‘I am,’ Luc replied, knowing he must try to sound almost bored with the explanation. ‘I’m from Sault, sir.’
‘Ah, it is very beautiful there … the mountains, the snow, the deer locking antlers in the frost-covered fields. Very picturesque. So, where are you going?’ The man reached for Lisette’s papers.
‘I am not going anywhere, sir. I have come to Cavaillon to see my friend, Mademoiselle Forestier, off to Paris. She has been visiting Provence.’
‘Paris, mademoiselle?’ he said. ‘Ah, but I see you are of German background too. How interesting.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lisette replied in German. ‘But I know it’s going to be freezing up north. I wish I could stay here just a bit longer.’
He gave her a charmless grin. ‘Are you romantically involved?’
Luc didn’t wait for Lisette to reply. ‘We hope to be engaged. But not yet, Herr von Schleigel. You know how it is, what with war …’
‘I do, Herr Ravensburg. You live in Paris, Fräulein Foerstner?’ he asked.
Luc watched her face light up. ‘I will from tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m moving to the capital.’
‘For work?’
Luc scrutinised the man and decided they would have to tread extremely carefully. The officer was probably in his early forties; small, slim, viciously neat in the cold way that Gestapo officers prided themselves on. He wore the grey uniform with evident conceit and wore a monocle that he squeezed in front of his right eye to read their papers in the low light. Luc could hear the man’s boots creaking as he rocked on his heels, and his matching black leather gloves looked soft and warm. Kriminalsekretar. It was a lowly enough position. Luc wondered if he’d been overlooked, perhaps, or had made enemies. Either way, he was a zealot; it was written all over him.
But what mattered right now was the cunning spark in the man’s eyes. He was toying with them. Lisette was answering all the man’s questions without hesitation or any stumblings. She didn’t sound frightened, though. And she was flirting slightly; he’d begun to see how this girl had been chosen for her role. When not her cool, somewhat prickly self, she could present as a confident, bright young woman.
The stationmaster gave the signal for departure and Luc heard the porters beginning to slam doors down the platform.
Von Schleigel could hear the unspoken question. ‘Pardon me, Mademoiselle Forestier,’ he said, ‘please, you are free to go,’ he said, giving a curt bow of his head. ‘My apologies for detaining you – it is merely routine. Monsieur Ravensburg, I will have to ask you to accompany us,’ he said. ‘I just have a few more questions for you.’
‘Lukas?’ Lisette queried.
‘Do not worry yourself,’ von Schleigel said. ‘Mere protocol, mademoiselle. Bon voyage.’
The porter arrived to close her door as a whistle shrieked. Luc turned and kissed Lisette again on both cheeks as he took her hands. He squeezed them. ‘My best to Walter and good luck with your new job. Think of me often,’ he said, and touched the lavender beneath his shirt. ‘Off you go,’ he said with a grin. He closed the door on her himself, glaring at the look of concern she was showing. Nothing silly, Lisette, he pleaded inwardly. He stepped back, closer to von Schleigel, giving her a final wave. She was on the train. One more blow of the whistle and she would be out of the station and beginning the journey north. His job would be done. Another blow struck for French loyalists against the Germans.
‘Wait!’ Lisette called.
He couldn’t believe it. She was opening the door, flinging out her holdall. A third whistle sounded.
‘What are you doing, my darling?’ he asked, just short of yelling.
‘Mademoiselle Forestier? Is something wrong?’ von Schleigel asked.
‘Forgive me, but I can’t leave my beloved alone like this. What sort of fiancée would I be to leave my intended to be questioned by police?’ She gave a soft sigh. ‘There is always a train tomorrow. If we can help with your enquiries, then as dutiful Germans we will.’
Luc’s spirits plummeted as fast as his heart rate accelerated. What did she think she was doing! Rescuing him? He was so angry he couldn’t even look at her.
‘Well, that’s very thoughtful of you. I’m sure we shan’t need to keep you very long.’ Von Schleigel gestured the way off the platform. ‘These days we cannot be too careful – I’m sure you understand – and we are checking all the trains headed out of the south.’
‘Why?’ Luc asked, shaking off Lisette’s arm when she tried to link it with his.
‘New orders. There’s been an ugly event in Gordes today and we can’t be too careful.’
‘Do you mean the executions?’ Luc asked.
‘You know about them?’
‘We heard in one of the cafés,’ Lisette said.
‘Those men were criminals; we had to make an example of them to deter others,’ von Schleigel said, showing them to a big black car.
Luc paused. They couldn’t be onto him … Why weren’t they going to the l’Hôtel Splendide? ‘May I ask where we’re being taken? We’ve had nothing to do with the event in Gordes,’ he risked.
‘No, Monsieur Ravensburg, forgive me. Our interest in you is separate to that. Please,’ von Schleigel said, achingly polite. ‘Just a few questions.’
They drove in a tense silence from Cavaillon; von Schleigel sat in front with the driver, while Luc and Lisette were watched by a granite-faced milicien.
‘Ever been to l’Isle sur la Sorgue?’ von Schleigel asked.
Lisette shook her head wordlessly. Luc noticed even her feigned bubbliness had burst. He could feel her leaning into his body, away from the milicien. As much as she had infuriated him, he wanted to touch her reassuringly. But under the stony-faced gaze of the man with them, he refrained.
‘I’ve been there,’ he remarked.
‘Such a delightful spot. You French – er, may I call you that? You have it so good down here in the south. Who would know a war was on? You can stroll around the wide streets with the waterwheels and that splendid river curling around the town. And, oh, Fontaine de Vaucluse. Well, I’ve never been so glad of such a place this summer …’
Von Schleigel was up to something. Why the friendly banter? And why l’Isle sur la Sorgue?
Luc stared glumly out of the window of the car. It reminded him of the one his father had once driven in Paris. He blinked, trying not to think of anything connected with the past. The only thing that now mattered was getting both of them away from the oily von Schleigel.
Rows of grapes stretched into the darkness as they fringed the outlying vineyard region that the Popes of Avignon had planted in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.
‘Ha! Those Popes knew about having a good time, eh, Ravensburg. I must admit, I too have enjoyed a bottle or two from Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I had not tasted burgundy until I came here.’
Luc pasted a smile on his face. ‘Us farmers wouldn’t know, Herr von Schleigel, although I was once fortunate to taste a riesling of the Rhine,’ he lied, ‘and I can’t imagine any wine could be more exquisite.’
‘Ah, now you’re talking about what we call a dessert wine, Ravensburg. Noble rot!’ the Gestapo said, with a flourish. ‘Who would have given you such a thing growing up in France?’
Another mistake. Why did he embellish? He was breaking his own rules, while Lisette kept her lips wisely sealed.
Luc gave an expansive shrug. ‘I was a child. I can’t remember anything about it, other than its sweetness.’
‘Hmm, interesting,’ von Schleigel replied, although Luc couldn’t imagine what he referred to.
Mercifully, perhaps, they rolled into l’Isle sur la Sorgue. The oldest part of the town, which Jacob Bonet had once told his son could likely be traced back to a fishing village in Roman times, became a haven for the Jewish people in the fourteenth century when they were expelled from most of France and fled to the papal territories. Luc blinked at the horrible irony of this thought. The traditionally bustling market square – these days operating mai
nly for the benefit of two German garrisons – was hugged by the two arms of the River Sorgue, with its great church – Notre Dame des Anges – held within that embrace.
Von Schleigel was waxing lyrical about the church. Luc nodded as though paying attention, but his mind was racing to where they were being taken. The black car drove by the old town and kept going. The place was eerily quiet; the locals moved around by foot, or bicycle if they had them. Curfew was approaching.
The car began turning left into a grand property. The two stone pillars that sat at the entrance were draped with Nazi flags, which in Luc’s frame of mind looked almost like blood was dripping from the pillars. Soldiers guarded the gate, and as von Schleigel announced his arrival, Luc saw Lisette steal a glance at him.
Her eyes, looking even bigger in the dark of the car, were expressive, and they conveyed only apology. He gave her the small reassuring nod he’d wanted to all the way here.
‘Ah, here we are,’ von Schleigel was saying. ‘Headquarters.’
The milicien gestured for Luc and Lisette to get out of the car. Luc emerged first and took Lisette’s hand.
‘Don’t worry, my dearest,’ he said, but then whispered, ‘No heroics. Get yourself out.’
Lisette walked close to him, allowing him to take her arm, somehow achieving a mix of fearfulness and awe at being permitted into the sanctum of the German command in this part of Provence.
Von Schleigel was met by two men. One was so young he still had pimples.
‘Now, Mademoiselle Forestier, if you please, I will ask you to go with our assistant,’ von Schleigel said. ‘He will make sure you are comfortable and perhaps we can offer you a coffee – a real one?’
She nodded blankly, looked towards Luc. ‘And—’
‘Oh, please don’t worry your pretty head for your Lukas. We just want to have a chat with him. You’ll be reunited before you know it.’
Luc gave her a push. ‘Go ahead, Lisette; I’m keen to help.’ And then he grinned. ‘Real coffee … have one for me too.’
She smiled faintly and allowed herself to be escorted away.
Von Schleigel turned to Luc. ‘Come this way.’
Luc didn’t move. He frowned as he stood there.
Von Schleigel made a show of turning. ‘Well, come on,’ he said in German.
‘What do you want with me?’
‘Just a few questions about a man we’re hunting. But let’s wait until we’re somewhere more private, monsieur.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Luc shook his head. ‘You have me mistaken, sir.’
‘Perhaps. Come.’
Luc felt he had no choice. He couldn’t make a break for it. A bullet would find his back in seconds; he was sure von Schleigel was just itching for an excuse.
He allowed himself to be shown into a room, very tastefully furnished and with the lingering smell of leather and tobacco. He was led through to another room – much smaller, windowless, with just a little table with two metal chairs on either side. It looked to be an old storage room. Now it would serve as his interrogation room, Luc realised. For a brief moment he wondered whether he should have carried the cynanide pill that Fougasse had shown him. The suicide pills – or ‘poppers’, for the sound they made when bitten down on – had been made by a female Jewish resister who had since been arrested, tortured and executed in primitive fashion.
His mind was wandering. Block out everything. Only the cover story mattered, he silently admonished.
‘Please?’ von Schleigel said, waving at the chair on the far side.
Luc sat down and met the man’s cold stare. ‘Whoever this person is you are hunting, it is not me.’
‘Ah, I like a man who cuts straight to the point, although I never did say that it was you.’ Von Schleigel carefully plucked at the fingers of his leather gloves and laid them on the table next to a manila folder. ‘German or French?’ the man offered.
Luc shrugged. ‘As you wish. I’m sure you’ll find it easier in German.’
‘Tell me again about your life.’
Luc didn’t sigh, didn’t raise his eyes, didn’t sound frustrated by having to repeat what had already been said. In deliberately flawed German he told von Schleigel everything he’d already told him at the station and a whole lot more that stuck very closely to the truth.
‘Your German is really rather admirable, considering you grew up in southern France.’
Luc was glad his subtle errors had been noticed. ‘I was determined to learn my mother tongue. I hope to return to Germany and refine my language.’
‘So you grow your lavender in Sault?’
‘From wild stock. It is the premium Lavendula angustifolia. My essential oil forms the base of most of the perfumes that the German officers will give to their wives and their mistresses this Christmas,’ he remarked, as lightheartedly as he dared. ‘But naturally I must devote some fields purely for antiseptic. That’s what’s in demand right now.’
‘And what of the lavender fields around Apt?’
‘Where?’ Luc asked, playing for time. He knew what was coming.
‘Saignon, for instance,’ von Schleigel said, pronouncing it wrong.
‘What of it? The Saignon fields provide only the more astringent oil,’ he lied. ‘Soap, antiseptic.’
‘But you don’t grow much lavender for antiseptic?’
‘I do, sir. Men are dying at the Front and if my fields can help save lives, then that is what I’m doing. Is this about me not being at the Front? Because—’
‘No. Let me tell you what this is about.’ Von Schleigel smiled. To Luc it was the same smile that Landry had worn when he’d punched his grandmother and ordered his family to be thrown into a truck; the smile of the devil. ‘I have been asked to supervise the crackdown on guerilla activities in and around the Vaucluse region. These are little more than criminals – murderers among them. This whole region believes itself a stronghold for the cowardly partisans who, I’m sorry to say, find some sympathy with disgruntled locals. However, we’ve had some success.’ The leather of his boots creaked as he sat back. ‘The executions today at Gordes took out a particularly nasty pair. My men tell me it will be a very good deterrent. We shall leave them swinging from the gibbet through the rest of winter.’ He smiled his little ratlike smile. ‘I’m hoping they freeze and remain a monument to cowardice for the entire season.’
Luc kept his expression slightly baffled. ‘So what has this got to do with me, Herr von Schleigel?’
There was a knock at the door and an aide returned, whispered something to his superior and left quietly.
Von Schleigel nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve made some enquiries about you, Ravensburg.’
Luc showed a dash of indignity. ‘And?’
‘It seems you are indeed German. I gather your father died at the end of the Great War.’
‘On the very day the Armistice was declared.’
‘A man fitting your description is rumoured to be friends with the two executed maquisards.’
‘And that’s a crime?’
Von Schleigel’s eyes remained glacial. ‘We think he too is a maquisard.’
‘And you think I am that man?’ Luc asked incredulously.
Von Schleigel gave a bemused shrug. ‘The description is similar. I’m not quite sure yet how a German-born man, raised in France, can quite come to terms with the occupation of his adopted country, with his friends sent away, and his life so disrupted. I have to wonder whether he would feel French or German.’
‘And yet here we are, speaking German. What’s more, my German fiancée is in a nearby room, my crops are growing for the German soldiers. I’m not sure how much more proof you would want, Herr von Schleigel. And let’s not ignore the fact that no resisters are going to let a German near them.’
The Gestapo officer held up a finger. ‘Very good points. This is the conundrum I face, Ravensburg. Are you German or are you French? Are you working against Germany or for it? Are you telling me the trut
h, or are you a very accomplished liar?’
‘I am a lavender grower from Sault. Until a few years ago I knew nothing about war other than that it was responsible for the death of my parents. I know only how to extract the essential oil from my flowers. I think like a Frenchman, but in my heart I’m German. Are you asking me about my politics, Herr von Schleigel? I don’t have any. I am someone who straddles two nations. Right now, I feel more German than I ever have; I don’t want anyone to die – German or French. I have ambition to extend the farming operation, a woman I want to marry …’ He opened his palms. ‘Why would I want to jeopardise that?’
Von Schleigel nodded. ‘You were in Gordes today?’
Luc didn’t dare lie here. ‘Yes.’
‘You saw the executions?’
He had to risk it. ‘No. We’d already left for the abbey. I wanted to show Lisette the beautiful valley and where lavender grows in summer. We heard about the executions in a café when we got back.’ Luc felt confident that Père Auguste would substantiate his story. ‘I don’t see where this is leading.’
Von Schleigel’s eyes glittered with malice. ‘I’m accusing you of being a maquisard who slit the throat of Milicien Landry earlier today as retribution for the death of the two partisans.’ His tone was even.
Luc looked at him with shock and disbelief. He stood up angrily, scraping his chair. ‘With all due respect, Herr von Schleigel, this is an outrageous accusation.’
‘Sit down, please,’ the Gestapo man said, annoyingly calm. ‘Don’t make me insist.’
Luc ran a hand through his hair and sat down.
‘There is a man from Saignon who fits your description. His name is Bonet.’
Luc’s heart, already pounding so hard he was sure von Schleigel could hear it, felt as though it had suddenly stopped.
‘Mean anything to you?’
‘I know of Saignon. I have only passed through it once, though. Bonet?’ He shrugged. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Information is thin. We think he may have been a farmer. Fruit, perhaps.’
Luc felt relief loosening his twisted insides. ‘Is that the connection? Both of us farmers in Provence!’
The Lavender Keeper Page 18