Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  The driver was whistling loudly. The cab door slammed and footsteps came round to the back of the vehicle. The tailgate was lowered with a loud bang.

  There was a moment’s silence, then a voice called, ‘Hello, friend. We’ve arrived.’

  David wasn’t sure what to do. He stayed still.

  But the voice came again. ‘You’re safe, friend. Time to get out.’

  David pushed the cabbages away from his face and tried to move, but he was very stiff. He reached up and, gripping the metal side of the lorry, hauled himself up into a sitting position. He blinked and, looking out, saw that the lorry was backed up against the doors of a wooden building. A man of about forty dressed in an old cap and working jacket was standing by the tailgate.

  On seeing David, the man climbed up into the lorry and walked over the vegetables towards him. ‘Here. I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s most kind.’

  The man pulled David to his feet, picked up the briefcase, and helped him across the uneven surface of the cabbages to the open tailgate and down on to the ground.

  David now saw that the building was a barn. The man led him quickly inside and into a corner behind a pile of sacks. ‘Here! You’re to wait here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ David looked around. The floor at this point was thick with straw and, gratefully, he sank down on to it.

  The man had turned to leave.

  David called, ‘Wait! Please – tell me, what was the fire last night?’

  The man paused and looked uncertain. Eventually he said, ‘One of the fuel dumps.’

  ‘But the Poles. Why did they try to break out?’

  ‘They didn’t.’

  David looked blank. ‘But the noise?’

  ‘Noise. That’s all it was.’

  ‘But – why?’

  ‘Because they were asked to. It was a favour.’ The man turned again. ‘Best not to know any more, friend.’

  The barn door closed, the lorry’s engine started up and slowly faded away. Then there was silence. David lay down on the straw. He tried to sleep, but it was impossible, so he lay still and rested instead.

  Much later there was a sound. David opened his eyes. It was a creaking. A door opening. Someone was coming into the barn. He pushed himself up on one arm, but he couldn’t see: his view of the door was obscured by the pile of sacks.

  The person was advancing slowly up the barn: David could feel the movement rather than hear it. Finally, very slowly, the person came into view.

  David’s heart went to his mouth. It was a man. He was wearing a scarf over the lower part of his face. The man said gruffly, ‘Turn around.’ David turned and, almost immediately, something was placed round his eyes and tied behind his head.

  The voice said, ‘Don’t move unless I tell you.’ There was a rustling of straw as the man moved away, then silence.

  The darkness was awful, like being in a pit. David tried to relax. They meant him no harm.

  A long time passed. David’s stomach began to ache with hunger.

  Then there were low voices and footsteps. Someone walked up to him. The straw rustled as the person sat or knelt beside him.

  ‘Hello.’ It was the voice of a woman, rather breathless.

  David cleared his throat. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ The voice was warm, concerned.

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes! Yes! Very well, thank you. Yes, very well!’

  ‘Good. We – er – heard you had been ill.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I was. But better now, thank you.’

  There was a pause. ‘Some others will be coming soon. To meet you. We have to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘Yes … It’s necessary. I’m sorry.’

  David was disappointed. Questions? It sounded as if they were going to interrogate him. It had never occurred to him that they wouldn’t trust him. He said half-heartedly, ‘Yes. Of course.’

  There was the sound of paper crackling. ‘Here, I thought you might be hungry.’

  ‘I am, thank you.’ Something was placed in his hand. ‘Thank you.’ It was a roll. He bit into it. Cheese. He took another bite.

  Julie watched him eat and felt sorry for him. He seemed so lost and bewildered. She’d be very surprised indeed if he were a German spy – he looked far too harmless for that. Certainly he was too frail to take anyone on; he wouldn’t be able to hurt a fly. The hands were thin and veined and she noticed that when he brought the bread to his mouth they shook slightly. The face beneath the blindfold was lined and pouchy, rather like a dog’s. She could see that he had been ill. Also, he was much older than she’d expected.

  It was a pity to have to put him through an interrogation but there was no way round it. Maurice would allow no exceptions.

  She peered at her wristwatch. The others were late. But she must wait. It would be wrong to start the questions without them.

  Finally, there was a creaking. The barn door opened and two people slipped in. One was the unmistakable squat figure of Maurice, the other the taller, slimmer frame of Roger.

  Maurice came up and looked questioningly at Julie. She nodded slightly to show all was well and, satisfied, Maurice turned to look at the old man sitting on the bed of straw. Julie glanced at Roger. He was approaching slowly, his eyes fixed on the corner of the sack pile. Suddenly he stopped in mid-step and Julie guessed he had caught his first sight of the old man. For a moment he stared, then he relaxed and leant casually against a wooden pillar.

  His eyes darted up to Julie’s. She looked hurriedly away. He was always catching her out that way.

  Maurice was sitting on the straw, talking to the old man in a low voice. Julie went closer and sat down beside him. ‘… interrogation is necessary for our self-protection, do you understand?’ The old man nodded briefly.

  Maurice continued, ‘Right, please tell us everything. First, your name and background.’

  ‘Freymann, David Freymann. I lived most of my life just outside Berlin, in a suburb called Hennigsdorf …’ Out of the corner of her eye Julie saw Roger come closer and crouch silently on the straw just behind Maurice.

  ‘… mainly I worked on radio-wave development. Then just before the war started, it all got difficult. Because I was Jewish, you see. I was put in a camp …’

  ‘Where?’ Maurice interrupted.

  ‘Near Munich. Called Dachau. I was there some time – two, maybe three years, I don’t know. Time – is difficult to judge.’ He spoke matter-of-factly.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then they sent me to Brest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They needed me. There are very few scientists who are experienced in radar. They had to swallow their pride.’

  Roger said, ‘Explain, please. What is radar?’

  The old man sighed deeply. ‘I’ll try to explain simply. It’s … a way of using radio waves so that you can see with them. At night, in bad weather … it doesn’t matter. You can see the echo of any large metallic object – a ship, an aeroplane, whatever … You can discover its range, and in the case of a plane its height. Nothing can hide from you …’

  Maurice asked, ‘And this is the information you’re bringing with you?’

  Freymann quickly shook his head. ‘No, radar is already known. No …’ He paused, as if debating something. His hands moved nervously. Finally he said, ‘No … what I’m bringing is a refinement of it. A type which can see like a map, draw pictures almost. It will – create a great advantage.’

  Maurice frowned. ‘In what way?’

  ‘For one thing, the Germans could not detect it as they do the existing radar. So they would have no warning of the enemy’s approach. For another, well – it will, I believe, provide enormous detail so that for the bombers it will be like having a map of the country underneath.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘Do you understand what I say?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Suddenly Freymann sat forward and felt for M
aurice’s arm. Maurice looked surprised. The old man said, ‘Look, you cannot possibly know that what I’m telling you is the truth, can you?’

  Julie looked quickly at Maurice. He dropped his eyes and smiled slightly. ‘No, you’re quite right. I can’t.’

  ‘Right. But you believe I am Jewish?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘Right. So I’m Jewish. Now what do you suppose would make a Jew want to help the Nazis?’

  ‘Force? Coercion?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m a free man now. That leaves coercion. But I have no family for them to threaten me with. My family disowned me a long time ago!’

  ‘I can’t be sure of that.’

  Freymann started in surprise. ‘Ah …!’ He paused, taken aback, then nodded gently. ‘Of course.’ He seemed so downcast that Julie had the urge to lean forward and pat his shoulder.

  ‘So – then, it is a simple question of whether you believe me or not.’ He spoke quietly and with resignation. Julie wanted to say, I believe you.

  Maurice looked at Julie then Roger. ‘Any questions?’

  Julie said, ‘When you talk of your family, who do you mean?’

  ‘My wife. My daughter.’

  ‘And they’ve disowned you?’

  ‘Yes. My wife was not Jewish, you see.’

  ‘But your daughter?’

  ‘She’ll have forgotten me by now – and the best thing too!’ His voice almost broke. ‘She was pretty, you see. And clever. She had everything before her. It was better, you understand. Better.’

  Roger leant forward and said sharply, ‘What company did you work for in Brest?’

  ‘Goulvent, Pescart et Cie.’

  ‘Under what authority – what German authority?’

  ‘The Navy. But I was on loan, so to speak, from the SS.’

  ‘And when you were working in Germany, what company then?’

  ‘Gema. The Gema Company.’

  There was a short silence, then Maurice got to his feet. Julie and Roger followed him across the barn until they were out of earshot.

  Maurice looked at Julie. ‘Well?’

  Julie said, ‘I believe him. Everything about him seems – right.’

  They both looked at Roger. He was glancing down, his eyes hooded and unreadable. Slowly, the eyes came up to Maurice’s. ‘Yes, he’s genuine.’

  Maurice nodded. ‘I agree.’

  Roger said, ‘So he goes, does he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  Maurice looked hard at Roger. ‘Soon. The fewer who know the exact date the better. You’ll be told in good time.’

  Roger smiled. ‘Of course.’ But he was put out, Julie could tell.

  Julie touched Maurice’s arm. ‘Can’t we take the blindfold off? At least until we have to move him again.’

  Maurice rubbed his lip thoughtfully.

  Roger interrupted, ‘No! It’ll be much safer to leave him as he is!’

  Julie gave Roger a hard look and said quickly to Maurice, ‘Please. He’s absolutely harmless. I’d stake my life on it. Please.’

  Maurice smiled slightly. ‘All right.’

  Julie ran back. The old man shrank away at the sound of her steps. ‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ve come to take your blindfold off.’

  ‘Thank you. How kind.’ She leant over and untied the handkerchief from round his head. The old man blinked and put his hand up to his eyes. Then he smiled up at her. He had large, dark, sad eyes; again Julie was reminded of a rather mournful dog.

  She smiled back at him. ‘I’ll bring you more food later. The guard has water when you want it.’

  ‘Thank you. You really are very kind.’

  Julie touched his hand quickly then went back to the others waiting by the door. Maurice exchanged smiles with her. Roger avoided her stare and put his face to the gap in the door.

  ‘All clear?’ Maurice asked.

  Roger nodded and, opening the door, led the way out. As Julie stepped out into the daylight she looked up and found Roger staring at her. She almost gasped: there was rage and hatred in his eyes. For a moment she was bewildered. Why? The blindfold? Such a small incident – but what else could it be? She looked desperately at Maurice, but he had seen nothing.

  God, Julie thought, the man’s terrifying – and no-one knows it but me.

  Vasson made himself smile to conceal his irritation.

  The girl had outdone him, and he didn’t like it.

  It was time to get away. He said, ‘I’ll go now. Across the fields.’

  Maurice looked up sharply. ‘But do you know the way?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll find it, don’t worry. Anyway, it’s about time I found my way around. In case of trouble.’

  ‘Careful not to speak to anyone.’

  Vasson almost sighed with annoyance: Maurice must have told him a dozen times. ‘Don’t worry! I won’t.’

  ‘It’s the accent. They’d know you were an outsider straight away.’

  ‘But then they wouldn’t tell, would they? Being good Bretons …’ Before Maurice could answer, Vasson turned and walked briskly away.

  He went round the barn, over a wall and into a field. He spotted a gate on the far side and began to make his way across the field towards it. Almost immediately he regretted it: the field had just been ploughed. He pressed on, cursing under his breath as his feet slipped and stumbled over the hard, bumpy ground.

  Finally he reached the gate, went through, and paused. He looked over his shoulder: nothing. The others were going back by the road. He looked ahead: nothing either. Away to the right he could hear the faint sound of surf and calling gulls: the sea.

  He went on, across four smaller fields until the village came into view over a slight hill. There was a farmhouse immediately ahead and, he realised, a road beside it. He would have to cross the road then, to skirt the farmhouse and the village and reach the main Morlaix road.

  He approached the wall which hid the road, peered over it and, climbing carefully up the rough stonework, jumped down. He crossed the road and prepared to climb the opposite wall. He stopped: there was someone walking down the road towards the village.

  It was the girl.

  She had seen him. He leant against the wall and waited. She approached, walking fast, her eyes down. When she was almost level with him she moved to the opposite side of the road. Then she was past, swinging on down the hill. He watched her for a moment. The trousers were ridiculous, he decided. They revealed and accentuated the movement of her bottom. She probably wore them on purpose. Bitch.

  He shinned up the wall and dropped neatly over on to the other side. It was a pasture this time, with a few sheep pulling at the scant grass. The solitary farmhouse was nearby. He decided to skirt the buildings close, rather than risk being seen wandering across the fields.

  He came up behind the barn and moved along until he could peer round the corner. There was a yard and, on the opposite side, the farmhouse itself. There were some iron railings with a gate which separated the yard from the pasture. He would have to walk along the railings in view of the farmhouse. He waited a moment, just to make sure that everything was quiet. Then, just as he was about to set off, he stopped.

  Someone had entered the yard from the other end. It was the girl again. She was walking slowly towards the farmhouse. She was looking around cautiously.

  He ducked back behind the wall and wondered if she was looking for him.

  He peered out again. She was at the back door of the farmhouse, pushing up the latch. She paused again and looked around.

  He pulled back before she saw him.

  There was the sound of voices. Hers, and a high-pitched voice: a child’s. He put his eye back to the corner.

  A small boy was jumping up and down beside the girl. She reached down and took his hand and, with one last look over her shoulder, pulled the child inside.

  At last Vasson understood. The girl lived here!

  She hadn’t wanted him to know. He
smiled to himself. It could be rather useful.

  He looked at his watch: only fifteen minutes to go. There wasn’t time to make the enormous detour which would keep him out of sight of the farmhouse.

  He sauntered out from behind the wall and walked casually along the railings. He was being watched, he felt sure.

  He walked past the house and then straight down the next field to a stile in the corner. He climbed over it and glanced back. He was out of sight of the farmhouse.

  He went diagonally across the next field and the next so that he was skirting the village. Finally he reached the main Morlaix road and, after checking that it was empty, walked along it until he came to a small crossroads. Then he settled down to wait.

  After half an hour he was still waiting. He wasn’t surprised: everything in this bloody godforsaken place was always late.

  Finally, the small battered bus came into view, its engine roaring. Vasson waved it down and jumped on board.

  He settled himself in a seat and decided that the day might not turn out so badly after all: there was still time to get a decent lunch off Baum. There was only one thing still bothering him: the girl. She was suspicious of him. And he didn’t like that, he didn’t like it at all.

  ‘Mummy, what are you staring at?’

  Julie reached down and stroked Peter’s head. ‘Nothing, darling.’ She moved away from the window and, going to the sink, started to peel some potatoes for the midday meal.

  Jean came in through the parlour door and looked at Julie. ‘I thought I just saw someone in the back pasture.’

  Julie kept her eyes down. ‘Oh?’

  Jean reached onto the mantelpiece for his tobacco, then remembered he didn’t have any. ‘Yes, I’m sure I did. But … Probably just one of the lads. Eh?’

  ‘Probably.’

  It had been Roger; she had seen him.

  He had been prowling around; he reminded her of a cat. She shuddered and thought: I don’t like it any more. The sooner Peter and I are away the better. It wouldn’t be long now. The moon was on the wane: the boat would come soon.

  There was a rapping on the back door. Julie jumped and looked at her uncle. Jean shrugged and went to open it.

  There was a short exclamation, then Michel strode into the room. His face was like thunder.