Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  It was almost midday. Her stomach was beginning to rumble. She ignored it for as long as possible then took a piece of bread out of her pocket and chewed on it. It would have to last until the evening: she could only afford one meal a day. She’d managed to save very little from the small pension the War Office had arranged for her, and most of that had gone on the train and ferry fare.

  The sergeant at the desk was eyeing her with an expression of patience worn thin. He sighed heavily and beckoned to her. She put the bread back in her pocket and walked over.

  ‘The commissaire’s still tied up, madame. And probably will be all day. Look, we have all the details. Every single detail, every single word … It’s all in your statement. The matter will be looked into by the appropriate department—’

  ‘But I still want to see the commissaire.’

  ‘He won’t see you, madame! He’s too busy.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait until he is able to see me. Thank you.’

  The sergeant shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  As she returned to her seat and her bread-chewing, she felt the sergeant’s despairing gaze drilling into her back. She knew what he must think of her, but the statement wasn’t enough. She had to be sure.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was difficult: the chair was narrow and uncomfortable. Finally she managed to doze a little, dreaming strange, disturbing dreams which blended in with the sounds in the hall so that she couldn’t tell what was real any more.

  Then she sat and thought about Peter and how he was getting on without her. Later, she dozed again. The hours were interminable.

  When she next looked at her watch it was nine in the evening. It had been a long day. To get to Rennes by nine that morning she had left Madame Boulet’s before dawn. Now she had missed the last bus back to Morlaix.

  A door opened. Laughter came drifting through. That’s all they were probably doing, Julie thought angrily, telling jokes!

  She got up and strode over to the desk. The sergeant looked up wearily. She said, ‘Please – ask again! Please!’

  The sergeant made a face. ‘They already know you’re here. There’s no point. Anyway—’ He looked at a clock. ‘– the commissaire’s hardly likely to see you now. He’s had a long day.’

  ‘But he’s still here?’

  The sergeant had been caught out and he didn’t like it. He pressed his lips firmly together. Julie said, ‘I’ll wait then,’ and went back towards the chair. It was a very hard chair indeed. She looked for other vacant chairs to pull together for a couch, but there were none. On an impulse she lay down on the floor, put her handbag under her head and closed her eyes. It was much more comfortable.

  There was a hush. People paused in their journeys across the hall. Julie could hear their feet shuffling. She kept her eyes tightly closed and began to feel a little less comfortable.

  Someone was approaching. ‘Madame, get up please.’ It was the sergeant’s voice.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Madame, do you want me to move you by force?’

  She opened her eyes and said, ‘No. But I must stay. I’m sorry.’ Beyond the sergeant’s legs she saw people staring and quickly closed her eyes again.

  There was a pause then the footsteps receded. Julie relaxed a little and breathed deeply. She was beginning to regret her impulse. They’d probably throw her out.

  After a while the footsteps came back. ‘Madame, get up. Now, please.’

  ‘No.’ She could hardly believe she had said it.

  He hissed. ‘Come with me. Please.’

  She held her breath.

  The sergeant dropped his voice. ‘To see the commis-saire, madame. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  Julie opened her eyes. He meant it. She got to her feet, triumphant. The sergeant was already walking towards one of the doors. She followed him hurriedly, her eyes on the floor to avoid the curious stares of the onlookers.

  She was shown straight into an office marked ‘Commissaire de Police’. Behind the desk sat a man in shirt sleeves, a cigarette in his mouth, a plump belly protruding towards the desk. For several moments he viewed Julie through heavy-lidded eyes. Julie stared back at him. Eventually the commissaire indicated that she should sit down. Then he said, ‘Well, madame, I hear that you’ve been disrupting the entire police station. May I ask why?’

  ‘I had to see you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s about Michel Le Goff!’

  The commissaire raised an eyebrow. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s innocent. He was on our side. I can swear to that!’

  ‘Indeed?’ The tone was sardonic.

  Julie paused, slightly nonplussed. She pressed on, ‘He’s not guilty of the crimes he’s charged with. He must be freed!’

  ‘Ah.’ He glanced down at some papers on his desk. ‘And this is the evidence you are presenting?’

  She peered over the desk. ‘Is that—’

  ‘Your statement.’

  So he had seen it after all. She had been certain it would get ignored or forgotten. She murmured, ‘Yes. That’s my evidence.’

  ‘Would you like to go over it again? Now?’

  She could hardly believe her luck. ‘Yes!’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was a member of the réseau led by the agent known as Maurice, at Tregasnou. I interrogated the parcels – the airmen, I mean. And … I did beach duty … And, well, all kinds of jobs. I was with the group for over a year …’

  The commissaire said solemnly, ‘You were very patriotic, madame. And very courageous.’

  Julie blinked at the unexpected compliment. ‘Anyway, Michel Le Goff helped us. A lot. He got this very important scientist out of a factory in Brest and delivered him to us and … Then, when everything went wrong and the Boches closed in, then he helped us to escape—’

  ‘Helped who exactly?’

  ‘Me. And my son. And this scientist from the factory …’

  ‘No-one else?’

  ‘Well – no. The others had already been caught.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Julie stared at him. ‘Well … That was it. I mean, he was on our side. He helped us. His actions prove it … He gave us his boat, he risked his life … I know him. I don’t believe he betrayed us!’

  The commissaire said gently, ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Why couldn’t he have betrayed you? Or rather, the others?’

  Julie thought hard. ‘Because – because he saved us. He risked his life …’

  ‘He saved you, madame.’ The slightly mocking tone was back in his voice. ‘Tell me, what was your relationship with Michel Le Goff?’

  ‘He was – is – my cousin. A distant cousin by marriage, in fact. But that means nothing. Half the people in the village are related.’

  ‘Nothing more, madame?’

  Julie felt herself blushing. ‘Certainly not! Whatever you’re implying it wasn’t like that! Not at all!’

  The commissaire looked at her dispassionately. ‘If you say so, madame.’

  There was a knowing look on his face. Julie glared back at him, hating herself for blushing, hating him for not believing her.

  She made an effort and said calmly, ‘My evidence will go before the examining magistrate, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But there is a great weight of evidence against Le Goff. He will go on trial, I can assure you.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  The commissaire raised his eyebrows. ‘People – reliable people – heard him swear to get his revenge on your réseau. Apparently he believed that they were responsible for his comrades getting caught in Brest – on that evening, when the scientist was being removed from the factory.

  Julie frowned. He knew it all.

  ‘Also, he was seen in the company of informers from time to time. Believe me, madame, he was trouble. Always.’

  Julie said quickly, ‘But what about the others – in my réseau? There were plenty of others who mi
ght have betrayed us. Have you looked into them? Have you interrogated them?’

  The commissaire shook his head. ‘Madame, the Germans left only six weeks ago. We’ve had very little time. We have dozens of people coming in every day. You saw them out there! All of them have so-called “information”. Most of it’s sour grapes and make-believe! There are hundreds of cases under investigation …’

  He raised a finger. ‘However, we have done some work on this particular case and we have followed up the obvious leads. Many of your réseau died, as we know. Here in Rennes. Others, we know from the Gestapo records, were sent to Germany.’ He threw out his hands in an expansive gesture and shrugged. ‘Whether they are still alive or not we do not know. We cannot know until Germany is defeated.’

  ‘What about Fougères?’ she demanded.

  ‘Ah! The man you accuse.’ He leant forward in his seat and said with emphasis, ‘He died, madame. In Fresnes. Well over a year ago. We have confirmation from Paris.’

  Julie stared in disbelief. ‘There was no doubt it was him?’

  Without a word the commissaire got up and went into an adjacent office. A few minutes later he came back with a file in his hand. He flicked through it. ‘Fougères was seen by two other prisoners before he died. They were positive it was him.’

  ‘When? When did the prisoners see him?’

  The commissaire looked down the file. ‘In approximately April last year.’

  She frowned. It was about the time Jean and the others had died. It seemed to fit … ‘But why was he taken to Paris when none of the others were?’

  ‘Madame, I cannot say at this stage.’ He started to shuffle the papers on his desk. The interview was clearly over. ‘I’m sorry, madame. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.’

  She stood up. ‘But wait! Please – there’s more. I must know if you have information about the British crew! The men off the boat, the ones who were captured at the same time—’

  ‘British—?’ He sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘No. The Germans left a few records behind, but foreign sailors – they would have been prisoners of war … We don’t deal with them. You should try the Americans. They might know.’

  ‘But they were brought here, to Rennes. To the prison.’

  ‘Sorry. Any records of foreign prisoners would be in the hands of the Americans. Really, you must go and see them.’

  ‘I have.’ And there had been nothing, no trace. It was as if Richard and his men had vanished.

  ‘Ah.’ The commissaire tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Well, I really must get on now. If you please, madame!’

  ‘At least let me see my cousin!’

  The policeman stood up, laughing. ‘Quite impossible, madame! At least, not without permission from the examining magistrate. Applications take days and even then I doubt you’d be allowed to see him … People charged with treason don’t get visitors! Goodbye, madame.’

  She lingered, reluctant to leave.

  The policeman was getting impatient. ‘I’ll have you shown to the main hall.’ He called to someone in the next office then sat down and studied the papers on his desk.

  Julie said quickly, ‘Monsieur … Will you be interrogating him again?’

  ‘What?’ He looked up vacantly. ‘Probably, yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t you face him with me? With someone from the group he is supposed to have betrayed? Wouldn’t that be useful?’

  The commissaire was way ahead of her. He shook his head. ‘Madame, really—’

  ‘But it might help your interrogation considerably!’

  He looked at her quizzically. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He might talk freely!’

  ‘You read too much fiction, madame!’

  ‘But you have nothing to lose! Please.’

  The commissaire shook his head and sighed deeply. ‘Madame, I just cannot!’

  But she nearly had him, she knew it. She leant over the desk and said passionately, ‘He’ll answer questions from me, I know he will!’

  The commissaire regarded his hands, then shot a glance at her. He sighed and shook his head unhappily. ‘You win. Be here at eight tomorrow morning.’

  Julie clasped her hands together.

  He added, ‘But remember this! It’s only because you were in the Resistance. No other reason! And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone I let you see him. All right?’

  ‘Yes, I promise!’

  Julie closed the door behind her, pleased that she had achieved something at last.

  Then she remembered it was a very small victory and there was still a long way to go.

  The prison was large and sombre and forbidding, its high walls dotted with small barred windows from which escape was clearly impossible. Julie looked at it and felt sick at heart.

  Inside it was worse. Dark and terrible, rank with the smell of humanity and suffering and untold horrors; yet hauntingly silent, as if empty of inhabitants.

  A warder led the way down a series of long gloomy passages whose walls threw off a palpable cold. Julie shivered involuntarily.

  ‘Not so good, eh?’ remarked the commissaire. ‘They haven’t done much to it since the Germans left. But then most of the new inhabitants are collaborators and black marketeers … So—’ He shrugged.

  They came to a door. The warder unlocked it. The commissaire said, ‘Wait here until you’re called,’ and disappeared.

  Julie leant against the wall in despair. Her mind was full of terrible visions, of Jean and Maurice and Gérard and Jacques and the others.

  Here.

  The Gestapo had brought them here. She closed her eyes. She wanted to know nothing – no details. Not where their cells had been, nor the place where they’d been tortured, nor the courtyard somewhere just down there where they’d been taken to die.

  The door was opening. ‘Come in!’

  She opened her eyes with relief. Then, hesitating slightly, stepped inside. The room was large and almost bare, and dimly lit by a single barred window. There was a table in the centre. Michel was sitting at the far side of it.

  He looked up, startled. She thought: They didn’t tell him I was here.

  She smiled faintly. ‘Salut, Michel.’

  He stared at her, confusion and amazement on his face. The commissaire said abruptly, ‘Madame, can you identify this man?’

  ‘Yes, he is Michel Le Goff.’

  ‘And do you affirm that he arranged the escape of the scientist, Freymann, from the factory of Goulvent, Pescart et Cie in Brest?’

  Julie sharpened her wits. She hadn’t realised it was going to be like this. She looked at Michel for help, but he was still staring at her. As she brought her eyes back to the commissaire’s, Julie noticed that there was a young man in the corner, taking notes on a shorthand pad. She would have to be careful.

  She replied slowly, ‘He was the contact – between his group and ours. I don’t know if he actually arranged the escape.’

  ‘But as contact man, he knew certain facts about your group? The mode of operation, the people involved?’

  Julie said firmly, ‘No! He knew nothing. Maurice was very careful!’

  ‘Your leader?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But perhaps you told Le Goff certain things?’

  ‘What things do you mean?’

  ‘Things about the group.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Consider very carefully, madame … I will ask you again. Perhaps Le Goff discovered certain facts about your group. Perhaps you mentioned certain things without realising—?’

  ‘No!’ Julie said angrily. ‘I never told him anything! He knew nothing!’

  ‘Then how did he know where to find you when you were hiding on the beach? How did he know which beach to go to?’

  She hesitated. This was becoming a nightmare. ‘It … must have been through my uncle. Jean must have asked Michel for help and then told him where to find us. That must have been it!’

  There was a paus
e. Julie looked to Michel for confirmation, but he was still staring at her and she had the feeling that he wasn’t really listening.

  The commissaire asked, ‘After he’d collected you from the beach, he took you to a fishing boat that he kept hidden in Kernibon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you escaped on it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say why he had a fishing boat?’

  Julie blinked. ‘No. But – I supposed it was to escape if the Boches got onto him.’

  ‘But suddenly he felt no need of it and gave it to you. I wonder why he should do that?’

  ‘Because – we were in desperate need. The Gestapo were looking for us … They would have killed us. He gave it to us because he was kind. He wanted to help.’

  ‘Indeed … Or perhaps because he had just done the Boches a favour and felt safe. So safe he wouldn’t be needing the boat any more and could afford to be generous to his – friend?’

  Julie felt herself turning scarlet. She wanted to step up to the commissaire and slap his big, fat face. She made an effort and said quietly, ‘That is not true. None of it is! He wasn’t the traitor! I’ve told you who was – it was the man Fougères.’

  The commissaire ignored her remark. ‘Is there any more evidence that you can offer?’

  She wished there was. She said quietly, ‘No.’

  The commissaire looked at the warder. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

  Julie started in alarm. She caught hold of the commissaire’s arm. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘can I have a few words with him in private?’

  The policeman’s eyes were cold. ‘No, madame.’

  ‘Not in private, then. With them present.’ She indicated the warder and the man with the pad.

  The commissaire was considering. Eventually he said grudgingly, ‘All right! But no more than five minutes.’ He turned abruptly and the warder let him out of the door.

  Quickly, Julie sat down at the table. ‘How are you?’

  Michel shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because …’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t do any good.’

  ‘No! Don’t say that! We’ll—’