by Helen Watts
He remembered shouting out gleefully to his father, desperate for him to watch him as he jumped. He would be like Johnny Weissmuller, a mini-Tarzan leaping out of the treetops into a jungle pool to bravely fight a crocodile.
The water was deep and his feet only briefly touched the stones on the river bed as he plunged into the pool. He pushed downwards with his hands and kicked, bursting back up out of the water, at the same time spinning round to check that his father hadn’t missed his brave leap. But Father wasn’t there sitting on the picnic rug next to his mother, clapping and cheering as Gustav had hoped.
Momentarily confused and still treading water in the deep pool, Gustav heard his father before he saw him and he could sense his outrage. He was wading out furiously into the water and when Gustav turned to face him he could see his mouth moving and realised that he was yelling. That was when his father’s big hands closed around his arm and he was plucked from the water out onto the shingle bank.
‘You stupid, stupid little boy. You could have killed yourself. What on earth did you think you were doing?’
Gustav had tried to make his father understand that he was a good swimmer and it was alright, he knew it was safe, but Father was too angry. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t even listen to Mother when she said he was over-reacting and asked him not to spoil the day. He simply dragged Gustav back to the picnic rug, threw him down onto the mat and silently began packing up their things. Mother had said that Father was just taking care of his boy, and she had winked at Gustav and wrapped him closely in a towel. But that didn’t soothe the huge painful lump that had formed in Gustav’s throat nor the stinging of the hot tears as they merged with the cold river water that dripped from his hair. There would be no moment of glory, no laughter, no fun little fantasy shared. The afternoon was over.
That was the last time Father ever came on a family picnic.
A flash of colour caught Dietrich’s eye and startled him back to the present. A kingfisher, which had been perched on one of the weeping willows, had darted down into the river, enticed by a silver flash in the water and the promise of food.
It was time to move out. Time for another shot at a moment of glory.
10: The Long Lunch
‘Come on, Bobby,’ said Alfred cheerfully, whistling to the little dog who had been loyally waiting for him outside the back door of the Fourniers’ cottage. ‘I’ve got to get back to school. Quick! I’ve only got five minutes.’
Christelle and Sabine had already gone on ahead while Alfred was still lingering over his cheese and bread, less eager to return to the hot and stuffy classroom. And he might have stretched out his lunchtime a little longer had Madame Rousseau not come knocking on the front door. She had dropped by to remind his mother about helping with the church flower arrangements that afternoon, and for some strange reason which Alfred couldn’t understand, because he knew his mother didn’t particularly like spending time with this rather scary lady, she had been invited in for a cool glass of lemonade. Alfred had no intention of hanging around under Madame Rousseau’s critical gaze, so he had stuffed the rest of his bread in his pocket, called out goodbye to his mother and father, and dashed out in the other direction, through the back garden.
Off he and Bobby raced, back down Rue Depaul, past the post office, past the village hall, past the tram station, where day-trippers were still pouring into the village.
They approached the Hotel de la Glane where, to Alfred’s surprise, Rachael and Ethan were still sitting at their table, chatting away contentedly in the sunshine. Ethan was tipping the last few drops of a carafe of red wine into his wife’s glass.
Bobby sniffed the air, tempted by the scent of the food coming from the hotel kitchens and the little dog would certainly have scurried across to look for some tasty fallen scraps had Alfred not scooped him up into his arms.
‘No you don’t, little fellow,’ Alfred chuckled. ‘I haven’t got time to chase you around the tables. I’m taking you back to Patric. You will have to stay at the garage until I get out of school.’
But when Alfred arrived outside the double arched wooden doors of Patric Depaul’s garage he found them locked and there was no sign of Patric’s car outside.
‘Oh,’ he said out loud. ‘I wonder where he is. That’s odd, isn’t it, Bobby? Patric’s usually busy working on a Saturday. Perhaps he’s gone out for lunch today.’
Just then, young Philippe the farmer’s son walked past, looking very smart in his best suit and carrying a bunch of flowers. He was whistling to himself as he went along, skipping on and off the kerb to dodge all the Saturday shoppers.
‘You alright, young Alfie?’ he enquired.
‘Yes… I mean, no… Well, I have to get back to school quickly and I was hoping to ask Patric to make sure Bobby stayed here, but it’s all locked up.’
‘Ah, I see. And I don’t suppose Monsieur Gravois would approve of an extra pupil – especially one dropping hair and slobber all over the place!’
‘No, he definitely wouldn’t,’ giggled Alfred.
‘Well,’ said Philippe. ‘I have a rather important task to do, but Bobby is welcome to come with me. In fact he might be just the help I need!’
‘Oh?’ said Alfred, raising his eyebrows quizzically.
‘You see…’ Philippe lent his head close to Alfred and dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘I am off to ask Nadia to marry me.’
Philippe and Nadia, the hotel chef’s daughter, had been courting for the past year.
‘Wow,’ said Alfred, ‘that’s brilliant! But how can Bobby help?’
‘Nadia is a soft touch for animals. She loves coming to see the lambs and the calves on the farm. So, if Bobby comes with me and wags his tail at the right moment...’
‘That sounds like a fine idea,’ said Alfred, glad to have found someone to look after his little friend. ‘Do you hear that, Bobby? You have to tell Nadia to say “yes”.’ And with one quick stroke of the dog’s head, he was gone, racing off down the street in the direction of his school.
Part 4
Saturday 10 June, 1944 (Early Afternoon)
11: The Troops Arrive
By two o’clock, the terrace at the Hotel de la Glane was finally beginning to empty, and the diners, re-energised and refreshed, began to drift away to spend the afternoon visiting friends, lazing by the river or browsing the shops and street stalls.
Patric Depaul drove his Peugeot 202 over the bridge across the river Glane and slowed down as he entered his home village. He had bought the parts he needed for his father’s car and had made the nineteen-kilometre drive back from Limoges in good time. Now he was looking forward to getting back to the garage so he could complete the job and finish up early for the day. If he had a spare hour or two before dinner, he could even squeeze in a spot of fishing. He would take Bobby with him. That daft little dog loved sniffing about on the river bank while Patric fished, but he didn’t like the water. He never went in, no matter how hot it was. Funny, that.
Patric pulled up outside his garage and switched off the ignition. As always, he paused to listen to the engine as it rumbled to a stop. Yep, he thought, she sounds happy enough. Then his mechanically-trained ears picked up the sound of several much heavier vehicles, also approaching from the direction of Limoges.
Patric got out of his car and shielded his eyes with his hand, squinting in the bright sunlight as he looked up the street to see what was causing the commotion. This didn’t sound like ordinary village traffic. A deep engine rumble was accompanied by a dreadful metallic, clanking sound.
What Patric saw next did not immediately alarm him, although it was an unusual sight for Oradour — two armoured vehicles followed by a convoy of smaller army trucks laden with German soldiers. Patric’s first thought was that they were just passing through, but then the convoy stopped opposite the hotel, across the entrance to the fairground, and to his astonishment, a flood of German soldiers, dressed in green and yellow camouflage jackets, poured out into the str
eet. The troops formed a circle around the convoy and slowly started spreading outwards in all directions.
Losing all thought of fixing his father’s car, Patric ran around the street corner back towards the church. Were there any more soldiers coming?
As he passed the barber’s shop, he heard a shout. ‘Patric, quick, come over here!’
It was Jean Neville, scissors and comb in hand, standing in his doorway. ‘Did you see that convoy? Where did it go?’
Patric explained what he had just witnessed.
‘One of my customers has just arrived from Confolens for a haircut. He said there’s another group of soldiers up by the Fourniers’ cottage at the far end of village. They closed the road just after he came through. What the devil’s going on?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Patric, ‘but I’ll go back down to the Glane, to see if they’ve closed that road, too.’
Patric jogged down the road then ascended the steep path in front of the church. As the church was set up above street level, he could stand on the boundary wall and get a clear view down the hill back towards the bridge. Sure enough, he could see more Germans, dragging a barricade across the road on the far side of the river.
He didn’t like the look of this one bit.
Patric wondered what was happening on the road to the north east, beyond Alfred’s school, and on the road south-west towards Saint Junien. It didn’t take a betting man to predict that those roads were probably being closed too, and this was bound to create unease. The people of Oradour weren’t used to seeing Germans at all, let alone having them seal off their village.
Patric decided to head back into the village centre. He would see if his father was at home. As Mayor, he ought to know what was going on. Perhaps he could speak to the Germans and find out what they wanted.
As he followed the road back round past his garage, Patric saw Sylvie Fournier, Alfred’s mother, hurrying down the street towards him.
‘Sylvie, are you all right?’ he asked, catching her arm. She looked awfully worried.
‘I don’t know,’ Sylvie answered, seemingly unsure whether or not to carry on her way. ‘I have to get to the church to help Audrey… but did you see those Germans? I’ve just spoken to Pierre Petit – he was coming out of the wine store when the trucks arrived – and he says there’s nothing to worry about, but I’m not sure I agree.’
‘I am sure Pierre’s right,’ said Patric, trying not to show his own fears. He could see that Sylvie was getting more and more agitated by the second. ‘We’ve never had any trouble with Germans here in Oradour.’
‘Maybe not, but I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them, and I’ve left little Paulette and Louis with Leon. They’re in the fairground getting tobacco. Alfred and the two girls are down at the school… and here I am, worrying about upsetting Audrey over some stupid flower arrangements! We have a family pact, you see, something we agreed to do if we ever saw any Germans in Oradour.’
‘Look, Sylvie, I know what you’ve gone through. But this is different. This is Oradour. You are safe here. I’m sure you don’t need to worry, but if you like I’ll pop back into the church and explain to Audrey that you’re going to be delayed. Then you can go and check on your family. Audrey will just have to understand.’
Tears came to Sylvie’s eyes and she squeezed Patric’s hand. ‘Thank you, Patric. You’re a good friend. Tell her I’ll come back as soon as I can. But I have to put my family first.’
And with that, Sylvie ran off up the street to find her husband and her two youngest children, desperately trying to convince herself that history was not about to be repeated.
12: No Turning Back
Dietrich hardly uttered a word to Ragnar as their car raced through the lanes towards Oradour. With the rest of the battalion already in place in the village, Dietrich was no longer concerned about possible Resistance attacks so he changed his order to take a circuitous route to a demand to get to Oradour as fast as possible.
Ragnar knew that the Major would not be interested in making conversation. He was completely absorbed in his own thoughts, his mouth moving silently as if he were running through in his head the orders he had given to his men. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and his steel-blue eyes glinted with anticipation.
They approached the road block before the river bridge at exactly twenty-five minutes past two, and it was only then that Ragnar slowed down the car, enabling Dietrich to salute his men as they dragged the temporary barrier aside to let them through.
They drove, slowly now, up past the church which perched on the slope above them on their left. They began to pass shops and stores – a café, a barber’s, a cobbler’s and a bakery – all full of customers, then a neat row of well-kept houses, their freshly-painted shutters closed to keep the rooms inside cool. Ragnar noticed Dietrich suddenly shifting in his seat.
‘It’s busier than I expected.’ These were the first words he had spoken since they had left the Vienne.
Ragnar dared a reply. ‘I believe it’s often busy in Oradour on a Saturday. All the locals come here for their tobacco rations, but I think there is something going on in the school today, too. I heard one of the soldiers talking. A health inspection or something.’ He took his eyes off the road and turned to meet Dietrich’s gaze directly. ‘So that means there will be a lot more children here than normal, Major.’
If this information made any difference to Dietrich, he did not show it.
‘Turn right here,’ was all he said, ignoring the look of concern on Ragnar’s face and glancing down instead at his map. They had come to a junction. A handwritten sign was painted on the wall: ‘Cimetière’.
‘Yes, here. This is the road up to the cemetery. It should bring us to the back entrance into the village green. They call it the fairground.’
Dietrich was right. As they turned into the fairground, they could see that the troops had already gathered a small crowd of civilians and were directing them to go and stand in the centre of the grassy, open space, where a row of soldiers carrying rifles watched over them.
Ragnar parked the car next to a well. This was his last chance. He had to find out what Dietrich really wanted to achieve in Oradour, why he had brought those incendiary devices, so many men. And he knew he was one of the few people who could even dare to ask the Major a question like this.
‘Major, wait,’ he said quickly, as Dietrich opened the passenger door and started to get out of the car. ‘Forgive me, but…’ He paused, even then unsure whether or not to risk his boss’s wrath.
‘Spit it out, man. What is it?’ Dietrich ducked his head back inside the car, his face tense, one hand gripping the top rim of the door.
‘Major, do you intend to burn something down in this village?’
Dietrich froze. Ragnar noticed a tiny twitch in the corner of his left eye. Then he said coolly, ‘You can take this car back to Saint Junien. I won’t be needing you any more. I’ll travel back with my men.’
A rush of warm summer air hit Ragnar in the face as the car door slammed shut, and he closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. When he opened them again, he looked about him, taking in the scene in the fairground – the huddle of curious villagers waiting patiently in the middle of the grass, the old woman dressed all in black sitting in the shade of a tree, the man arguing with his wife about losing his place in the tobacco queue, while his two little children sat on the kerbside, the young man in mechanic’s overalls banging on the door of the large house on the far side of the field… and the long, slender back of Major Gustav Dietrich as he marched off, eager to liaise with his troops. Then Ragnar turned the key in the ignition and slowly drove away, leaving the idyllic little village of Oradour behind him.
13: The Summons
As soon as Major Gustav Dietrich arrived in the fairground, things began to move more rapidly. His first action was to summon the Mayor of Oradour, Henri Depaul.
The Mayor, he was told, lived just across the fairground and
was on his way. His son, Patric, had already been to alert him to the Germans’ arrival.
Despite the heat of the June afternoon, the burly authoritative figure who marched across the grass towards Dietrich was dressed in a smart dark suit, complete with a crisply-pressed jacket and tie. The glare of the bright afternoon sun on his white hair gave his face an almost ethereal glow and, as he grew closer, Dietrich could see a firm, square jawline and a mouth framed by a neatly trimmed handlebar moustache. Dietrich was amused by the fact that, in his left hand, the Mayor carried a leather briefcase, as if he was entering a routine business meeting.
Walking closely at his side was a younger man wearing a mechanic’s overall. Despite the differences in their attire, there was enough of a similarity between the two for Dietrich to deduce that they were father and son.
The Mayor did not look happy. He was outraged at this sudden intrusion into his otherwise peaceful village, and he was muttering something under his breath to his son as he approached.
The two men came face to face and the Mayor didn’t wait to be addressed.
‘I’m Henri Depaul. I’m the Mayor of this village. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?’
Dietrich’s interpreter stepped forward and gestured to Henri as he translated the Mayor’s words into German.
‘I am sure you’d like to know,’ Dietrich answered, smiling patronisingly at the Mayor. ‘I am Major Gustav Dietrich and I have orders to carry out a thorough identity check here in your fine little village. We need to round up every last person here – not just residents of Oradour, we want to see all visitors, too.’
Henri forced a smile. He didn’t like this cocky young officer with his SS cap, complete with silver skull-and-crossbones, tilted arrogantly to one side. But he could see from the Iron Cross on his breast pocket, and the way his men kowtowed around him, that he was not someone it would be wise to antagonise.