‘Going where?’
‘Immediately, a village called Brevonnes. Farmer nearby by name of – oh, damn it—’
‘And the young lady?’
‘Giving her a lift. Her mother just passed on, she’s in search of a relation somewhere near Troyes—’
‘Does he want to see my papers?’
Reaching inside Thérèse’s rain-jacket…
‘No, we won’t bother.’ Returning his. The other one had called something, pointing down the main road to the left; this one said, ‘Seems you’re in luck.’ The Boche meanwhile had moved out in front of them again: a gauntleted hand raised, a warning to be ready but not move yet. Guillaume asked the gendarme, ‘Big troop movement, by the looks of it?’
‘Is indeed. Going on since first light. Must be – oh, God knows – at least a division, maybe several. And we had tanks through here yesterday – Panzers, dozens of ’em.’ He lowered his face closer to the window. ‘Coming from Lyon and west of there, we heard. Ask me, they’re clearing out… There you go now!’
The trooper was waving them forward – impatiently, as if they’d kept him waiting. Tail-end Charlie of the file of big trucks just clearing the intersection. Guillaume looking to his left as he drove over, Rosie leaning forward to see that way too, see the next lot coming. More of the same. He muttered, ‘No end to ’em… What I was asking, Rosie –’ he was across the intersection and shifting gear, putting his foot down – ‘when you’re transmitting, reporting arrival and/or whatever else, might be worth mentioning a very large troop-movement northward towards Reims, said to be from Lyon and points west.’
‘And Panzers yesterday.’
‘Glad he didn’t want to see your papers.’
‘Had one like him just the other day. But he’d got the message that I was mentally retarded.’
‘Some message that was… What was upsetting you, earlier on?’
‘Upsetting?’
‘Coming through Toul.’
‘Oh.’ She shook her head. ‘Thoughts. About – you know – friends.’
‘Ah.’ Glancing at her again: and passing her his half-flat packet of Gauloises. ‘Light one for me too?’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll tell you what my wish for you would be, Rosie. Clean up this rocket thing, and not have “Hector” turn up.’
‘Well.’ Extracting two Gauloises, lighting them both and passing one to him. ‘Very likely how it will be.’
Chapter 11
Dufay’s place wasn’t hard to find. They’d stopped to ask directions once, a few kilometres short of the town, and one of a group of women dressed for church had put them right: left at the next crossroads and after about five kilometres turn right: they’d cross the Seine then, and after following their noses for another two kilometres would find themselves at the Buchères intersection. It was Buchères that Guillaume had asked for; from there on, Michel’s directions had been explicit enough, in fact probably had been even up to that point; they could have taken a wrong fork in the last few kilometres. Rosie had been distracted, though, during that brief halt, by wafts of martial music on the westerly breeze from Troyes, drums and brass unpleasantly reminiscent of a Sunday rendezvous three months earlier with a frightened informer in a public park in Quimper in Brittany; she’d been trying to allay his fears, keep him up to the mark, while in their immediate vicinity the Boche garrison’s band was having its Sabbath outing – drums, brass and jackboots, and that filthy emblem in red, white and black floating at the column’s head.
Sound and sight in memory still set her teeth on edge. With an accompanying recollection that it had been that informer cracking under interrogation which in the long run had put her on the train to Ravensbrück.
They had to be getting close now.
‘Right at the next crossing, is it?’
A nod from Guillaume. ‘Should be.’
‘What if he’s not at home?’
‘We stop, eat our sandwiches and think it out.’
‘What sandwiches?’
‘Stale ones. Ones I brought for your friend Marilyn. Also a Thermos of coffee, so-called, which will now be lukewarm at best.’
‘I thought you were giving them to Groslin and the others?’
‘Had second thoughts. They’re in my bag. Anyway you’ll get a meal at your auberge, I imagine.’
‘So you can have the lovely sandwiches all to yourself.’
‘Maybe. If Dufay’s here, and willing to take you on.’
‘Otherwise? “Think it out”, you say, but—’
‘There’d be no option, really, I’d take you myself.’ Preparing to take the corner. ‘But there’s no reason he should not be there.’
On the straight again: a narrower road, leading roughly north, northwest. It was still overcast, no sun for guidance except very vaguely, an area brighter than the rest. He shook his head: ‘My problem would be fuel. I’ve some spare in the back but I’ll need to top up with that here, at Dufay’s. With the extra distance – if I did take you on – plus two hundred and something kilometres back to Nancy. And it’s Sunday.’
‘What’s happened to gazos running on bottled gas? I’ve seen one or two, but—’
‘Most have gone over to charcoal because it’s easier to get and cheaper. There wasn’t ever a bottled gas depot where you wanted it. Cleaner, of course.’
‘Next left?’ She saw his nod, and added, ‘And he will be here.’
‘Sure he will. Contingency planning, that’s all.’
‘Also known as looking on the dark side. There’s the turning.’
With a Wehrmacht despatch rider belting out of it, sweeping into this road and curving left – away, the direction of Troyes she supposed. A cloud of exhaust fumes hung blueish where he’d re-opened his throttle after the turn; Guillaume muttered, slowing, ‘Noisy damn things.’
‘I had one, once.’
‘You did?’ Shake of the head. ‘You’re full of surprises, Rosie.’
‘My uncle bought it for me. English uncle, I adore him. Adored the bike too, but I had to sell it when I got married.’
‘You say – married?’
‘Fighter pilot. Shot down in the Channel, February ’forty-two.’
‘Oh. How bloody.’ Turning left. Reek of petrol in the wake of that DR… Dufay’s place was supposed to be on the left here, about a hundred metres up. There were plane trees along both sides and open fields behind them; nothing like the industrial area she’d expected.
‘Now what…’
A parked truck: soldiers were unloading the makings of a road-block – trestles and striped poles. On the left, a wide-open space like a very large garage forecourt with a large building set well back and a small, drab bungalow the other side of it. Two other Wehrmacht vehicles: one, a smaller truck – half-tonner maybe – parked close to the front of that central structure, which was of concrete and corrugated iron – with DUFAY ARROSAGE in white lettering above its doors – and the other what might have been a staff car – nearer the bungalow. Both camouflage-painted.
Guillaume said, ‘Going to have to stop. At least – show willing.’
Because it was obvious they were about to erect a roadblock: to take advantage of the fact that it wasn’t yet in place might not be the cleverest of moves. This was a crisis situation, clearly recognizable as such, had come up as swiftly and unexpectedly as crises usually did. She agreed – aware of having suddenly become short of breath – ‘Show willing, by all means.’
Wouldn’t have helped to have had the Llama in her pocket, she told herself. Natural to think of it, but it wouldn’t – except maybe to avoid being arrested, get shot instead – which in another time and place had been a procedure she’d considered. Maybe should again: if one got out of this. Guillaume said quietly, ‘We’re looking for the road to Villeneuve-l’Archevêque. Came from Nancy, of course.’
In case they were separated; what he was going to say. Slowing… Villeneuve-l’Archevêque was a village on the road
west just short of St Valéry, she remembered from his map. Archbishop Villeneuve. Rather striking name, which was probably how he’d remembered it, but she thought she’d have picked some other road to be looking for. Although at instant notice like this – when some might have panicked, forgotten their own names even – well, who’d quibble… There were men standing around on the concrete between the bungalow and that building; mostly soldiers, but two in plain clothes. One of those had a trooper each side of him and the other – wearing a hat – facing him. The one under guard and being questioned had to be Victor Dufay.
Grey-headed, burly…
Guillaume had slowed to a crawl: on the off-chance of being allowed to go on by, winding his window right down.
‘Halt!’
The one in charge had his hand up. Nazi salute, almost. Guillaume had jammed his brakes on.
Schmeissers, and helmets. But ordinary troops, not SS. She’d suspected they might be SS since the man in the hat had come in a Wehrmacht car, might therefore have been SD – Sicherheitsdienst, the SS Security Service. Gestapo used Citroëns, nearly always grey or black. Guillaume enquiring politely with his face in the open window, ‘Messieurs?’
A sergeant: pale, very young face under the helmet, but a peevish expression. A jerk of the machine-pistol: ‘Raus!’
Meaning get out. One knew that much. But he’d addressed it to Guillaume – anyway not clearly meaning she should get out too… Sit tight. Once you’re out, you’re out… Guillaume murmuring with one hand on his door, ‘Relax, Justine.’ Calm, reassuring look. ‘Someone else’s trouble, not ours.’
The longer-term future – like not having Dufay to help now – was a problem so dwarfed by the immediate one that it was out of sight. This was now. Guillaume out in the road, producing papers from an inside pocket; the sergeant snatching them and flipping through them, Guillaume telling him affably, ‘I’m a vet. En route to visit a farmer near a place called Villeneuve-l’Archevêque – got problems with his milking herd.’ Pointing with his head at the carton on the back seat – containing Rosie’s ‘S’ phone – then listening to some question in the sergeant’s Germanic French. He’d nodded: ‘Aiming to get on that road without going through town. Don’t know the area well, see.’ Glancing round: ‘Trouble here, is there?’
One of the others was peering in at her, now. Calling something to the sergeant.
‘What’s she, then?’
‘Giving her a lift, that’s all. She has relations in the area.’ From this back view of him she saw his shoulders hunch, and guessed he might have winked. ‘Anyway – company…’
‘Why wouldn’t they get a local vet?’
A lorry had stopped behind them – French civilian lorry but with the inscription Au Service de l’Allemagne across the forefront of its cab. The sergeant had pointed, telling the man from Rosie’s side to see to that one: then yelling at the others to get a move on with the barrier. Glowering at them: might not have been a sergeant very long, she guessed. He’d turned back to Guillaume, who’d paused in his answer to that question, told him now, ‘The man at Villeneuve-l’Archevêque has a vet he says is useless, tried another who wouldn’t come out on a Sunday, then remembered my senior partner – name of Magne – who didn’t want to sacrifice his Sunday—’
‘All right.’ There were some dismounted cyclists behind there too, now. ‘Go on, clear out…’
Her eyes had been on the mirror: jerked back to Guillaume, hardly daring to believe it was him being told to ‘clear out’. Seemed so, though: Guillaume taking his papers back from him, turning at the same time – his manner admirably casual – to see what was happening in Dufay’s yard. Rosie sneaked a look that way too – natural enough to show some interest, in fact unnatural not to, especially having been so to speak cleared, having therefore nothing at all to do with whatever was happening here. Then she wished she hadn’t: the civilian they’d been questioning was disappearing into the back of the truck – pushed in by those soldiers she guessed, and by the way he’d moved, in handcuffs. The German in the hat had left him, was strolling into the open front of the garage-type building. Looking around – at pumps and piping, she supposed; Michel had said boreholes and pumps, and arrosage meant irrigation. Might be other things as well, of course. An arms cache, for instance, wouldn’t be a bad place for one. She knew how Dufay would be feeling. Empathy was total, virtually as if it were happening to her. Her own sense of relief, the sudden removal of the threat to her and to Guillaume, had in a sense made way for this; otherwise it would still have been for herself she was sweating. Dufay’s predicament would have been peripheral to that. Guillaume was back in his seat, jerking the door shut. Glancing at her, murmuring ‘Poor sod. But – God, what a near-miss…’ As much to himself as to her, as he pushed the gazo into gear and began to edge out around the truck. ‘Bloody hell…’
‘You handled it pretty well.’
‘Sheer luck. Slight contrast to Dufay’s… But that fellow not bothering with you, especially.’
It would be the men’s camp at Natzweiler as likely as not for Dufay, she thought. But if they kept him in prison for interrogation long enough – and he survived that – the beatings and whippings, starvation, drowning, whatever else they thought up – he might have a hope. Guillaume had got by the stationary truck, and behind them the barrier had been put across – black-and-white poles horizontally across the road between white trestles – two lengths of pole, three trestles, so they could open either lane if they wanted to while keeping the other shut. She thought the tactic was wrong though: they should have been off the road, on Dufay’s concreted yard with the others, watching the road, not blocking it. Not so competent, that lot. Guillaume said, shifting gear, ‘Next stop St Valéry. Get back on to the road we were on, if we can.’
‘Hoping nothing like this is happening there as well.’
‘No reason to believe it would be.’
‘Unless they know of Dufay’s links to the Craillots. From what Michel said, it must be of long standing. And having shown his face in that district again just recently—’
‘Rosie, all things are possible, but—’
‘What about the fuel problem?’
‘In the short term there’s no problem. Longer term – I don’t know. Manage somehow… Let’s smoke?’
‘Oh, you genius…’
Light-headed, suddenly: despite the visual memory of Dufay being shoved into the back of that truck. Guillaume demanding: ‘You do realize how extraordinarily lucky we’ve been?’
‘Not to have been there with Dufay when they arrived. Yes.’
Imagining it… Her fingers holding the match were reasonably steady, though. Maybe she was more or less back on form. Foreseeing possible hazards ahead wasn’t any symptom of cold feet, only a matter of keeping on one’s toes, not walking into traps. She passed Guillaume his cigarette, and drew deeply on her own. ‘If we make it to the Craillots—’
‘Of course we will.’
‘– I’ll buy you a few packs.’
‘Ah, well.’
‘But not only if we’d got there sooner – suppose we’d come an hour or two later. When they’ve searched the place they’ll leave it open, won’t they – a few of them inside waiting for anyone like us. Which could happen – anyone just blundering in – as we’d have done?’
‘Ergo, warn Michel.’
‘Ask de Plesse to get word to him, soon as you get back?’
Emphatic nod. ‘That’s what I will do. Now – some sort of junction coming up. The Craillots, by the way, may be a bit dicey now. Strangers on the doorstep telling them Dufay’s been arrested, would have vouched for us?’ Peering ahead: toe off the accelerator; gazo slowing. ‘Now – eenie, meenie—’
‘Left would mean detouring too far south, wouldn’t it?’
‘H’m.’ Slowing even more, thinking about it… ‘Maybe. Whereas this way at least before we get right into town we must cross the road leading west.’ Foot down again. ‘When we’re in t
he straight I’ll stop and refuel. Get the sandwiches out at the same time, if you like.’
* * *
During the fuelling stop they heard the band again. Guillaume pointed with his thumb: ‘Mad about the old oompa-oompa, aren’t they?’
‘Do you loathe them as much as I do?’
‘Loathe…’ Hefting the sack out. ‘Well, yes… But only the way you’d loathe cobras if you were in a house full of them. Once we’ve cleared ’em out I don’t suppose I’ll give much thought to it.’
‘The things they’ve done? What they’re doing now? To Victor Dufay at this moment, even?’
A nod. ‘Your own recent experiences, of course. Wouldn’t exactly warm the cockles of the heart… Incidentally, would Dufay have had your name or anything about you from Michel?’
‘I’m sure not. There was no certainty I’d be given the job, even.’
‘On the other hand the Craillots – whom he does know—’
‘You mean Dufay does.’
‘And you’re likely to be with them.’
‘Michel seemed to think well of him, anyway. Dufay took part in a sabotage operation led by a friend of Michel’s, a fellow para. I got the impression of – you know, mutual respect, so forth.’
‘So – fingers crossed. And Rosie – sandwiches and Thermos in that bag of mine. It’s not locked.’
* * *
They found the road that led west – it even had a sign on it, which was a rarity now, almost as much as it was in England where all signposts had been taken down in ’39 or ’40 when invasion had been expected. This one pointed west and read ESTISSAC — which she’d found on Guillaume’s map, a village about twenty kilometres from Troyes. St Valéry would be about another thirty from there, the other side of a place called Foissy-sur-Vanne. Distance to St Valéry now therefore, about forty, forty-five kilometres. Time, one thirty.
‘Any fresh thoughts on the charcoal problem?’
‘Only that I might have to stay the night at your auberge. Unless Craillot knows where I’d get some on a Sunday.’
In at the Kill Page 24