by Jan Harvey
‘I can’t see any older buildings at all.’ Matt was peering round the car in front, ‘there’s a church at the end, though.’
‘Try there first,’ I said. ‘The church will be in the oldest part of town.’
We pulled out and drove slowly along the long main street, only one or two cars passed us going the other way. The church was very pretty, it had a pink tower just visible above the yew tree hedge around it.
The old gate creaked as I opened it. The graveyard fell away from us and a line of white wooden crosses arranged along the far wall were visible between the gravestones. Inside we could hear the sound of people; a pushchair was folded and leaning against the door. Across the road was a small market square dominated by a tall fountain, water sprayed from three sides of it. The plaque on the side facing us was glinting in the sun. There was a list of eight names and Claudette Bourvil was at the bottom.
‘It says “In memory of those in The Resistance from Vacily who fought for a free France”,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve found her.’
It seemed the right thing to do to stay quiet for a minute. I would have liked to lay some flowers for Freddy, but there were no shops, only a small café on the corner. There was no one under the awning outside, but the tables were all laid with peach coloured napkins on white plates as if customers were expected. I reached out and squeezed Matt’s hand.
‘Lunch?’ he asked and I nodded. I felt very solemn and quiet as we walked across the square and sat at a small corner table. It was the oldest part of the village, a couple of the houses had the familiar and quite lovely organic shapes of buildings that had morphed over time. The other side of the square was a modern building, the Mairie.
The proprietor had a warm smile, he shook our hands and asked if we’d like to eat. The menus were in old French and an ornate typeface, so Matt went through them for me. We chose chicken in a white wine and mushroom sauce.
‘What an amazing thing if we have found Freddy’s mum with a bit of detective work, it’s…well…amazing,’ said Matt as he sipped his drink. I loved the way he sank deep into his quiet moments, the way he absorbed everything around him. He would fit in anywhere.
‘But we haven’t worked it all out, do you think we ever will?’
‘No, but what a story. Freddy’s mum worked for the Resistance. She was a heroine.’
‘A murdered heroine.’ We both sat, sipping an iced tea as a flock of doves landed on the fountain, seven white and one pied. They tipped their tails up as they drank. ‘I wonder if there is anything in the village about the Resistance, a library or museum.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Matt. ‘It feels a very empty non-touristy place.’
When the proprietor returned with our lunch Matt asked him, but there wasn’t anything, but he said there was another, similar plaque in the church.
Our meal was beautiful, delicate flavours danced on my tongue. As we finished, the congregation began to filter out of the church and onto the square, a handful walked towards us and took seats alongside, nodding and smiling as they did so. The others broke into smaller groups and then ones and twos and disappeared along the street.
We went halves on lunch and Matt took my hand as we walked back to the church. There was an old-fashioned Fiat parked by the gate, a sun-bleached reddy orange colour. The coolness of the church interior was wonderful after sitting in the sun. It was small, the wooden pews each side of the aisle would take four people at a squeeze, and were charmingly rustic. The interior walls were whitewashed, the windows leaded with plain glass. At the front was an altar with a mural behind it of the village and the various residents, like the blacksmith, the butcher and the priest, walking along the winding path to the church. It was naïve in style and had once been colourful, but the hues and shades of paint had mellowed over time, giving it an ethereal quality. In some places the plaster had cracked and fallen away to reveal patches of stone.
On the wall opposite the small pulpit was a stone plaque with the same list of names, including Claudette’s at the bottom. In a scroll over the top, the words “La Résistance française pendant la Seconde Guerre Mondiale” were inscribed. ‘There’s Vincent Gabin,’ said Matt, pointing to the name halfway down, ‘the young doctor who was killed by the Nazis.’
‘May I help you?’ The priest took us completely by surprise and he was speaking English.
‘Oh yes, sorry,’ I said, as if we were doing something wrong and had been caught out. ‘We’re just looking for a particular person, Claudette Bourvil. She was a member of the Resistance and came from Vacily.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the priest. He was probably a bit older than us, with curly brown hair and brown eyes, his face earnest, openly willing to be helpful. ‘She was instrumental in the rise of the Resistance in Paris in the latter stages of the war. She passed on important documents from the German High Command, risking her life in the process.’
‘She worked in a house of ill repute and spied on the Germans,’ said Matt, using another colloquial phrase that made my stomach turn a little loop of joy.
‘Really, I didn’t know that?’ said the priest, looking the tiniest bit uncomfortable, I thought.
‘Yes, we’ve been told she was a maid, though it seems she wasn’t very popular in the house itself.’ Matt added.
‘And if she is the person we are looking for, we’ve found out she was murdered, but we have no idea where or how or by whom,’ I told him.
‘Well, I know she was murdered here,’ he said, ‘just behind what was the washhouse. There’s a small copse of trees – she was shot there. The village was profoundly upset by it all. You see, they had originally thought she was a collaborator, and she had not been here to put her side of the story. I think I’m right in saying she didn’t come back here after the war, instead she went to England. That had fuelled their suspicions, the truth was only established years later.’
‘So did she come back here?’
‘Yes, she was looking for someone. I don’t know who and of course the town had been razed to the ground during the Normandy Landings, so lots of people had died, including her parents. The Germans fled, but they made sure that they wrecked the village before they went. They detonated explosives everywhere, the only places they left standing were this church and a couple of buildings over the road. They had orders to leave a scorched earth behind them, as it’s called these days. Of course, famously, Hitler had ordered Paris to be obliterated. He said; “The city must not fall into the enemy’s hand except lying in complete debris.” And it is said that his General von Choltitz disobeyed this order because he realised it was all over and Hitler was insane. In truth, it was the Parisians that made sure it didn’t happen. Von Choltitz had laid waste to Sebastopol and Rotterdam and he had sent millions of Jewish people to their deaths, so he was no saint.’
‘How do you speak such amazing English?’ I asked him. There was barely a trace of a French accent. He smiled and seemed really grateful for the compliment.
‘Thank you, that’s kind. I went to Cambridge to study for my degree and then I answered my calling to become a priest. I am what you call a rarity, but my father was an academic and I was expected to follow in his footsteps.’
‘And was the murderer ever found?’ I asked.
‘No, he or she got away with it as far as I know, but I’m not the person to ask, it was a very long time ago. You need to talk to my good friend Samuel, he will be able to fill you in much more than I can. His mother knew Claudette Bourvil.’
‘Is he likely to be around today? We’re travelling home this evening from Calais.’
‘Oh yes, in fact you probably just walked past him. He’s been in church this morning and he’ll be at the café across the road having lunch with his family. I’ll take you across to meet him.’ With that, he bowed his head to the altar then turned and walked down the aisle, placing
the pile of books he was holding on a table by the door.
‘I’m Father Patrice, by the way.’ He shook us both by the hand. ‘How lovely to think someone remembers Claudette Bourvil. So many of those amazing people died under torture or were executed, it befalls us all to remember their bravery.’
‘I knew her son, Freddy. Fredrik March.’ I told him
‘The playwright?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘I studied his work at university, a marvellous talent.’
‘He was, and not mainstream, it’s interesting that you knew of him,’ I said. ‘What were you studying?’
‘English and Theology,’ he replied. ‘His plays are very widely regarded in both spheres, as you can imagine. I wrote my thesis on “The Final Solution”’ replied Father Patrice, ‘but I had no idea Fredrik March was Claudette Bourvil’s son. That really has surprised me, I wonder if Samuel knows anything about that?’
We crossed the main street and walked back towards the café, which was now busy and full of locals enjoying a long Sunday lunch. A few of them broke off conversations as we approached, but then carried on chatting. Children and seniors alike were sitting side-by-side, lots of them eating the chicken dish we’d enjoyed.
‘Samuel,’ said Father Patrice, resting his hand on the back of an elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair. ‘Ces personnes viennent d’Angleterre. Ils connaissent le fils de Claudette Bourvil. Auriez-vous une minute pour leur parler?’
Samuel stood up, pulling his napkin out of his collar, and shook both our hands. His wife smiled up at us, she had the prettiest face with bobbed hair and green eyes. ‘Hello,’ he said, waving a hand at two empty chairs at the table. ‘Asseyez-vous s’il vous plaît.’ He introduced us to his wife, Sylvie, and she shook our hands.
We sat down and Father Patrice said something in French to Samuel and then turning to us, he said; ‘I hope you find your answers, it was lovely to meet you.’ He walked away and climbed into the small Fiat by the church gates.
Matt began talking and Samuel was listening intently, I couldn’t follow it. My mind wandered and I found myself looking at the fountain and the plaque with Freddy’s mum’s name on it and I wondered if he knew about her activities in France. Somehow I doubted it and that I found very sad.
Chapter Forty Six
‘Lilia is dead.’ Jacques stood in the kitchen, his back to the stairs. ‘She has killed herself.’ There was silence. Madame F. stood with her mouth open, Marie placed a thin hand to her mouth and Perrine’s eyes were wide with shock. It was Claudette, making lunch for Daniel, who asked how she had done it. ‘She’s in the bath, she slashed her wrists. An ambulance has been sent for and then I am to swill it all down like it’s a slaughterhouse at closing time. There is blood everywhere.’ He looked sick to the stomach.
‘It’s been a long time coming,’ said Madame F. with a sigh as she turned to sit down at the table. ‘Poor lost soul.’
‘Someone will have to tell Keber,’ said Perrine. All eyes turned to Claudette, but it was Jacques who spoke. ‘Madame Odile is sending him a message now.’
Claudette took the tray of lunch up to the fifth floor. The other ladies were huddled together in the bar, talking in hushed whispers. They were shadows of their former selves. They didn’t even acknowledge Claudette as she passed by.
Daniel was awake in his cot. His eyes, big and brown, expanded with joy when he saw her. As she picked him up he hugged her and she felt him fit against her body in the now familiar way. ‘Hello, beautiful,’ she said, kissing his face. ‘I’m afraid there is not very much for lunch and no apple. The kitchen’s not as fully stocked as it once was, so it’s boring food today.’ She changed his nappy and sang to him, exactly as her mother had done to her baby brother all those years ago.
She spoon fed him and told him he was beautiful again, and that his mummy, wherever she was now, was free of her pain and would be looking after him from heaven. He giggled, waving his arm at her and said, ‘Mama.’
‘That’s right, your Mama,’ she said. ‘She’s gone away, but she will always love you.’ Out of the blue a tear pricked her eye. She blinked it back, refusing to cry in front of the child. Her mind was fixed on Lilia and the first time they’d met, the beauty and unselfconsciousness of her naked body. Last summer the house had been terrifying, the prospect of working amongst prostitutes equally so. Now it was work-a-day, seeing them in their fine lingerie or completely naked moving between rooms, watching them entertaining the soldiers. She, just like Perrine, had become immune.
Nowadays it was different. The officers were being moved out of the city, the soldiers remaining were fewer in number. Barricades had been erected on every street. There was debris and rubbish everywhere. Last week a horse had collapsed between the shafts outside the house and before it was properly dead, hoards of people descended on it, tearing it apart, until every part of it was gone. That evening they had eaten it too, because Jacques had been out there with a meat cleaver.
That evening Madame Odile came upstairs to see Daniel. Her face was drawn and white, she looked very much older. She took the little boy in her arms, but he leaned away and looked for Claudette who pressed the tips of her fingers against his to reassure him.
‘You have done well with little Daniel,’ said Madame Odile. ‘I am very grateful. I am sure Lilia knew he was being well looked after, even at the end.’ It was clear she had been crying, her eyes were red and puffy. ‘I would like you to take him down to her room and keep him in there. I will have Jacques put a private sign on the door, barring entry. Use her clothes and shoes if you want to, you are the same size, you even look similar with your hair that colour.’
Claudette nodded. ‘I’ll take his cot down and his things tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I think it’s good that he will be amongst her belongings.’ Madame Odile pressed her face against Daniel’s and stood silently for a long while. Claudette gathered up some toys and put them away in the white box she had taken from Eva’s room.
‘I tried very hard to do what was right,’ said Madame Odile, swaying to and fro. ‘Some might say I got it wrong, but I did my best.’
‘I know,’ said Claudette.
‘I think it will soon be over now,’ she said. ‘I am travelling to Reims tomorrow to take care of a family matter. I will be back next week. Do you have your papers?’
‘Yes,’
‘Then make sure they are safe.’ Claudette looked at her, puzzled. ‘In the next few weeks I think everything will fall apart, make sure you can be identified at all costs.’ Claudette nodded and with that Madame Odile kissed Daniel and handed her back the baby. ‘Take care of him for me.’
Claudette awoke in Lilia’s bed, beside her Daniel was asleep in his cot, a small grey rabbit tucked under his arm. The ladies had all been to see him and brought him things. Nannette sat him on her knee and handed him the little rabbit. ‘It was mine, little one, when I was a small girl, smaller than you.’ He took it and sucked its tiny ear.
‘The Allies are almost here.’ Claudette told her. ‘It was on the radio this morning, we have only a few weeks until we are all free.’
‘The clients are few and far between now,’ said Nannette. ‘Have you seen Keber recently?’
‘No, Madame called to tell him about Lilia and they said he had left Paris,’ said Claudette. ‘But he will come back.’
‘You love him, don’t you?’ said Nannette. She was stroking the top of Daniel’s head. ‘And his little boy.’
‘I do.’
‘Lilia would be pleased, I just know it, she used to talk to me about it. She hated him, you know, he only had eyes for her sister.’
‘You knew all about it?’
‘Yes, she used to confide in me. She told me that he was in love with her sister and she was madly jealous of them. Madame Odile could have had him like that.’
She flicked her fingers making Daniel jump reflexively. ‘But she wanted better and more powerful men to make true her ambitions.’
‘Which is strange, because he’s been in charge of her precious house for nearly four months,’ said Claudette.
‘Don’t tell anyone, but Bella and Sophie are leaving tomorrow. One of Bella’s clients has got her two German passports and she has been teaching Sophie German for months. They are scared that there will be retributions against us.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think we’ll be safe behind these walls and when it’s over the important Frenchmen, our old clients, will drift back again and it will all be forgotten.’ Claudette felt a grip of tension in her body. She was thinking of Keber; where had he gone and when would he be back for her?
He had visited less and less frequently, each time making love to her and each time he visited he looked less certain, less sure of himself. On his last visit he sat on the end of the bed. His uniform, once so neat and clean, was tired and creased, his socks had holes in the toes. He had his head in his hands. ‘This is going badly. General von Choltitz is in charge, he has been told by Hitler to leave Paris a ruin. There are plans to detonate charges all over the city when we withdraw. The Resistance is strong, they mowed down a unit of my men in the Champs-Elysees last week.’
‘What will happen to you?’
‘If I’m not killed I’ll make it back to Germany, then on to Interlaken. My family has a small house there, we used it for holidays when I was a boy. I will make it there and then I will contact you. Stay here, keep Daniel safe for me. No one will bother with a bordello, the fight will be taken to the streets, arm-to-arm combat, if necessary. Wait for me to get in touch, I will contact you as soon as I can. I will send for you, but don’t leave Paris, promise me.’