Meanwhile, while his father was out, Pierre worked on his sculpture, pulling off the tarpaulin each morning and chipping away at the stone, slowly bringing out a recognisable shape. It was still early days; it was going to be a long, rather daunting job.
One morning, Xavier burst in, barely able to contain himself. ‘You have to hurry. They’re coming through any minute. The whole town is gathering. Still working on your lump of stone, I see. Come on, hurry.’
Together with Lucienne, the boys joined the procession of people heading to the square. Again, thought Pierre, there was that same sense of carnival as the day the Germans had arrived. Was this the same feeling they had in medieval times when crowds gathered to watch an execution? Again, all the shops had closed down; the town had come to a standstill so they might witness the coming spectacle. It was well past one o’clock; Pierre was hungry. Strange, he thought, how quickly they had grown accustomed to the new time.
‘Pierre, could you not have changed?’ said Lucienne.
‘I hardly think it matters, Maman.’
‘Oh, but it does; impressions count on occasions like this – the whole town will be there, the mayor included.’
‘And a lot of Germans,’ added Xavier.
‘Well, yes; best not to think of that.’
‘Your Major H might be there.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be involved in such things.’
Xavier pulled a face.
They joined the crowd of onlookers half way down Rue de Courcelles, one of the main arteries leading off the town square. Every few yards, standing guard, was a German soldier. Pierre recognised the soldier nearest to them, Fritz One. Xavier had seen him too. The man looked painfully hot in his tunic and buttoned shirt, standing to attention under the full glare of the sun. His colleagues opposite, at least, were in the shade.
Lucienne pushed through the crowds, suggesting they cross the road to the other side. The soldier put his hand up, preventing her from moving. The two of them, Lucienne and Fritz One, locked eyes for a moment. Pierre was impressed although he knew there could only be one outcome. Sure enough, she stepped back. Fritz One moved on a few yards. Muttering, Lucienne rummaged in her handbag and produced a fan. And there they stood; ten, fifteen minutes and more. Georges appeared, slipping through to join them. ‘You look like you’re going to the opera with that fan,’ he remarked.
‘Shush.’
It was only with his mother’s shush, that Pierre realised the whole crowd was deathly silent. He heard the two o’clock chime from the town hall clock. Somewhere a dog barked.
And then they heard. A faint, faraway sound; the rumble of a motorbike and the shuffle of a thousand feet. Slowly, the sound became louder, the shuffle of feet nearer. Occasionally, a shout punctuated the air; occasionally a motorbike revved its engine. They were moving through the square; soon they’d be coming round the bend and down the street. Pierre’s heartbeat quickened. But what was that noise; that new sound? With a jolt, he realised women were sobbing. And still the shouting; nasty, barked commands in German. People craned their necks as the first shadows appeared at the bend. A group of four German soldiers emerged, marching slowly, followed by the motorbike, mustard green in colour, with a machine gun mounted in its sidecar, its engine rumbling uncomfortably in first gear. And then came the mass, the pitiful mass of defeat. Lucienne held her hand over her mouth; Georges’s eyes seemed to be on stalks; Xavier muttered a merde. There were so many of them, marching not as soldiers but as a shamble of ghosts, their khaki uniforms in tatters. Pierre watched, his stomach caving in with emptiness, as the parade of prisoners of war passed. And passed. The minutes ticked by yet still they came, hundreds and hundreds of men, Frenchmen; each and every one of these broken men had fought for France. The wailing of sobs spiralled like a funnel, gathering a momentum of its own. Pierre had never experienced such an outpouring of grief. He turned to see that his mother was openly crying. The Battle of France had waged a mere few weeks yet it had totally passed by their sleepy town. Although never too far off, it seemed to be happening somewhere faraway. Not any more, thought Pierre. He watched, uncomprehending, the dark, dirty faces, the haunted eyes. These men, united in defeat, were his countrymen, his brothers. Yet they did not seek the solace of the onlookers, the citizens. These men seemed unaware of their presence, unaware of anything. The crowd might as well not have been there. Marching alongside them, at regular intervals, were more Germans, their rifles drawn, bayonets glinting in the afternoon sun. But these weren’t like the Germans in the town; their uniforms were black, altogether more sinister; somehow more serious. And still they came.
A woman standing next to Lucienne, Madame Philippe, the butcher’s wife, slipped through the cordon of soldiers and placed a bucket of water at the side of the column. Her action was met by a murmur of approval. Lucienne fanned herself more vigorously. A PoW, his eyes wide as can be, scooped down with cupped hands. A soldier in a black uniform rushed up, shouting at him, and pushed him away. Despite this, another PoW tried also to snatch a few driblets of water. The German kicked the bucket over; it was too much for the prisoner who, exhausted, sank to his knees, causing the men behind him to crash into one another, to lose their rhythm. ‘Get up, get up!’ shouted the German. The Frenchman didn’t get up. Lucienne took Pierre’s hand. Xavier was crying. ‘Get up, you bastard; get up.’ Pierre knew he had to look away; knew he would forever regret it if he didn’t. The German swung his rifle around and hit the prisoner with the butt, smashing it onto his back, followed by a vicious kick into the ribs. The Frenchmen fell onto his front and groaned. Pierre saw how hard the German’s boots looked; steel toecaps capable of breaking bones.
The column moved on. No one stopped, sidestepping their fallen comrade. The German swung his rifle round again. A collective grasp echoed round as the German plunged his bayonet into the man’s back. A splash of crimson but no sound. Using his foot against the Frenchman for leverage, he pulled the blade out; a streak of blood glistening on the steel. Women screamed. Many started crying. The German in his black uniform marched on, his rifle with its bloodied blade against his shoulder, the other arm swinging. Someone vomited. Men muttered words like animals, beasts, murderers. Madame Philippe tried to reach the stricken prisoner. She escaped the clutches of her husband, who implored her to get back, but failed to get past Fritz One, who pushed her back. ‘For the love of Jesus, let me through,’ she screamed. She tried again. This time Fritz One slapped her with the back of his hand. Madame Philippe fell, her hand against her cheek. Lucienne put her arm around her. Madame Philippe’s cheek was bleeding; a cut from a ring, thought Pierre. She glared angrily at her husband.
The hopeless column of men continued for another twenty minutes or more. No one took any notice of the dead man lying in a heap, the circle of blood on his back. Finally, the last men staggered by, followed by another motorbike and sidecar. The crowd watched quietly as they advanced down the street, round the bend and out of view. Everyone remained in place, too dazed to move, listening to the fading sounds of shuffling feet, boots and the motorbike. So many people, thought Pierre, but the air hung heavy with silence. The local Germans nodded at each other; their task for the afternoon done. Fritz One prodded Georges with his gun. ‘Take him away,’ he said in German, pointing to the body. Georges nodded. Monsieur Philippe, the butcher, offered to get an old door he had lying in his shed, pleased perhaps to appear to be doing something after his earlier humiliation. The door, he said, could be used as a stretcher. Georges thanked him; said he would wait. As the soldiers dispersed, Lucienne and Madame Philippe, and others, went to the body. Pierre watched them. They came away, shaking their heads, their eyes filled with tears. He was dead all right.
Kafka appeared and shook hands with Georges. ‘Are you OK, boys?’ Pierre and Xavier nodded. Turning to Georges, he said quietly, ‘Was that convincing enough for you? We need to talk.’
‘I need to remove our friend here first.’
‘I’ll h
elp you.’ While they waited, Kafka puffed on his pipe. He offered Pierre and Xavier a drag. They both declined.
Monsieur Philippe reappeared struggling with his door, its green paint peeling off. ‘Can you manage?’ he asked the men.
‘We’ll manage.’
‘Good. Right oh. Er, I’ll be off then.’
The stench filled the nostrils, a mixture of dirt and sweat. Xavier gagged as, taking a leg, he helped lift the body onto the door. ‘God, it’s heavy,’ said Pierre, immediately regretting using the word ‘it’. The trouser leg slipped away, leaving Pierre holding onto the man’s leg. He recoiled at how dry it felt, how flaky the skin.
A small crowd of spectators had congregated, including Pierre’s mother, clasping a handkerchief to her mouth, although he wasn’t sure whether it was because of the smell or the emotion. ‘Careful,’ urged Kafka as they eased the body onto the wood. And there he lay; a nameless soldier heaped face down on an old green door. It didn’t seem right.
‘Take him to Monsieur Breton,’ said Lucienne.
‘No, take him straight to the church, hand him over to Father de Beaufort,’ said another voice from the crowd.
‘What do we do?’ asked Kafka. ‘The undertaker or the church?’
‘Cut out the middleman, take him to the church.’
‘The funeral parlour is there for a reason, Georges; to clean him up and all that.’
‘The church is nearer.’
‘Not sure we should use that as a criterion.’
‘Perhaps we should have a vote on it.’
‘But people are coming and going all the time.’
‘Only men should vote.’
‘And those over twenty-one.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ said Lucienne. ‘Georges, you were given the responsibility – you decide.’
Xavier whispered in Pierre’s ear, ‘Your mother should be the mayor.’ Indeed, thought Pierre, feeling a rare surge of pride for his mother.
‘The undertaker it is. Should we not turn him around?’
‘You might be right,’ said Kafka.
‘More dignified.’
‘OK, boys. We’ll twist him clockwise.’ The four of them tried to turn the body clockwise which meant Pierre and Xavier, at their end, going the opposite direction of the men. ‘No,’ said Kafka. ‘What I meant...’
For the first time they saw the man’s face; his dark but sallow skin, the hollow eyes, still open.
‘He’s from North Africa,’ said Kafka. ‘Algerian. Perhaps Moroccan.’
‘He might have his papers in a pocket.’
‘We’ll leave that to Breton.’
‘We need to close his eyes.’
But no one did. Instead, they stood and looked down at the man, the man from North Africa who had tried to keep France free. He had failed. They had all failed. Pierre thought of the German who had done this; how he so easily took another man’s life; how he kicked away the water, denying the man everything. And then he had walked on; just walked away. Pierre couldn’t understand; how could a man do that; how could life be so cheap? How did one become so hard? It was why France had lost. We’re too soft. To win meant beating the Nazis at their own game; to toughen up. But how in the hell do you go about achieving that?
And so, it was to Monsieur Breton they went; one man at each corner, the boys at the back with the feet, the lighter end. As they carried their heavy but precious cargo, people stopped. Men took their hats off; women crossed themselves and shielded the eyes of their children. Pierre felt as if the body, with his eyes still open, was staring at him. He tried not to look back. After five minutes, panting in the heat, they arrived at the funeral parlour but, like every business in the town, it was closed; the shutters pulled across the window. ‘We’ll have to wait,’ said Kafka. And so they did; the body on its door, on the tarmac. Kafka re-lit his pipe. Pierre and Xavier pulled a face at each other; they were both thinking the same: it didn’t need all four of them to wait for Monsieur Breton’s return. But to say so seemed disrespectful. Neither could bring themselves to say it and so they remained. It was almost thirty minutes before Breton returned.
‘My word, sorry to keep you waiting. What does it take to get a drink around here? Were you here long?’
‘About–’
‘Let’s get him in, the poor chap, away from all these people. This way,’ he said, unlocking the door. After the brightness of the day, it took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness inside. Monsieur Breton flung open the shutters, and blades of sunlight filled his reception area. ‘Just bring him through to the back.’
Having laid out the body on Breton’s marble slab, Georges took the door. The four men made to leave. ‘Can I ask, gentleman,’ said Breton, ‘to whom I should present my bill?’
‘Your what?’ snapped Kafka.
‘I don’t work for free, you know. Would you? Work for nothing?’
Kafka and Georges exchanged glances. ‘He died for you,’ bellowed Kafka, ‘fighting for your country. Is that not enough?’
‘No, frankly, it is not. I work in a relatively small town. Not enough people die; I barely scrape by. You may live off the fat of the land, Monsieur Kafka, but I have a family; I can not.’
‘My heart bleeds, but may I suggest, Monsieur Breton, that for a man who fought for your freedom, you waive your fee in this instance?’
‘Fought for my freedom? What sentimental nonsense. Did you see that rabble?’ said Breton. ‘What a sad sight. Made me ashamed to be a Frenchman. No wonder we lost.’
‘I suggest you hold your tongue.’
‘You suggest a lot, Kafka. But whatever you say, we lost and it’s no wonder. Who knows, a bit of German discipline might do us some good. Our children could do with a dose of it. Help toughen up young lads like these two.’ Pierre was surprised to find Breton feeling his upper arm. Was he meant to flex his bicep, he wondered?
It happened quickly. Kafka pushed Breton against the wall, grabbing the undertaker by his throat. ‘That poor sod died fighting for the likes of you.’
‘Fat lot of good it did us, eh, Monsieur Kafka?’
Kafka tightened his grip. Breton spluttered, his face reddening, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
‘Papa, stop him,’ urged Pierre in a whisper.
Georges grabbed Kafka’s wrists and pulled them away. Kafka relented, let go, snorting. Breton coughed and eased the pain from his throat. ‘You... you maniac,’ he gasped. ‘Get out!’
‘We’re leaving alright. You just make sure you prepare this body properly; no short cuts. Understand?’
Kafka stormed out. ‘What fine company you keep, Georges Durand,’ said Breton. ‘What a fine example to these boys.’ Pierre and Xavier glanced at each other.
‘He’s a patriot, Breton; something you don’t appreciate. Come on, boys, let’s go.’
Pierre opened the door as his father struggled out with the green door. As he was about to leave, Georges said, ‘Monsieur Breton, if I can also suggest something, you could present your bill to the mayor.’
Kafka was waiting further up the road, his back to them, a haze of smoke circling above his head. ‘Here, you boys take this,’ said Georges leaning the door against a building.
‘Where are you going, Papa?’
‘Kafka and I have business to discuss.’ Pierre watched his father walk up to Kafka. Together the two men headed off.
‘Jesus,’ said Xavier. ‘What a day. Do you want a cigarette?’
‘You smoke?’
‘I do now. Nicked them from my dad. Here, I have two.’
With cupped hands, Xavier lit both cigarettes, passing one to Pierre. The smoke hit the back of Pierre’s throat, taking him by surprise, making his eyes water. He swallowed down a cough. The whole sensation was rather unpleasant. His legs felt woolly; he felt the need to sit down. But no, he wasn’t going to give in. It was time to be a man.
They’d almost finished their cigarettes when Xavier said, ‘Watch out, here comes your mother
.’
‘Shit. Where? Here, take this,’ he said, hurriedly passing his cigarette to his friend.
‘Pierre. Hello, Xavier, again. Here you are. Did you manage to take the...?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t find your father anywhere and I would like to go home now. Would you escort me, please?’
‘The house is only over–’
‘Pierre.’
‘Yes, OK. OK.’
‘Pierre, have you been smoking?’ she asked, intensifying the use of her fan.
‘No,’ Pierre said, quickly.
‘It’s me, Madame Durand,’ said Xavier stepping forward. ‘I smoke.’
‘You must be very addicted, Xavier, to have to smoke two cigarettes at a time.’
‘Y-yes. Its... it’s been a difficult day, Madame Durand.’
‘Yes, it has. Come, Pierre, take me home now.’
‘Yes, Maman,’ he said, trying to suppress a sigh.
*
That evening, the atmosphere at home was equally subdued. They sat in the kitchen, Pierre and his father reading while Lucienne knitted, the click-clack of her knitting needles being the only sound. Georges lit a cigarette; Lucienne pushed an ashtray towards him, a gentle reminder not to drop his ash on the floor. Pierre was flicking through a book on French artists, skim-reading a passage on the life of Auguste Rodin. A shiny plate featuring Rodin’s The Kiss took up a whole page. Pierre studied it, turning the book this way and that, admiring such a piece of work that somehow combined the classical and the modern. But the more he studied it, the less he saw and the greater the image of the bayonet, the crumpled figure on the road, the blazing sun, the German killer. Somewhere, faraway in Algeria, a woman, a mother, had no idea that today, in a small town in northern France, her son had been murdered. In cold blood.
The White Venus Page 4