Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  Julie gasped, ‘What’s the matter?’

  Michel said bitterly, ‘You should be able to tell me!’

  Julie pulled Peter up from the table. ‘Go to your room.’ The boy left, closing the door quietly behind him. Julie sat down. ‘Now! Explain, please!’

  Michel breathed in, then, pulling up a chair, began talking slowly, as if speaking to a disobedient child. ‘Last night, in Brest … The Germans were expecting us. At the fuel dumps. Three of my comrades died. Three! We were only able to fire one of the main tanks. The whole thing was a fiasco—’

  ‘Wait!’ Julie said sharply. ‘These fuel dumps, what have they to do with us?’

  ‘It was a diversion, of course!’

  Julie was amazed. ‘For the scientist? You did it especially for him?’

  Michel dismissed the question with an arm movement. ‘Yes … No. Well, we were planning it anyway. But the point is, they were waiting for us! They were waiting for us! How did they know, Julie, how? My friends are asking questions! They—’

  Julie stood up. ‘I think it would be better if you didn’t go on. To start with, nobody here ever knew when the operation was to be—’

  ‘But I told you!’

  ‘You said only that it would be the end of the week. Also we had no idea you were planning a diversion of that kind. And, Michel, the old scientist did get away. If they’d been warned, then they would hardly have let him escape!’

  Michel stood up, his face hard and cruel, and hissed, ‘But my comrades are saying this! They are saying, why is it that the first time we work with your lot, we get sold down the river! They are saying, we knew we should never trust that lot and look what happens! They are saying ugly things. They are talking of revenge. What am I to say to them?’

  Julie felt the anger rising in her throat. She walked up to Michel until her face was close to his. ‘You will tell them this! That they should look for a shark in their own ranks. Or bad planning! Or – something! Just don’t look to us for a scapegoat! Because it was not one of us!’

  Jean tapped Michel firmly on the arm with his pipe. ‘Perhaps some of your own people used the opportunity, eh! Perhaps they wanted to get rid of some of their precious comrades, heh? And they wanted you to blame us!’

  There was a silence. Michel looked unhappily from one to the other. Eventually he exclaimed, ‘All right! I’ll do my best to convince them! I just hope that—’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘– that what you say is true! But, for God’s sake, don’t blame me if—’

  Julie said coolly, ‘If what?’

  ‘If – emotions run high!’

  She said, ‘I think they already have!’ She went to the back door and opened it wide. ‘Goodbye, Michel. Please don’t ever come here again.’

  When he had gone she sat stunned, and thought: It’s all falling apart again, just like before.

  The pâté was very good but the steak was not as tender as it might have been. Vasson decided to leave the rest and, pushing the plate to one side, leant back in his chair.

  Baum smiled across the desk. ‘Better?’

  ‘Much.’

  ‘I’ll send across for some of their tarte maison, if you like. It is really delicious.’

  ‘Yes. And some decent cheese.’

  ‘Of course!’ Baum pressed the buzzer on his desk. Vasson noticed that he crooked his little finger as he did it. The man was probably a queer. Vasson wondered how he got his thrills.

  Baum smiled again, his thick lips drawing back to reveal rather yellowing teeth. Vasson decided he would prefer to deal with Kloffer any day. Baum tapped the telephone and sighed. ‘The Navy – not very efficient, you know. You would think they would have come back to us by now. When did we call? Yes, half an hour ago at least!’ He picked up the piece of paper he’d written his notes on and peered at it. ‘This – er – Freymann, he’s a Jew, I suppose?’

  Vasson nodded.

  ‘Then I doubt he’ll be of much consequence. Nevertheless—’ He placed his fingers together in a neat arch. ‘Nevertheless, it will be rather satisfying to sweep him up into our little net, won’t it? Then we can deliver him back from whence he came. Yes?’ He smiled sweetly across the table. A raving poof, Vasson decided.

  Baum tapped his fingertips together impatiently. ‘Now, now! Where is Schultz? You must have your dessert! And your cheese!’ He leaned forward and pressed the button again. Vasson heard a buzzer sound in the office next door.

  The door burst open. A young man, presumably Schultz, stood at the door. He looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. ‘Herr Oberst! The telephone, it’s Paris! General Oberg!’

  For a moment Baum froze, then, swallowing hard, he reached for the telephone as if it were glass. He lifted the receiver carefully to his ear and said precisely, ‘Ja? Ah, Herr General!’

  In the next few moments Baum seemed to say ‘Ja’ rather a lot. Then the German jerked his head and looked hard at Vasson, a look of amazement on his face.

  Vasson tensed. It was something big. Concerning him. And Freymann. It must be Freymann!

  There was a torrent of German from Baum and then he was replacing the receiver carefully in its holder.

  Baum stared at Vasson for a moment, his lips quivering nervously. Finally he said, ‘That was General Oberg. The head of the entire Gestapo in France.’ He paused, as if to assimilate the information, then continued, ‘It appears that this man – Freymann – is important to us. In fact, more than that! Vital!’

  Vasson smiled slightly.

  Baum leant forward, his pale eyes round with anxiety. ‘We must get him back, do you understand? We must not fail! It is absolutely essential!’

  Vasson looked away, already calculating how he could take all the credit.

  He regarded Baum for a moment and said casually, ‘Nothing is ever guaranteed.’

  Baum nearly went purple. ‘What do you mean by that! I thought you had the man!’

  ‘Oh, I do! I do! But, when I am relying on your men to close the trap, then nothing can ever be guaranteed.’ Vasson stood up. ‘Now, it’s about time we made a plan, isn’t it?’

  Baum nodded violently. ‘Yes! Yes! Whatever you say!’

  Part Four

  March 1943

  Chapter 25

  JULIE EMBRACED TANTE Marie very hard and said, ‘Thank you again. For everything.’

  Tante Marie sniffed and, flapping her hand with irritation, said harshly, ‘Go on! Be off with you! Go on!’

  Julie kissed the old woman quickly on the cheek, then, taking Peter’s hand, followed Jean’s dark figure out of the kitchen and across the yard. She leant down and whispered to Peter, ‘All right, darling?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, I’m fine.’

  Julie squeezed his hand and felt very proud of him. For the past few weeks she had been telling him the same story she told everyone else: that they were moving to Rennes. It was only the previous night, when she’d heard the boat was coming, that she had told Peter the truth. Bless him, he’d taken it like a lamb. He even pretended to be looking forward to it, though she could see he was very nervous.

  She hitched the strap of the haversack further up her shoulder. It was light enough: she’d taken almost nothing. Peter had his own bag, too, with spare clothes, a food parcel from Tante Marie and some of his favourite things: a toy lorry, his coloured pencils and, of course, the carved ship.

  They started briskly up the road. A faint drizzle was drifting down and a film of dampness formed on Julie’s face. She pulled her beret further over her forehead and put a hand down to Peter’s head. He had already raised the hood of his jacket. Julie had chosen practical clothes for both of them: warm trousers and windcheater jacket for him, and trousers and a cowjacket for herself.

  As they climbed the long hill the dampness turned to a steady drizzle. The faint patter of the falling rain sounded a gentle rhythm in the stillness of the night. Julie had sudden doubts about Peter’s jacket; perhaps it wouldn’t be up to all this rain. She would check it lat
er. She touched him again and almost smiled. He was doing well, her son, striding along as fast as his legs would carry him.

  They reached the heathland and turned right, up a slight hill. After a while the outlines of a small building came into view. It was a shepherd’s hut, made of stone with a slate roof, caved in at the far end. Jean crouched and entered. Tightly clutching Peter’s hand, Julie followed.

  It was dark inside, but Julie could hear the sounds of the waiting people: slight rustlings and the occasional muffled cough. She felt her way to the side of the hut and sat down in a space, pulling Peter down beside her. She put her arm round the small shoulders and hugged him. ‘Won’t be long now.’ His hand felt for hers and grasped it tightly.

  Julie moved her leg and bumped it against someone else’s. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, no. My fault. So sorry.’

  The voice was familiar. Julie leant across and whispered, ‘Herr Freymann?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s me, from the barn. Are you all right? Have you been looked after?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. Thank you, thank you. Most kind.’

  Julie smiled and thought what a nice man he was. She wondered vaguely how he’d manage the path to the beach.

  Peter coughed slightly. She turned back and, squeezing him against her, settled down to wait. Her stomach was fluttering uneasily, but she forced herself to be calm. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to let herself think about all the things that could go wrong tonight.

  She pressed her lips against Peter’s hair and closed her eyes tightly and tried to imagine what life would be like in England after such a long time.

  There was nowhere to shelter on the clifftop. Vasson was getting wet and he didn’t like it. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and crouched down on his haunches.

  The night was quiet: the only sound was the murmur of the sea far below and the steady splatter of the falling rain. It wasn’t ideal for stalking – the air was too still – but it was good enough.

  He took a look round. No sign of Baum. Thank God for that. The fool might not muck it up after all. Vasson worked out how long it would be before he could slip away and get to Baum’s position. Half an hour maybe. After the passengers had gone down to the beach. Then he could sit on Baum – physically if necessary – until the right moment.

  As always, it was a matter of timing.

  He shivered and took another look round. What a good lookout he had become! Maurice would be impressed.

  Clifftop lookout was his important new job. A promotion, no less. This was the first time Maurice had trusted him with beach duty. It was most ironic.

  But the rain was a sod. Vasson cursed: the water was soaking right through his clothes to his skin. And bloody cold it was too.

  Another look: still no sign of Baum. The man might stick to the plan yet.

  He tried to guess what time it was. Eleven maybe. Not long before the first party would arrive.

  Peering down into the darkness of the cove below, he thought what a very neat trap it made, and allowed himself a smile.

  Someone came into the hut and said in accented English, ‘First group now.’

  A voice said, ‘Hooray!’ Someone laughed nervously.

  There was the sound of people moving and then the silhouette of figures against the doorway.

  The old man grasped Julie’s arm. ‘Is that us?’

  ‘No. We go last, on our own.’

  A few minutes later the second group moved out. Then the voice of Gérard, the fisherman, was saying, ‘Ready?’ Julie stood up and helped Peter to his feet. She leant down and said in Peter’s ear, ‘Do you want to do a wee, darling, before we go?’

  ‘No. I’m all right, thank you.’ The small, high-pitched voice sounded so faint and uncertain that Julie reached down to give him one last hug. Then it was time to go.

  Gérard led the old man out and Julie followed, grasping Peter’s hand tightly. It was raining more heavily now, coming in a steady downpour that seeped down one’s neck and through one’s clothes.

  Jean was waiting. It was time to say goodbye. Julie said nothing, but flung her arms round his neck and hugged him. Jean patted her back, then pushing her gently away, reached down and took Peter up in his arms. ‘Take care, young man,’ he whispered. Then, putting Peter down, he turned abruptly away and disappeared in the direction of the village.

  Julie wiped her eyes and, taking Peter’s hand, hurried off in the direction of the path. When they reached the clifftop Gérard was stepping on to the path, turning with an outstretched hand to help the old man down. As Julie waited, a dark shape caught her eye. It was a man. He was crouching a few feet away. The clifftop lookout.

  As she watched him he uncurled and came towards her. He towered over her, his face a featureless blur. ‘Is that the last?’

  She recognised the voice: the man Roger. ‘Yes.’

  He turned and seemed to see Peter for the first time. Julie began to move towards the path, but Roger stepped in front of her and said, ‘Why’s he here?’

  ‘He’s coming with me.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘We’re going, both of us.’

  ‘On the boat?’

  ‘Yes. Now – please – let us pass.’

  There was a pause, then a slight chuckle. ‘Of course.’ Roger put out his hand and touched Peter’s cheek.

  Julie pulled Peter close in behind her, stepped round Roger and began to negotiate the path.

  The rain had turned the path to mud. Julie went slowly because she didn’t want Peter to slip and frighten himself, and because it was impossible to overtake Gérard and the scientist anyway. She could hear Gérard coaxing the old man past rocks and down the steeper slopes. The old man must be wondering what he’d let himself in for.

  Julie slipped, grabbed for a handhold and missed. She landed on her hip. She breathed, ‘Damn!’ Peter’s voice said anxiously, ‘You all right, Mummy?’

  She pulled herself up and, trembling a little, laughed nervously. ‘Yes, darling. I’m fine. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Julie felt her way forward again, even more slowly, until at long last she realised they were near the beach. She heard Gérard saying, ‘Just let go’ and saw the old man poised on the top of the slide. Suddenly he was off and she saw him disappear towards the paleness of the beach.

  She sat down and waited for Peter to sit down beside her. She whispered, ‘It’s the slide I told you about. We’ll go together, shall we?’ He nodded violently and, holding his hand, Julie pushed off. They shot down and landed safely on the shingle. With relief Julie realised it was the last time she would ever have to negotiate that path.

  The other two were waiting for them. Julie picked herself up and wiped the worst of the mud off the back of Peter’s jacket and trousers. Gérard moved off, with Freymann following. Julie looked at the thin, stooped figure of the scientist in his inadequate clothes, and then at Peter, his small figure huddled against the relentless rain, and thought: This is ridiculous. She moved forward to catch Gérard’s arm. ‘What’s the earliest the boat will come?’

  Gérard thought for a moment. ‘Half an hour, I suppose.’

  ‘Look, it’s so wet and miserable, I’ll take these two into the rocks over there.’ She indicated the far side of the cove. ‘It might be a bit dryer.’

  Gérard hesitated. ‘All right. I’ll come and collect you when the time comes.’

  Julie turned back to the two forlorn figures and said, ‘Look, if we go further along we might find some shelter. We mightn’t get quite so wet. All right? Just follow me.’

  They moved to follow her. Julie grasped Peter’s hand and led the way down to the water and along the sand. She tried to remember the layout of the rocks from the last time, all those months ago, but her memory wasn’t very clear.

  They came to the lower rocks and began to scramble over. Julie turned to Freymann. ‘All right?’

  ‘Oh yes. I can manage. Don’t you wor
ry about me!’

  There were larger boulders now. It was somewhere near here, Julie felt sure. Suddenly she recognised the dim outlines of some larger rocks and, coming round the side of one, saw the neat crevice where she had hidden before. With Richard.

  ‘In here!’ she said triumphantly. Gently she pushed Peter forward. ‘You first!’

  When the old man and the boy had disappeared into the darkness of the crevice, she followed. It had been worth coming: the rocks curved in above their heads and formed a roof with only a slight gap in between. As long as one kept away from the drips that fell steadily from the bumps and lips of the overhangs, it was relatively dry. Julie said cheerfully, ‘All right?’

  Peter said plaintively, ‘I am a bit wet, Mummy.’ Julie felt his trousers and top, and said, ‘Just a bit damp, that’s all, darling. Really. You’ll soon dry out. Think – sailors get wet all the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter said thoughtfully. ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Does Richard get wet all the time?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. Yes! I’m sure he does.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then!’ His voice sounded more cheerful now.

  Julie was glad. She guessed he was beginning to enjoy his adventure.

  Julie tried to see Freymann’s face. ‘And you, Monsieur Freymann? Are you all right?’

  Freymann’s voice said, ‘Thank you. Thank you. Much better. How kind.’

  David sat back against the rock and closed his eyes. Already he felt tired and the night had hardly started. The worst – the boat trip – was yet to come. Still, he’d come a long way, a long way.

  He patted the bag tied round his waist. Everything in it must be wet by now. He himself was soaked through. Never mind. It could be worse, much worse. And he mustn’t complain. Not when these people were being so kind and brave.

  Anyway what was discomfort when one was a free man? Ha! He was amused by the idea. A free man. It sounded so grand. Although he wasn’t sure he knew what real freedom was. Was it being able to do as one wished? Or was it having the opportunity for fulfilment within a rigidly structured society? He’d been thinking about it a lot recently, while he’d been hidden in the barn. He still wasn’t sure what the answer was. Perhaps he was about to find out. Perhaps freedom would be a tangible state, a conscious understanding. How nice that would be.