by Kate Mosse
‘I know,’ Sandrine said, not really listening.
On impulse, Sandrine suddenly turned round and looked back in the direction they had come. At the empty street stretching out behind them in the early morning sunshine. What if Authié was already back in Carcassonne? All she wanted to do now was run back to the house, where Raoul was sleeping, and tell him to get out while he had the chance. Before Authié came looking for him.
‘Do you remember the drive that day from Le Vernet?’ Lucie said quietly. ‘That lieutenant of his, staring at us all the time. He gave me the creeps.’
‘Yes,’ Sandrine said.
‘Sandrine, you don’t think . . .’ Lucie stopped again. ‘You don’t think, if Authié finds out about Jean-Jacques, he’ll put two and two together?’
‘What? No, of course not,’ she said quickly, guilty she’d been thinking only about herself and Raoul. She focused her attention on Lucie. ‘There’s no reason why you should run into him at all. Anyway, it was a long time ago. You didn’t even show then.’ She put her hand over Lucie’s on the handle of the pram. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Because if they try to take him, I—’
‘No one’s going to take Jean-Jacques from you,’ said Sandrine firmly. ‘It’ll be fine.’
They continued along rue Antoine Marty with the rising sun at their heels and the squeak of the pram filling the quiet morning air. Jean-Jacques chatted quietly to himself, forming sweet, meaningless sounds.
They turned right, then left into the narrow alley that ran parallel with the route de Minervois. The baby let out a sudden shriek of delight at the rare sight of a pigeon sitting on a windowsill in the shadows. Most of the city’s birds had been caught and eaten.
‘Bird!’
‘Jean-Jacques, quiet!’ Sandrine snapped sharply.
The little boy stared at her, shocked she had raised her voice to him. Sandrine was immediately contrite, but also angry she’d let Authié get under her skin already. She bent over the pram.
‘Sorry, J-J, but it’s important we are quiet, do you see? We mustn’t disturb the bird. The bird is sleeping. Sshh.’
He nodded, but his eyes were wary.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, to Lucie this time.
They walked the rest of the way to the print shop in silence. For some time after César’s murder, the darkroom beneath the Café des Deux Gares had sat empty. Suzanne had discovered it was still operational, and between them they had got it up and running.
Sandrine knocked on the side door that gave into the alley. Three sharp taps, pause; three sharp taps, pause; then another three sharp taps. She heard footsteps, then the welcome rattle of the chain and the key being turned in the lock. Gaston Bonnet’s face appeared in the doorway.
She didn’t like Gaston much – he drank and he was abrasive – but Robert vouched for him and Marianne said he was always reliable in helping to distribute Libertat to their couriers, so Sandrine put up with him.
‘Got it?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
Sandrine folded back the pram blanket, Lucie held up the mattress, and they started to unpack the paper and hand the sheets to Gaston.
‘Not much,’ he said.
‘All I could find at such short notice,’ Sandrine said.
He shrugged. ‘Have to do, then.’
It was difficult to get hold of enough ink and paper these days. Robert’s lady friend, Yvette, was a cleaner at Gestapo headquarters and, smuggling it out beneath her dusters and mop, she stole paper for them, one or two sheets at a time. But she had been laid low this week with a stomach bug and had not gone to work, so their stocks were running low.
‘That’s the last of it,’ said Lucie. She flipped the blanket back over J-J’s feet. ‘Shall we go and look at the boats, little man?’ she said. ‘Say hello to the lock keeper?’
‘Thank you, Lucie,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘And remember what I said. Everything will be fine.’
Lucie gave a salute, and continued on down the alley towards the Canal du Midi. Sandrine watched her go, then followed Gaston inside. She locked and bolted the door.
‘What’s the stink?’ he said.
Sandrine prodded the fish. ‘There’s a film I need developing. Didn’t want anyone tempted to take a closer look.’
Gaston grunted.
‘She’s in the darkroom,’ he said, picking up the pile of paper. ‘I’ll take this down and get the machine ready to print.’
Sandrine smiled her thanks, then went down the steps to the basement and knocked to let Suzanne know she had arrived.
‘It’s all right to come in,’ she called from inside.
The darkroom was lit by a dim red lamp in the ceiling. Supplies were running low and the long slatted shelves were mostly empty. A single bottle of developing fluid, an enlarger and a dryer for prints. Suzanne had left the house before it was light, evading the curfew in order to get things ready.
She glanced at Sandrine. ‘Everything all right? You look tired.’
‘I’m fine,’ Sandrine said, then lowered her voice. ‘Lucie heard something on the wireless about Leo Authié being posted back to Carcassonne.’
Suzanne grew still. ‘When?’
‘She didn’t know.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Sandrine shook her head. For the first time in a long while, she thought of Monsieur Baillard and how much she would value his advice. Nothing had been seen or heard of him since that night two years ago in Tarascon after they had hidden the forgery in the caves of Col de Pyrène. She couldn’t bring herself to accept he might be dead.
‘After we’ve finished here, I’ll see if I can speak to Jeanne Giraud,’ Suzanne said. ‘Her husband often hears things before anyone else. Some of the résistants talk under anaesthetic.’
Sandrine nodded her thanks. ‘It would be good to know how much time we’ve got, at least.’
Suzanne stared at her, then carried on. ‘Right,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘Have you written the copy for printing?’
Trying to push thoughts of Authié from her mind, Sandrine took the film from her panier.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but will you develop this first? Raoul brought it from Liesl last night.’
In the dim red glow, Sandrine watched as Suzanne got the temperature of the tank just right, then enervated the fluid so that the film would develop evenly. She took the film out of the casing and put it in the solution to give it time to develop. Sandrine washed her hands in the sink, trying to get rid of the smell of fish.
As soon as the negatives were ready, Suzanne pinned them on the wire above the wooden counter and waited for them to dry. They watched as the hateful images revealed themselves. Ten photographs in all, each of partisans in the course of being executed. In one, five men lay face down on the ground, four clearly dead already, a milicien standing with his foot on the back of the fifth as he delivered the coup de grâce. In another photograph, the suspended bodies of two résistants, hands bound and hooded, left hanging low beneath a bridge so that every vehicle that passed hit their feet. Sandrine could see their swollen toes, feet broken, the ankle bones jutting out through blistered skin.
Her jaw tightened.
‘Where did Liesl get these shots?’ Suzanne asked quietly.
‘I think it’s Chalabre,’ Sandrine said, struggling to contain her anger. ‘The authorities deny anything happened. Here’s the proof we need.’ She looked at Suzanne. ‘Can you give me fifteen minutes to write something?’
‘What about the Berriac report?’
‘It’ll have to share the page,’ she said. ‘This is just as important. More so.’
Sandrine sat at the counter. She thought for a moment, then wrote her headline: POUR ARRÊTER LES CRIMES DE LA GESTAPO ET MILICE.
She looked up at the images once more, seeing now the clear imprint of a soldier’s boot on the back of a dead woman’s leg. Suzanne was putting the negatives through the enlarger to make the prints.
&nb
sp; ‘Sandrine,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You’d better take a look at this.’ She adjusted the focus. ‘There, can you see?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Look. In the top right-hand corner of the shot. The man in charge?’
Sandrine leant forward. The officer was turning away from the camera, his face partly obscured by his hat, but there was no doubt about it.
‘It is him, isn’t it?’ said Suzanne.
Sandrine nodded. She felt cold. Not fear, she realised, but anger.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Authié.’
Chapter 104
BANYULS-SUR-MER
Audric Baillard fell against the prisoner next to him as the van jerked to a halt. His shoulder jutted into the man’s side. A skeleton, no flesh on his bones, his life all but beaten out of him. Baillard nodded an apology, but the brutalised eyes saw nothing.
Baillard recognised the look of surrender. The moment when, having survived years of mistreatment and privation, a man gave up the fight.
‘It will not be much longer,’ Audric whispered, though he suspected his words were unheard.
They had been travelling for two days, though not covering much ground. The heat, the stench of despair and sickness. In the very early hours of Saturday morning, when it was still dark, they had been woken and told that the entire camp, a satellite to the main internment camp at Rivesaltes, was being evacuated. All prisoners were being sent elsewhere. To other camps or factories in Germany.
Baillard had been among the last to leave – in a convoy of eight cattle trucks with slatted wooden sides rather than military transport. They were all old men, weakened by months – in some cases years – of starvation and hard labour, too old to be considered a high risk. They were handcuffed, but not shackled, and when they stopped en route, the guards allowed them out. In any case, it was pointless to argue with the barrel of a gun.
Baillard was surprised when the convoy headed south, rather than north. Along the coast, not away from it. From Rivesaltes to Argelès, from Argelès to Collioure, where they spent the night. Finally, at dawn this morning, from Collioure to Port-Vendres, close to the Spanish border. They were given a little water, no food. Their first escort had been Milice, then yesterday they were handed over to the Germans. Now Baillard could hear French being spoken again. It made little sense.
The prisoner beside him had closed his eyes. A blue vein pulsed faintly in his neck. Baillard could see the skull beneath the skin and knew the man was dying.
‘Peyre sant,’ he murmured, praying for the safe delivery of his soul. The man gave no reaction.
Baillard put his cuffed hands to his cracked lips. For a moment rage burned in his amber eyes as he remembered others who had died. Friends incarcerated within the walls of a prison. In the stone dungeons of the Cité in Carcassonne or Saint-Étienne in Toulouse many years ago. In Montluc. The trains leaving from Gurs and Le Vernet, going to the death camps in the East: Drancy and Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald and Dachau. Names of places he had heard, but never seen.
He let out a long exhalation of breath, as if expelling the poison from his lungs, then shook his head. He could not afford to think of the past. He could not allow anger to cloud his judgement. This moment was all that mattered. His life could not end here, not with so much left undone. The vow he had taken in his youth and the promises he had attempted to keep – so much remained to be accomplished.
Outside, he heard voices, the strike of a match. The sun was starting to rise in the sky, sending ladders of light to break up the foul, fetid air. Bracing his legs and pushing back against the side of the truck, Baillard managed to get to his feet. He put his eye to the gap and saw two guards standing in the shade of a tree about two metres away. He pressed his ear to the timber, catching the frequency of their conversation until the muttered indistinguishable sounds became individual words.
‘Where next?’
‘Banyuls-sur-Mer.’
‘Why there?’
‘It’s secluded.’
The soldiers’ voices became indistinct again. Baillard looked and saw they had turned their backs on the truck. He watched them grind their spent cigarettes into the dry earth, then walk back towards the vehicle. The slam of the doors, and seconds later, the heavy vibration of the engine started up.
He sat down again, so as not to be thrown off balance by the uneven jolting of the truck. Now he understood. No one wanted to take responsibility for them. In Argelès they had taken a roll call, but not in Collioure. He should have realised what was going to happen then. There were to be no records. If they were not going to have to account for the prisoners they were transporting, why bother? They were of no use. Too old to fill the Nazis’ forward labour quotas, but in the absence of orders about where to send them, there was another solution. To kill them all.
Baillard leant back and started to formulate a plan. There was always a moment when they arrived at a new destination when the guards were less attentive. Except for the roll call being dropped, the routine had been more or less the same. The convoy stopped. The latches were lifted, the doors were opened and the prisoners allowed out. The guards took it in turns to go into the bushes to relieve themselves, to stretch their legs, to smoke. The drivers talked to one another, confident that the rifles cradled in their hands were enough to discourage any attempt at resistance.
If Baillard was going to escape, it would have to be in those first few minutes.
He looked around at his fellow prisoners, working out who might be thinking the same. The regime in the camp had been harsh. Anyone who disobeyed orders was brutally punished. Solitary confinement, three days without food or water, hard labour. Some were brave, but most were too defeated to act. They had lost the will to save themselves. Even so, Baillard knew he had to try.
‘When we stop,’ he whispered, ‘we must take our chance. It might be our last.’
He looked around, but there was no reaction to his words. A wave of pity washed through him, anger at how these men had been reduced to valuing their lives at so little.
‘We must act,’ he repeated, though hopes anyone would listen were fading. ‘We outnumber them. It is better to try.’
‘They’re armed, we’re not, what can we do?’ came a voice from the furthest corner. ‘Better not to cause trouble. The next camp might not be so bad.’
‘There will not be another camp. They do not intend to let us live,’ Baillard said.
‘You can’t know that. It might be better, who knows?’
Baillard realised there was nothing he could do. He could not save them if they were not able to save themselves. But it grieved him. He turned and pressed his eye to the letter-box gap. He could see they were following the main coastal route south. It was a stretch of road he knew well. In the distance, in the early dawn light, the soaring grey of the foothills of the Pyrenees. On the slopes, the green vineyards and the streaks of blue copper sulphate between the rows of vines. In other circumstances, one of the most beautiful views on the Vermilion Coast.
He made a calculation. The distance from Port-Vendres to Banyuls-sur-Mer was about four or five kilometres. Provided there were no roadblocks or delays – anti-tank blockades had been erected at many of the junctions – Baillard estimated it would take little more than a quarter of an hour. He did not have long to decide.
Baillard took a deep breath. The Spaniard on the opposite side of the truck was now watching him. García, he thought he was called. A former member of the International Brigade, a man who’d dedicated his life to fighting the fascists, Baillard knew him to be brave and principled. Their eyes met, then the slightest nod and Baillard knew he had one ally at least. Perhaps, when the time came, the others would find their courage.
The convoy stopped twice, although the engines kept running – perhaps to let other traffic past – but soon the swoop and curve of the bay came into view. A few houses, the grey rock a sharp contrast with the blue of the Mediterranean.
They continued through the town, then the driver swung to the right, heading away from the sea towards the uninhabited hinterland of the Puig del Mas. Tarmac gave way to stones, potholes on an unmade track. Baillard felt his heart lurch against his ribs. A shot of adrenalin through his veins, hope too. He knew this part of the land. In the distant past, he had travelled this way, heading for Portbou on the Spanish side of the border. The odds against them getting away were high, but they were better than they might have been.
‘Can you not see what they are going to do?’ he said urgently.
He and the Spaniard exchanged another glance, García acknowledging with a grimace how Baillard’s fears were justified. Not one of the others reacted, just continued to sway with the motion of the truck in defeated silence.
They continued to drive for ten minutes, a little less. Then, without any warning, the driver slammed on the brakes. Everyone slid, or fell, forwards, then struggled back to a sitting position. All except the man beside Baillard, who remained lying on his side on the floor of the truck.
The driver killed the engine. Seven pairs of eyes turned towards the doors. Seven sets of ears listening as the chain was released and knocked against the wood, then the metal bolt was slid back. Fresh air and pale sunlight flooded in.
‘Out,’ ordered the guard, jabbing the first prisoner with his rifle. A Mauser Karabiner K98, supplied by the Germans. More proof, Baillard thought – though it was hardly needed – of what the local Milice and Waffen-SS had agreed between them.
Everyone did what they were told. Baillard bowed his head, feigning a stiffness in his legs and arms. He felt García move up to stand beside him, shuffling forwards to join the other prisoners. Eight trucks, more than fifty wretched men.
Baillard gave silent thanks at their luck. They were in a clearing he recognised. On three sides, low scrub and woodland. There was an old smuggler’s path through the woods, he knew it well. Of the eight trucks in the convoy, they were closest to the wood.