of course…’

  ‘I’m a bit weak still, not really fit, but—’

  ‘You want to shelter here?’

  ‘If you’d allow it. Not for long, I promise, but – maybe more than just one night – as you said to your father then—’

  ‘Only to give him a quick answer. No – of course…’

  ‘Well, thank you. But – Marie, if I may call you that – d’you think something may have happened to Michel?’

  ‘You think it might have?’

  ‘He said he’d be back in a few days – twenty-five days ago. He was going to put me in touch with certain people. And since I’m well enough to get moving now – I’d rather counted on his help, but—’

  ‘I could find out. We’ll talk later, anyway. After you’ve slept.’ A grimace: ‘Doubt I’ll get any. You’ll be wondering why I’m up all night, messing with this – eh?’

  The van. The back of it hinged upwards, when lowered would serve as a ramp – for livestock, obviously. Rosie looked back at her, waited for the explanation.

  ‘It’s an emergency. You’re a second stage of it. You heard me tell my father – another guest. We already have two – aviators, English. Royal Air Force. This explains the gazo you saw – they came in it. The person driving was a stranger to us, he’d come from the direction of Strasbourg, must have diverted to pick them up at some other place, and all he had then to guide him were the names of Thérèse Michon and of this village. He’d stopped twice to ask the way, he told me. An educated, intelligent person – doctor, I guess – but really, with no idea… Obviously it’s whoever persuaded him to bring these two who should have known better.’

  ‘You mean when he stopped to ask the way he somehow alerted the Gestapo?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t possibly. Couldn’t have reacted that fast. Either he’d let it be known where he was going, or whoever gave him his instructions – God knows who, since because of you Thérèse was for the time being – off-bounds, you might say. Anyone working with us would have known it.’

  ‘He left them here, and went on, then?’

  ‘He shouldn’t have gone near Thérèse. Some emergency, panic – someone arrested perhaps, another brought in to help but doesn’t know enough, and – there you are. Could have been you or I, but in fact – Thérèse. She’d have sent him on to us here, of course.’

  ‘I imagine you won’t keep those two here any longer than you can help.’

  ‘No. But we can’t move them on immediately. Much as – yes, you’re right… But I should have said – the gazo’s driver was en route to Colmar, I suspect to the hospital. If he’s a doctor, as I’ve assumed – a certain manner, a certain smell, even – you know? – if I’m right about that he’d have an Ausweis permitting him to be out after curfew. Why they’d have thought to make use of him, you see.’

  ‘And the Gestapo team couldn’t have known how close they were behind him. Or that he’d have come on this way.’

  ‘If they’d known there were aviators on the run, perhaps they had a tip-off – Thérèse’s name, and where her farm was… Maybe from whatever kind of mess it was at the other end. As you say, couldn’t have known when he’d be there, let alone come on this way. So it was almost, but not quite, the worst of bad luck. Bad enough if they found Thérèse had been sheltering someone.’

  ‘Me, though, not airmen, which they’d have been looking for, and with clothes around in the attic, where I was living. So they’ll be looking for me now – some woman, anyway – and for your aviators?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Narrow shoulders shrugging… ‘Thérèse may have given an explanation for the clothes. Some child she’d looked after – something… She’s no fool – won’t tell them anything, either. That doctor, though – if they’d known his destination would be the Colmar hospital… That’s what – worries… You see – they’d think, the main road to Colmar. Not this way. I mean they’d guess he’d go that way, and take that route themselves after Thérèse’s place. One car anyway. Christ! Wouldn’t want him caught. He was here, I accepted these two from him – and we know nothing of him!’

  How he’d stand up to interrogation, for instance. Rosie nodding, understanding. Her heart had steadied somewhat, but this affected her too: that unidentified amateur arrested, spilling the beans, sending Gestapo here… Marie resuming – on a different tack now – ‘What I was about to explain – why I need this vehicle back on the road at once now. Fact is, there’s work for it to do before we can move those boys out… Oh, you’re dead tired. I’ll take you in, tell you as we go…’

  The two airmen were in some outhouse, apparently. It would have been used for similar purposes before, Rosie guessed. Leading the way over to the house, Marie was explaining that she wouldn’t be trying to move them on immediately; with the Gestapo alerted there might well be searches, road-blocks and so forth, but meanwhile she needed to have the van back on the road in any case. ‘Moving lambs. We have a big crop of them, this year, I’ve set up some deals and they’re about ready. Well, now instead of next week, that’s all. It’ll fit in well. Two or three trips – and then one more, and that time I’ll have the two English on board and nobody’ll spare us a glance.’ She’d crossed herself: shifting the lamp to her other hand then as they reached the house, jerking a door open and leading the way into a stone-floored hallway: big kitchen off it to the right, two other rooms on the left, stairs rising at the back. It was more spacious than Thérèse’s house. Marie stalking up the stairs, carrying the lantern, and Rosie following with her basket. Dark staircase leading to an equally dark passage, the lantern throwing shadows, Marie’s positively gargantuan… Gloomy as well as spacious: she wouldn’t have wanted to live here. Although for the present it was a refuge: safety, you might call it – until you heard those Citroëns come roaring into the yard, Gestapo spilling out – so damn sudden: out of nowhere. Well – out of other people’s blunders. Nothing one could have influenced oneself or known anything about until disaster struck. The same, effectively, as being fingered by ‘Hector’: you’d have no chance, no more than a rab
bit has when the noose jerks taut.

  She felt the dizziness again. Heartbeat still wasn’t right. Effort of climbing stairs, on top of earlier exertions. Rest, she told herself, was all she needed. Be fine, by morning. Bloody have to be… Left at the top, and Marie pointing: ‘Bathroom, with toilette.’ Then along the passage: ‘This is where you can sleep. If I get time for any I’ll use the couch downstairs, not to disturb you. Rosalie –’ glancing round as she led the way in – ‘May I ask where are you from, what did you do to be sent to Ravensbrück?’

  Quite a large room. Two iron beds, one smaller than the other: hers, of course. She dumped her basket on it: feeling too exhausted to decide – faced with that question – how much or how little to divulge. Whether to explain herself at all…

  ‘Could it wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘Well – Michel knows your background, I imagine?’

  ‘Oh, yes—’

  ‘But you could be some person who was not with Thérèse – uh?’

  ‘With a scarred face, to back up the deception? I’ve scars on my back too – a Gestapo whipping.’

  Frowning, shaking her head… ‘Says it all, doesn’t it? In any case it’s not that I disbelieve you. But – sit, just a minute? In case you sleep late… The thing is – Rosalie – I could send a message that would get to Michel – or to Luc – via their associate. If that’s what you’d like?’

  ‘Please. I’d like nothing better.’