They heard footsteps. Georges stubbed out his cigarette. A gentle knock on the door. ‘Hello, only me.’ The door opened. It was Major Hurtzberger. A round of ‘good evenings’ ensued, offers of something to eat, a cup of coffee perhaps. A coffee would be very nice, thank you. Do take a seat, Major. ‘Pierre, get up, let the major have the armchair.’
‘No, Pierre, it’s fine, you sit. I’m alright at the table.’
But no, Pierre got up, insisted. He knew what was expected of him. The major sat, a buff-coloured folder on his lap, and let out a sigh of tiredness. He took his coffee. No one was quite sure what to say, so, for a while, they said nothing. Pierre’s father picked up his book, and his mother resumed her knitting. The major leant back, cup in hand, his eyes closed.
Eventually, it was Pierre who spoke. ‘A difficult day, today,’ he said to no one in particular, repeating Xavier’s phrase.
‘Yes,’ said the major. ‘Quite a day. These things happen in war. I understand there was an incident. I hope you weren’t witness to it.’
‘Witness? It happened right there in front of us, Major,’ said Georges. ‘We had ringside seats.’
‘Georges, don’t trivialise it.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the major.
‘Oh dear indeed.’
‘I’m sorry you had to witness such a thing, Monsieur Durand. It was unfortunate. The men who were escorting the prisoners, the one who killed the man, they weren’t Wehrmacht, like I am, like all the garrison here. They are SS.’
‘They’re still German. They’re still one of you.’
‘Yes but we have no jurisdiction over them. And they are, how shall I say, very committed to the cause...’
‘Committed to the–’
The major put his hand up. ‘Please, Monsieur Durand, I beg you to say no more.’
Georges look confused. ‘Say no more? In my own home? I’ll–’
‘Georges, stop,’ said Lucienne. ‘I think what the major is saying is that however cordial we may act within these four walls, he is German, we are French, and it is best if we remember that.’
‘Your wife, Monsieur Durand, is a wise and intelligent woman.’
‘She is also,’ said Lucienne, ‘a very tired woman. I’m off to bed. Georges...’
‘What?’
‘You must be very tired too. And you, Pierre.’
‘You’re telling us when to go to bed now?’
‘It might not be a bad idea, Papa.’
Chapter 5
The following morning, Georges left early to catch a bus to Saint-Romain and arrange a new delivery of marble; after all, he’d said, they’d have a new addition to the graveyard soon, once Monsieur Breton had done his work, and the poor blighter will need a headstone of his own. Pierre decided to make the most of his absence and work on his sculpture. The yard was mainly in shade. With a slight draft, he felt chilled enough to wear a smock. The chickens pecked around him – Mirabelle, Madeleine, Marion, and the rest. All the M’s. He knew at some point he’d be joined by the major. Sure enough, after little more than ten minutes, the back door opened and the major appeared holding a steaming Eiffel Tower cup of coffee. The chickens flapped and fussed. ‘Your mother makes a fine coffee,’ he said. ‘Good morning, Pierre. Should be another fine day. So how’s it going with the White Venus? It’s beginning to take shape, I see. You work fast.’
Yes, thought Pierre. It was a matter of confidence as his father always told him. The more you chipped away, the less there was of the stone left standing and the more important the work. This is the point where things could go wrong. But too much caution can be counter-productive; can act as a break on creativity. This is where you had to firm up your plan and have the conviction in achieving it. No holding back.
‘Listen, Pierre, I was thinking. Once it’s done, your work, would you like to see it displayed at the town hall?’
‘The town hall?’
‘I could have a word with the mayor. I’m sure he would be accommodating.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. That’d be good.’
‘Excellent! Consider it done.’
‘But he might say no.’
‘I’m sure he won’t.’
Pierre might have imagined it but he thought he saw the major wink. He tried not to show it but Pierre was staggered by this. That it could be so simple. He knew full well that if he, or his father, approached the mayor with such a request, they’d be laughed at. But not the major. A click of the fingers and it’s done. This, in a small way, was the meaning of power. He tried to resume his work but felt too conscious of the major’s presence. At least it meant he didn’t have to look at him, so he carried on, making inconsequential chips.
‘Thank you,’ he said – in a whisper.
‘That’s OK. I have a son like you, Pierre.’ He took a large gulp of coffee and stared out over the fields towards the woods. ‘He’s quite a lot like you, really. Joachim. A bit older though. Just turned nineteen. In two years, for his twenty-first, I’m going to give him this.’ He held up his hand, showing Pierre his signet ring.
‘A horse?’
‘Yes. Generations of my family were cavalrymen. It’s a family tradition to be given the ring on one’s twenty-first birthday. Well, the boys. Joachim’s just joined the army. He had no choice really. Not now. He’s already finished his training. When I joined up, we had months of training. Joachim had just a few weeks. Hardly ideal, in my opinion, but these are far from ideal times. The army needs men; the Führer needs men. And Joachim is a man now. He wanted to be a vet. I told him he’ll have plenty of time to be a vet when it’s all finished. When all this is finished. I’d have preferred it had he joined the Luftwaffe. Now there’s a glamorous job. His mother would have preferred it too. But no, he’s in the army, infantry, a foot soldier like me. Here, would you like to see a picture of him?’
Frankly Pierre did not but as the photograph was thrust at him, he had little choice but to ‘oo and err’, as his mother would say. The corner of the photograph was creased, otherwise it was intact. It wasn’t just the boy but the whole family – the major and the boy standing behind his wife and a girl, seated. The girl must have been about ten, her hair in plaits, wearing a white, collared shirt with a cravat. For reasons he didn’t understand, Pierre found the image revolting even though, as individuals, they each seemed pleasant enough. Father and son were in uniform, everywhere little swastikas, on all four of them – a badge, a brooch, a tie, an armband.
‘It was taken about two years ago. Unfortunately, his mother and I are no longer together. Brigitte, my daughter, lives with her mother. Joachim was in the Hitlerjugend.’
‘The what?’
‘Hitler Youth. Brigitte is in the Jungmädel; that’s for girls ten to fourteen. Or is it fifteen? I can’t remember.’
‘Yes, very nice.’ The boy looked big, as tall as his father, broad in the shoulders, proud to be in his uniform. A fine Nazi family. He handed it back. The major looked at it, the familiar picture, smiled, and returned the photograph to his breast pocket.
‘It’s nice to carry a reminder.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, anyway, I ought to be going. Work to be done and all that. Do you ever use your bike?’
‘Occasionally.’
He finished his coffee. ‘Nice to talk to you again, Pierre. You’re a fine lad. See you this evening.’ He made to leave but then, at the kitchen door, stopped. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask – who’s that man on the tightrope in the photograph in your kitchen?’
‘That was my Uncle Jacques. He was killed when I was small. Hit by a car.’
‘Oh. And the photograph of the boy? The boy with the cap?’
A flash of memory shot through Pierre’s mind – a teddy bear with a yellow waistcoat and green trousers. ‘No one,’ he said firmly.
‘And those toys in my room?’ he asked hesitantly. ‘Do they belong...?’
‘No one.’
The major considered his answer for a m
oment; nodded and left.
More images appeared unwanted – a haversack in the water, bubbles, a bucket of worms. He shook his head, trying to free his mind of the memory.
It was only after the major had left that the thought occurred to Pierre that they had no need for any more marble. He checked the shed at the far end of the yard, the warehouse, as his father called it. He was right; there were several slabs of it, enough for many new headstones. So where exactly, he wondered, had his father gone?
*
Later, Pierre found the major talking to his parents. His father was still upset over the killing of the Algerian. ‘There is such a thing as compassion, you know, Major Hurtzberger,’ said Georges. ‘Even in war.’
‘Of course, I realise that.’
‘My husband fought in the last war,’ said Lucienne.
‘I know – I can see the medals from here. And the helmet.’
Pierre was so used to his father’s framed display of medals, he’d quite forgotten they were there.
‘Yes, so don’t tell me about the necessities of war, Major; I was there. I know what it’s like to be expected to kill another man; I know what it’s like to expect to be killed. I once tried to show compassion. Did your father fight? Was he there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps it was him then. Him or someone very much like him. After all, none of us are that different, are we? Whatever side we fight on; whatever cause. I tried to show a man, a German, compassion. I had a choice. That’s what compassion is, isn’t it? You have a choice and you make a decision. A moral choice for which you have a second to decide. I decided. I thought I’d done the right thing, taken the right path, as the church tells us. A moment of compassion, Major Hurtzberger. Unfortunately fate intervened...’
‘Georges, come, dear, you’re being too hard on yourself.’
‘What appals me is that your man acted as if he had no choice. He had every choice. The prisoner was unarmed and harmless. A defeated man. Your SS man murdered him. That wasn’t the act of a soldier; that was the work of a barbarian.’
‘Monsieur Durand, I advise you to be careful. You put too much faith in me. I can appreciate your distaste–’
‘Distaste?’
‘Let me finish. We have reached an understanding, you and I, your family. I regret we’ve had to meet under such circumstances. But I will not tolerate such denigration of Germany’s forces. I have my superiors to answer to. I’m sure, as a former soldier, you understand that.’
‘Yes, I understand, Major Hurtzberger.’
With a bright smile, Lucienne asked, ‘Another coffee, Major?’
He laughed. ‘Most kind, Madame Durand, but no thank you.’
*
Pierre was queuing in the baker’s. After twenty minutes, it was almost his turn. A number of people were behind him. Outside, several children played. Behind the glass-fronted counter were Madame Gide and her ten-year-old daughter, their hair bunched up in hairnets, their aprons dusted in flour, their fingers white with the stuff, looking increasingly flustered with the unending queue of demanding and complaining customers. Until just a few weeks ago, the glass cabinet boasted vast arrays of cakes and cream buns. Not any more. Now it was bread and nothing but bread. And not much of it. Everyone knew that it wasn’t Madame Gide’s fault but still they took the opportunity to chastise her, as if she, and not the Germans, was responsible. Pierre just hoped there’d be some left by the time he got to the front of the queue. They’d heard that the Germans would soon be issuing coupons so that everyone had a fair share. He just hoped they’d hurry up because Madame Claudel, the locksmith’s wife, three in front of him, seemed to be buying up the whole shop. It was stiflingly hot inside, with so many people, and the sun streaming through the large window, exposing myriad streaks of grease on the glass. Behind him stood Madame Clément who kept tutting at the amount of time it was taking and complaining to Madame Picard behind her, while her child had a continual sniff which, after a while, Pierre found mildly irritating. If he’d had a handkerchief, he would have given it to her. Madame Picard pulled away her dog, a white terrier, from Madame Clément’s child. But time, at least, now passed quickly as everyone discussed in hushed but animated tones what Monsieur Gide, the baker, had just heard on the BBC in London. While his wife and daughter continued serving their customers, he had been at the back clandestinely listening to the radio. He came out and told everyone, loudly, what he had just heard, and he was not happy about it. ‘How dare he?’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know; some general. Never heard of him. But he was on the radio – just now. Talking nonsense about carrying on the fight.’
‘What did he say exactly?’
‘I’ll tell you, I wrote some of it down. Listen.’
The queue gathered together, becoming not so much a line but a circle of people, all eager to hear what Monsieur Gide had heard.
‘Of course, I didn’t get all of it but I got the gist.’
‘Go on then.’
The baker adjusted his rimless spectacles and cleared his throat. He was enjoying this, thought Pierre; more concerned he should not lose his place in the queue. ‘He said, “France is not alone”. That with our empire and the British, we can defeat the Germans. He said, “Is defeat final? No.” Then later, he said, “The flame of the French resistance must not be extinguished.” Or something like that.’
‘Was that it?’
‘No, of course not, Madame Claudel, there was a lot more, but I’m not a secretary taking a dictation, you know. He spoke quickly.’
Madame Claudel huffed. ‘So where he is, this general?’
‘In London.’
‘London?’ came the chorus.
‘Shush, keep your voice down.’ Emerging from the sudden silence, Madame Clément’s child continued sniffing. ‘Pierre,’ said Monsieur Gide, ‘keep an eye out the door, make sure no Boches are passing.’
‘What? Me? But I’ll lose my–’
‘Go on, boy,’ said Monsieur Gide, waving his arm. ‘If anyone comes, shout, What, no more baguettes today?’
‘You want me to shout that?’
‘Do as he says,’ said Madame Bonnet, standing next to her husband, the chemist.
‘Such insolence,’ agreed Madame Clément.
‘So what’s he’s doing in London, this man on the radio?’ asked Monsieur Bonnet.
‘Telling us to fight.’
‘Oh, that’s awfully decent of him. Easy for him to say that safely tucked away in England.’
Pierre stood at the door, keeping it ajar, trying to listen while glancing up and down the street. In the distance, he could see Xavier ambling with a hefty book under his arm.
‘Gide, you must remember his name.’
‘It sounded French.’
‘No surprise there, Gide; we’re all bloody French.’
‘Monsieur Bonnet, please mind your language in front of my lady customers.’
‘My apologies, ladies,’ said Monsieur Bonnet, removing his beret in a sweeping movement.
‘I think his name was Gaulle. Or de Gaulle. That was it – General de Gaulle.’
‘I see what you mean, that is a French-sounding name. So this General de Gaulle in London says we’re to rely on the British?’ said Bonnet loudly.
‘Keep your voice down, man. But yes, in essence.’
‘The British?’ shrieked Madame Picard. ‘Well, we’ve seen what the British can do.’
‘That’s right,’ said Bonnet. ‘First bit of trouble and they’re scrambling back home, sobbing all the way from Dunkirk. We lost the war because of them. Traitors.’
‘They fought to the last drop of French blood before running away.’
‘My husband says we lost the war because of the communists,’ said Madame Claudel.
‘How’s that then?’
‘And the Jews,’ shouted Madame Picard. ‘Despicable lot.’
‘Exactly. The Jews stole all the petrol.’
‘The Bernheims are Jewish and they’re quite nice,’ said Madame Bonnet. ‘Very nice, in fact.’
‘Wolves in sheep’s clothing,’ muttered her husband behind his hand. ‘Don’t trust them, my dear.’
Pierre beckoned his friend over. ‘Psst, Xavier, come here.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Buying bread, you fool. What do you think I’m doing? Listen, I dare you to shout out, What, no more baguettes today?’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Go on. Double dare.’
‘What, no more baguettes today?’ he said.
‘No, that’s no good; no one heard. Do it louder.’
Xavier shrugged his shoulders and repeated the phrase with volume.
Inside the shop, customers clashed into each other as a surge of panic took hold. ‘Quick, they’re coming.’
‘Back in line,’ urged Monsieur Gide. ‘Back in line. Quick, quick.’
‘I was before you,’ Pierre heard Madame Clément say.
‘No, you certainly were not.’
Another woman moaned, ‘I wasn’t this far back,’ as she was pushed past Pierre and out into the street. ‘This is outrageous.’
‘Have you not bought enough already, Madame Claudel?’ said a voice inside. ‘There are other people, you know.’
‘I have a big family.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Still at the door, Pierre and Xavier started laughing. He heard Madame Picard’s voice. ‘Good God, your child has just wiped his nose on me.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Disgusting child. Can’t you wipe its nose?’
‘But, Gide,’ said Monsieur Bonnet, ‘you still have loads of baguettes.’
‘For goodness sake, did you not hear me say? That was my code for the boy Durand.’
‘But he didn’t say it, that other boy did.’
Suddenly aware of all the faces turning round, Pierre pulled on Xavier’s sleeve. ‘I think we should go,’ he whispered. ‘Quick, run.’
The White Venus Page 5