‘Blackmail?’
‘I don’t mean with money. Just – emotionally, somehow. I remember, about ten years ago, Kafka moved away for a while. I think he moved to the city to be with his father who was dying. He was gone for about six months. I’d never seen your father so happy. He was like a different man. Then, Kafka came back and it was as if a big shadow had fallen over him again. I tell Georges just ignore him but, of course, in a town of this size, it’s almost impossible.’
They had come to the house now. They lived in a bricked bungalow painted green, with large windows and a wooden porch that had three steps leading up to the front door. Either side, on each step, a blue enamel pot of flowers, which Lucienne watered every day. More pots hung from the porch. At this time of year, especially, their porch was ablaze with colour.
‘Before we go in, let me say – don’t mention any of this to your father. And be careful of Kafka. You know what he’s like; we saw it yesterday. He’s unpredictable. Stay away from him. For whatever reason, your father can’t – but you, Pierre, you can.’
Chapter 3
The following morning, Georges was in the yard, working on another memorial engraving, while Lucienne had just returned from her daily visit to the churchyard and a shopping spree, complaining about prices already going up. Pierre was sitting on the bench at the kitchen table drawing – sketching out his ideas for a grand statue. He’d just had his daily dose of cod liver oil and the foul taste still lingered in his mouth. He decided then and there he would never take the stuff again. He was too old for it now. A tray with three Eiffel Tower china cups and saucers lay at the end of the table.
It was exactly ten o’clock when the knock on the door came. They had been expecting it but had not mentioned it. Lucienne, carrying a pallet of mushrooms, ran a hand through her hair. Quickly, she removed her apron, and smoothed out her blue dress. Pierre wondered why his mother had worn her best outfit again, right down to the kingfisher brooch. Again, she smelt strongly of carbolic soap. She opened the door. Immediately, Pierre recognized the German’s voice speaking immaculate French.
‘It’s no inconvenience; do come in,’ he heard his mother say. ‘Mind your head.’
And then, there he was – this tall German officer standing in the middle of the kitchen, his big, shiny boots on the red tiled floor, his cap in hand, carrying a small suitcase. It was the major from the gathering; the one who had intervened in Kafka’s argument.
‘Such a lovely house... oh, hello there.’ The man offered Pierre his hand. ‘My name is Major Hurtzberger, Thomas.’
‘Major H.’
‘Yes; if you like. And your name is?’
‘Pierre. I’ll get my father.’ He heard his mother offer the German a cup of coffee as Pierre stepped outside. It was another hot day. He found Georges with his goggles on, chisel and mallet in hand.
On seeing his son, Georges took off his goggles. ‘He’s here?’
Back inside, Pierre found the German looking at the ornaments and the pictures, paying particular attention to the photographs of the tightrope walker and the young boy in the flat cap. Sitting back at the table, Pierre watched as the three of them, his parents and the German, danced through a series of apologies and polite platitudes. ‘It should only be for a month or so; I do apologize for the inconvenience.’ He was over six foot, dark-haired, thin nose, pronounced cheekbones, and here he was, with his Nazi uniform with its German eagle, epaulettes, and medal ribbons, sitting at the kitchen table. The polite occupier; the enemy within their midst, being offered coffee.
Pierre twirled his pencil around his fingers. He noticed that the German wore a gold signet ring on his left hand.
‘What amusing cups,’ said the major.
Lucienne laughed. ‘Yes, it’s the Eiffel Tower.’
‘Yes, I can see.’
Georges shook his head.
Lucienne complimented the German on his French; mentioned that Pierre had done well in his English lessons at school.
‘You speak English?’ asked the German in English.
‘No,’ replied Pierre in French; annoyed to have been brought into the conversation.
‘Don’t be silly, Pierre. Go on, say something in English,’ said his mother.
‘Leave the boy alone,’ said Georges.
‘What is it you’re drawing?’ asked the major.
‘Nothing really.’ Subconsciously, he scribbled over his drawing, leaving an impression on the oilcloth beneath.
The kettle steamed on the stove while Lucienne prepared the coffee.
‘Almost ready, Major.’
‘Please, Madame Durand, you must call me Thomas.’
‘No,’ interrupted Georges. ‘I think for the sake of propriety, we should stick to more formal use. I hope you understand, Major?’
‘Y-yes. Yes, if you like.’
Changing the subject, Georges asked the German whether he had been to France before. He had once, as a child, with his parents, in about 1922, he said. Loire Valley – all those lovely chateaus. Had Georges been to Germany? ‘No.’ came the quick reply; too quick, causing a moment of awkwardness.
‘You’ll be pleased to know, you won’t see too much of me. I’ll be working most of the day – every day.’
‘No peace for the wicked?’ asked Lucienne. She flushed red and subconsciously glanced up at the crucifix. Georges groaned.
‘Well, yes. Erm. We’re not all so wicked. And don’t worry about food – I’ll be eating all my meals at the canteen. I will endeavour to restrict my intrusion into your home to a minimum.’
‘That’s perfectly OK,’ said Lucienne. ‘You’ll be sleeping in our third bedroom. You’ll just have to ignore all the toys in there.’
‘Toys? Oh, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t want to take Pierre’s room–’
‘No, it’s not Pierre’s room. He’s too old for toys now.’ She poured him his coffee. ‘Sugar, Major?’
‘No, thank you.’
Oh, please, mother, don’t say it. ‘Sweet enough already, Major?’ She’d said it.
He looked suitably embarrassed; as did she for saying it. Nerves. Pierre ground his pencil onto the oilcloth, breaking its nib. ‘Are you all right, Pierre?’ asked his mother.
‘I need to go out. I said I’d go see Xavier.’
‘Well...’
‘You go, if you want,’ said Georges.
‘Yes, please, don’t stay on my account,’ said the major. ‘You must all try to act as if I wasn’t here.’
‘Right,’ said Pierre. A stern look from his mother stopped him from saying anything else.
*
‘Well?’ asked Xavier. ‘Has he moved in?’
They were heading towards the town square. ‘He’s moved in all right. My mother couldn’t be more creepy than if the Queen of Sheba had arrived. It’s no inconvenience, Major. Can I get you a coffee, Major? Sugar, Major? Sweet enough, Major? Can I stroke your hair, Major? It’s sickening.’
‘You ought to send Kafka over. He’ll sort it out. What about your dad?’
‘He doesn’t say much – as usual.’
‘No guns today, boys?’ asked a passer-by, Tautou, the carpenter.
‘Why does everyone find this such a joke?’ said Pierre. ‘We’re swamped by Krauts and we have to pretend nothing’s changed.’
‘What can we do?’
‘You said it just now.’
‘What?’
‘Kafka. He’ll know.’
‘He’s bad news, that man. My father told me to stay away from him.’
‘Funny that, that’s exactly what my mother said. Everyone’s frightened of him all of a sudden.’
‘Good God, look at the cafés; we’ve been taken over.’ They had reached the square and the cafés dotted round the perimeter were all doing a brisk business – but not a Frenchman amongst them; every outside seat seemed to be taken by Germans. The mood was jovial, much laughing as the soldiers relaxed, helmets on the back of their chairs, smoking and drinking thei
r coffees in the sun. With a jolt, Pierre spotted Claire. She was outside Café Bleu standing next to a table full of Germans. She had their undivided attention. With a laugh and a wave, she bid them goodbye and made to cross the square, a smile on her lips, a bounce in her step.
She saw Pierre and his friend. ‘Hello, boys.’
‘Hello, Claire,’ said Pierre. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Me? Nothing. Oh, that.’
‘You were–’
‘Keep your voice down. I’m going to the baker’s. Come with me.’
The boys accompanied her to the baker’s and accepted her offer of a macaroon each. They waited outside while Claire went in. A girl of about eleven passed on a red bicycle. ’I’m surprised the Germans haven’t requisitioned that,’ said Xavier.
‘Ha; don’t give them the idea.’
‘Here we are,’ said Claire, reappearing with a baguette and three macaroons.
‘Are you buying our silence?’ joked Pierre as they walked on.
Glancing up and down the street, Claire seemed to take the accusation seriously. Speaking quietly, she said, ‘It’s Kafka’s idea. He told me to get friendly with the enemy. He’d said I’d be an asset with my German and... well, whatever. Better to know what they’re up to, he said.’
‘And what are they up to?’ asked Xavier.
She waited for an old woman with a walking stick to pass by. ‘That’s not for me to indulge.’
‘Are you working for Kafka now?’
‘No, of course not, I still work at the library. I need to go. I have to open up. What’s the time? My watch’s wrong.’
Xavier shook his head. ‘They’ve changed the time, haven’t they? We’re on German time now.’
‘I forgot. Oh no, that means I’m an hour late.’
‘Don’t suppose anyone will notice.’
‘Nonetheless, I have to go.’
The boys watched her go towards the library, her hair bouncing, her skirt flowing behind her.
‘Wait here,’ Pierre told Xavier. Running, he caught up with Claire.
‘Did you not enjoy your macaroon?’
‘Claire, can I work for Kafka?’
She stopped. She ran a finger softly down his cheek. Her touch, however soft, sent a little surge of electricity through Pierre. ‘Don’t,’ was all she said before walking off again.
Pierre ran up beside her. ‘I don’t understand. Why on earth not?’
‘You’re too young, Pierre.’
‘I’m almost seventeen.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, think of your mother; what would she say?’
‘She’d–’
‘She’d be horrified.’
Pierre watched her leave, waving to a friend across the street. Claire was new to the village; she’d come from Paris, apparently wanting to escape the capital and its Germans. She’d merely swapped one set of Germans for another. Pierre wondered whether the Germans in Paris were any different to the ones in the town. More pertinently, he wondered how long she’d stay. A couple of soldiers passed by on bicycles, one of them wolf-whistling at her. Xavier appeared at his side. ‘What was that about?’ he asked. He had speckles of crumbs on his upper lip.
‘She reckons I could work for Kafka,’ he said.
‘What do you mean work for?’
‘You know.’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘No.’
‘No, nor do I. But I intend to find out.’
*
Producing a sculpture is, foremost, a matter of patience. Occasionally, the family of the deceased wanted something different from the stocks of memorials Georges had at the ready. They wanted a different kind of angel, or Virgin Mary, or Jesus. And they had the money to pay for it. This, then, meant you had to work to a deadline, for no family wanted their loved ones to be deprived of their headstone for too long. But even with a deadline, one had to have patience. Remember, this was a monument that would remain in place for evermore; long after they themselves were dead and forgotten. This was the message that Pierre’s father had instilled in him. The sculptor’s art was unique, he said frequently, in that it involved both hard, physical work, yet a finesse of touch. They were labourers and artists; lackeys and craftsmen. Theirs was a job that came with great responsibility. After all, they were putting the full stop at the very end of someone’s life. They had been given a solemn obligation by the ones left behind; one that came with an expectation that, with their craft, they honour the memory of a life now gone with a memorial that would last for eternity; a testament to the worthy life once lived. In accepting the obligation, they, as sculptors, had formed a bond with the departed.
He hadn’t heard the German open the back door but he knew from the chickens running away that he had company. ‘So, is this how you spend the day?’ asked the major, holding a cup of coffee.
‘Yeah.’ He kicked away the tarpaulin lying at his feet.
‘It’s a beautiful spot.’ Shielding his eyes from the sun, the major scanned the view. Pierre noticed the signet ring on his left hand, holding the coffee cup. The design was of a horse with a wild mane. ‘How big is that woodland?’
‘Fairly big.’
‘Hmm. You have two sheds?’
‘Yes, that one over there with the bike against it is where we keep the stone, the marble and the granite and stuff. Papa calls it the warehouse.’
‘Is that your bike?’
‘Yes. And this shed is for tools and things.’
The major opened the door of the nearest shed. ‘Oh yes, a workman’s paradise in here. What a lot of tools, and so much paint.’
‘Papa wants to paint both sheds.’
‘What colour?’
‘Red.’
‘Certainly bright. Do you mind if I sit for a while?’ asked the major taking a seat on the rocking chair. Pierre shrugged with what he hoped was marked indifference. He was aware of the major watching him at work, chiselling away at the stone. ‘So, is this to be a memorial?’ the German asked, removing his cap.
‘Yes.’
Why, wondered Pierre, had he not told the German the truth? After all, it was not a big deal. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. But the man was a German; he had no right to be in his house, his yard, let alone his country. There again, he was but a man, an annoyingly nice man who washed his cup after he’d finished with it; something neither his father nor he had ever done; a man who rose to his feet whenever his mother walked in the room; why, he even put the toilet seat down and rinsed the sink after he’d had a shave. Pierre had been brought up believing the Germans to be a race of barbarians; brought up on stories of how they’d behaved during the last war; of atrocities committed; of nuns raped and children butchered. The image and reality differed in the extreme.
‘It’s not a memorial,’ he said eventually. ‘Papa reckons I’m not ready for a real memorial, although I have helped him lots. This is just for me.’
‘Just for you and for your father – to show him you’re perfectly capable.’
Pierre looked at the major – what right did he have to read his mind?
‘And may I ask what’s it going to be, this sculpture? Or is it an artistic secret?’
Indeed, Pierre had intended on keeping it a secret, but as neither his mother nor father had shown any interest it hardly warranted being classed as such. And the German had acknowledged that Pierre was embarking on a work of art.
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
‘Venus.’
‘Venus, indeed?’
Pierre got up, went to the tool shed and returned carrying a large book. Opening the pages at a bookmark, he passed it to the major.
‘The Birth of Venus – Botticelli,’ said the German. ‘Sandro Botticelli. I have seen it.’
‘You’ve seen it – in the flesh, the real thing?’
‘Why yes. In Florence, the Uffizi. It’s beautiful, of course. And so big. It’s almost three metres long.’
‘You’ve been to Italy?’
Pierre felt a prick of shame as he had to confess he had not; had not even been to Paris.
‘Don’t worry; you’re still young. One day, when all this... this is over, you’ll go – both the Louvre and the Uffizi, and you’ll see Venus in the flesh, as you say, the real thing. Meanwhile, what you are doing is a grand endeavour; it’s certainly ambitious. I’m impressed, Pierre.’
Pierre shuddered as a feeling of warmth cascaded through him, inducing such an unexpected wave of pleasure it left him momentarily disorientated. It was the way the major had said his name – not as a grown-up would but as an equal, a fellow lover of art.
‘I have to go now; work to do.’
Pierre nodded; he wanted to say thank you but found it was simply too difficult.
The major stood and pulled the creases out of his tunic. ‘I shall leave the artist to get on with his work.’
Pierre smiled.
Putting his cap back on, the major turned to leave, returning to the house. As he opened the kitchen door, he turned round. ‘What do you plan on calling your sculpture?’
Pierre hadn’t actually thought about a name. He stroked the dry sandstone and, on eyeing the thin layer of white dust on his palm, the name came to him in an instant. He grinned. Turning to the major, he said, ‘The White Venus.’
Chapter 4
It was perhaps a week later. Already the family and their new guest had settled into a routine. True to his word, the major was out all day from eight, sometimes earlier, to about seven at night. He would return tired, having already eaten with his colleagues, sit quietly in the living room, reading a book, and retire early. On the fourth evening, much to everyone’s delight, although Georges and Pierre tried not to show it, the major returned with a small joint of pork. The town, as a whole, was slowly becoming accustomed to the sight of the grey-green uniforms, the strangers within their midst. Sometimes people had to remind themselves that they were under occupation. The Germans went out of their way to be polite, speaking to the locals, accepting without complaint that shops charged them twice or thrice the going rate for every item on sale.
The White Venus Page 3