‘Oi, you two, come back here, you scamps.’
A minute later, having escaped the bakery, they stopped running. Two German soldiers passed, walking slowly.
‘Morning,’ said Xavier between breaths.
No response. Pierre whispered, ‘Tell them to check out the bakery.’
‘You are a sod.’ He waited until the soldiers were out of earshot, then asked, ‘So, what was all that about?’
Pierre laughed. ‘I’ll tell you later. It’s strange, though, everyone seems to have changed in the last few days.’
‘The whole world’s changing; hadn’t you noticed? Soon there won’t be a Europe; we’ll just be one vast German Empire, the swine.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. So, what do we do about it?’
‘Go to the library. My mum told me to hand this book back in.’
‘It’s big.’
‘Marcel Proust.’
‘That’s big.’
‘It’s called Remembrance of Things Past. Looks dead boring to me.
‘It’s big.’
‘Stop saying that. Anyway, why were you at the baker’s?’
‘Buying a skirt.’
‘You are an idiot as well as a sod. Come on, you can come with me. You’ll get to see Claire stamping books.’
‘Do you think she’ll say shush for me?’
‘Tickle her feet, she might.’
The library stood alone – a small, solitary building beneath a looming oak tree at the end of a quiet street. It was known less for its books than for the surrounding garden that the previous librarian had tended with much care. The path leading up to the library entrance cut through an abundance of summer flowers, the names of which Pierre didn’t know. But what made him stop in his tracks was the sight of his father walking briskly in front of him. He was about to call out but thought better of it.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Xavier.
‘No idea.’
‘Maybe he fancies Claire.’
‘Piss off; she’s mine.’
‘Yes, right.’
‘She just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘Well, let’s find out what your dad’s doing there.’
*
After the heat of the morning, the library felt deliciously cool. Pierre and Xavier found Claire, wearing, thought Pierre, a fetching blue frock, behind the counter, running her finger down the spines of a pile of books. ‘What brings you two here?’ she asked. A skylight in the roof allowed in a slither of light, illuminating tangles of cobwebs; behind Claire’s counter, mounted on the wall, another portrait of Marshal Pétain.
Xavier handed over the Proust while Pierre strolled round the library looking for his father. The shelves backed high against the wall, beneath the small square-shaped windows. A couple of stacks jutted out, books either side. It didn’t take long to confirm that his father wasn’t there.
‘What are you doing?’ he heard Xavier ask Claire.
‘Rooting out banned books.’
‘You’re doing what?’
Pierre returned to the counter, now thoroughly puzzled. ‘Pierre’s Major H was here earlier,’ she said.
‘He’s not my Major H.’
‘He gave me this list,’ she said, holding a piece of paper, ‘and said if I had any of these books I had to remove them from the shelves.’
Xavier scanned his eyes down the pile of books. ‘Shakespeare? Dumas? Are they banned?’
‘They are now.’
‘They should ban that Proust; it could be used as a weapon, it’s so heavy.’
‘Are you all right, Pierre?’
‘Have you seen my father? We saw him come in here – just a minute before us.’
‘Your father?’ She shook her head. ‘No, he’s not been in.’
‘But–’
‘I said no.’
‘And Victor Hugo?’ said Xavier. ‘Why would Les Miserables be banned?’
‘Ask Pierre.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, come on, Pierre,’ said Xavier. ‘Why’s your major banned Hugo?’
‘He’s not my–’
‘And why have you got him up there?’ asked Xavier, pointing to the portrait of Pétain.
‘Why do you think?’
‘Pierre’s major.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I will not rise to the bait.’
Claire patted his arm.
Pierre decided to try again. ‘So, my father – he didn’t–’
She lowered her eyes. ‘No.’
‘No.’
The door swung open, and there, wielding a baton, was the major. On seeing the assembled, he stopped in his tracks. The four of them looked at each other while an undercurrent of surprise, mild embarrassment and awkwardness skirted from one to another. ‘Hello again, Pierre, Xavier. Well, this is quite a little gathering.’ Turning to Claire, he clicked his heels. ‘Mademoiselle, how have you got on with the list?’
‘I didn’t think you’d be back so soon, Major.’
‘I couldn’t resist your charms too long. Anyway, I was passing.’
Pierre noticed Claire’s face redden; her finger twirling a coil of hair. ‘I’ve made a start. We haven’t got all these books.’
‘I see. Some excellent titles here, Mademoiselle.’
‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘Xavier here was just wondering–’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
Claire laughed.
The major leant against the counter. ‘And do you have any of these books behind the scenes? A basement perhaps?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ replied Claire.
‘I see.’
‘Can I offer you a coffee, Major?’
‘A library that serves coffee? That’s progress.’
‘No but... In my office, if you like.’
‘We never get offered coffee,’ said Xavier.
‘Very kind of you, Mademoiselle. As much as I could linger within these walls of literary merit all day, I have things to see to. I bid you good day.’ With another click of the heels, he saluted and left, tapping his baton against his leg.
‘Did you see that?’ said Xavier.
‘He clicked his heels.’
‘Twice,’ said Pierre.
‘I have things to see to. I bid you good day, Mademoiselle.’
‘At least he didn’t say Heil Hitler.’
‘Shut up,’ said Claire. ‘Both of you.’
‘Do you have a basement?’
‘No. Well, perhaps.’
*
They waited some distance away from the library on the other side of the road, behind a tree that stood alone on a square of grass. Lying on their fronts within the tree’s shadow, they plucked at blades of grass. A few people passed but no one took any notice of a couple of teenagers lounging round on the green. Xavier lit a cigarette. Pierre took a few puffs and immediately began to feel sleepy. As he dozed off, he wondered what his father was doing in the library basement, especially as he was behind in his job of completing the headstone for the Algerian. Was that why he kept rushing off, pretending to be doing errands, when in fact he was meeting Kafka and the others?
But it was the way Claire and the major spoke to each other that really perturbed him. Perhaps Claire had been merely using her charms to distract the major from what was happening in the basement but Pierre feared it was more than that. They spoke as if they’d known each other for a while and Pierre didn’t like it one little bit.
They’d been there for over half an hour when Xavier nudged Pierre hard in the ribs. ‘That’s Bouchette coming out,’ he said. Monsieur Bouchette ran the local garage.
‘We didn’t see him go in,’ said Pierre, rubbing his ribs.
‘How do you know? You were asleep? A fine lookout you’d make. But you’re right, we didn’t. Look at him, looking left, right and everywhere. The idiot.’
‘How not to draw attention to yourself.’
‘He’s got a book though. Let’s hope it isn’t Les Mi
serables. So where’s your dad?’
‘And who else is in there?’
Five minutes later, Monsieur Dubois emerged, wearing a blue beret, also carrying a book, heading in the direction of the town square.
‘Bloody hell, he’s carrying the Proust. He can hardly read a shopping list let alone something like that.’
‘Wait, here’s my father.’
They watched him hurry away from the library. The boys melted back behind the tree as Georges passed them, a book under his arm. ‘He’d better be going home to work on the Algerian headstone; otherwise he’ll have the mayor after him.’
‘And look who it is...’
Standing at the library entrance, lighting his pipe, was Kafka. Throwing away the match, he looked up to the sun, smiled to himself, and walked off.
‘The whole bloody town is up to something and we’re not invited,’ said Xavier.
‘We’ll just have to do our own thing then.’
‘What – you and me? Our own two-man cell?’
‘Exactly. I’ve got an idea. Meet me here at nine.’
‘At nine? Kraut time? You’ve got to be joking. That’s curfew.’
‘All the better. Less people around.’
*
Sitting in the kitchen with his parents and the major, Pierre began regretting his haste. He pretended to read while wondering how he could extricate himself at this time of evening without arousing suspicion. His father and the major were talking music and books while his mother dried the plates. Despite saying otherwise, the major now seemed to be eating with the family most evenings. Not that they minded as he often returned from his work with something to eat – a cut of lamb, fresh vegetables, things that were harder to come by with each passing day. Pierre listened as his father extolled the delights of Beethoven and Brahms and German composers generally, while the major lauded Debussy and Ravel, and other great French composers. They seemed to be falling over each other in their praises. Lucienne, stacking the plates, winked at him.
‘And you’re reading Flaubert, I see, Monsieur Durand. You got that from the library?’
‘Yes; this morning.’
‘How strange. He was on my list.’
‘List?’
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Pierre.
‘Already?’ said Lucienne. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘Well, wait there, I have some–’
‘No, Maman, I’d rather just go to sleep. I’m tired anyway.’
‘Tired?’ said Georges. ‘But you’ve not done anything today.’
‘Nonetheless.’
‘Pierre was also at the library this morning,’ said the major. ‘Weren’t you, Pierre?’
‘Were you?’ said Georges.
‘Not for long. Goodnight.’
Pierre took off his boots and placed them under his bed, putting on a pair of soft-soled running shoes. He sighed; this was a ludicrous idea. His door had no lock and he could hardly wedge it shut with the chair. He just hoped if his mother came in she would know enough not to say anything – at least not in front of the major. But he was committed now; he couldn’t abandon his friend. He took some clothes out of his wardrobe, folded them over and put them on his bed, under the blanket. It was nowhere near enough. In the end, he had to use every item of clothing he had in order to create a human shape.
Earlier, Pierre had left a can of red paint together with a brush, a flat-headed screwdriver and a couple of pages from a newspaper behind the shed. Now, having put his tools of sabotage into his haversack, he slipped out of the yard and into the night. Still warm, the atmosphere outside was heavy with heat, and how silent the evening; not even the slightest wind to disturb the leaves. It was almost dark but, once his eyes had come accustomed, still plenty of light to see by. There were no street lamps – the Germans had seen to that. The people of the town certainly took the curfew seriously – not a soul in sight; all hidden away behind their shutters. The thought gave him courage – he and his friend were the only ones, out of all these people, prepared to make a stand against their occupiers. One day, maybe years ahead, he would be remembered and feted; for this, he decided, was but the start. They would tell no one for now and the whole town would wonder, as one, who was this hero in their midst; the mysterious fighter prepared to make a stand? Perhaps he would tell Claire. And she would fall in love with him. He visualised her yellow skirt, her soft legs. Calm down, Pierre, calm down, he told himself. He resisted the urge to run; after all, he was in no hurry. He heard the town hall clock chime nine o’clock. For a moment, he thought he saw movement up ahead. He stepped back into the shadows. Deciding it was nothing he moved cautiously on. He realised how much he was enjoying himself; every sense was on full alert, acutely aware of his surroundings, his heart pumping, and it felt great. He told himself he had to breathe deeply, to relax his muscles; he felt invincible yet, at the same time, knew he had to act with utmost trepidation.
He reached the tree where he had arranged to meet Xavier but there was no sign of him. A little bit of enthusiasm slipped away; he felt himself deflate. But it was only a couple minutes past nine. Xavier would show. He leant against the tree, facing away from the street, and waited. Nearby, an owl hooted. He counted the seconds in his head. Sixty seconds. Then another. The more he waited, the more he felt his courage draining away. He knew, if necessary, he could do this alone but he needed the reassurance of his friend’s presence. On a more practical level, he needed a lookout. Bloody Xavier, where in the hell are you? He thought of home; thought of his bed, and wished now he was back there. What was he thinking of? Suddenly he saw his town, this place he’d known all his life, in a new light. It seemed bigger and in its utter silence a rather frightening place. A town of the dead, of the cowed. Sixty seconds more. He’d give him just one more minute while he tried to work out what to do. He would do it; damn him, he’d show him that he, Pierre Durand, had the bravery to act alone, a solitary act of defiance. It was better that way. He thought of Claire; he thought of his father, his mother. They’d be proud of him. The romantic within was coming back to the fore.
Leaving the safety of the tree, Pierre embarked on the walk up to the town square; his heart pumping furiously inside. Feeling a little sick, he tried to breathe away his nerves as each step took him closer to his fate. Constantly he looked round him, straining his eyes for even the smallest movement, checking for places he could hide in if need be. He was passing Monsieur Breton’s, the undertaker’s. The thought of the dead Algerian inside gave him renewed strength. If the Algerian could give his life for France, then the least Pierre could do was to make his small but symbolic stand for freedom.
The high-pitched noise made him jump. He squealed in fright as he fell back against the undertaker’s wall, the can of paint clanking against the brickwork. He saw the glint of light in the eyes of the cat, a little black and white thing, before it scurried away. Pierre leant against the wall, catching his breath, and rolled his eyes heavenward.
He pushed himself on; his legs weakened by the fright. He was nearing the bend in the road now, buildings on either side and no doorways to hide in. Here he knew he would be vulnerable. He feared he heard voices – German voices. Peering round, the town square came into view – Soldier Mike, the town hall with its huge swastika banners hanging down, the square of grass, the decorative trees. And there crowded round a bench beneath one of the trees the silhouettes of about five German soldiers, talking, smoking, occasionally laughing. He stepped back. Doubt seeped through him again. What was he thinking; why was he doing this? What if they caught him; what would they do to him? He was only sixteen; they’d let him off, surely, with no more than a verbal clip round the ear. The voices – they’d stopped. Perhaps they were coming. He had to run back but instead he glanced round the corner. He saw them walking leisurely away in the opposite direction; their rifles against their shoulders. Oh, the relief. He had to act now – a moment’s hesitation and he
’d lose his nerve for good. He waited until the soldiers had moved out of view, then, holding his bag to his chest, sprinted across the cobble-stoned road and to the nearest tree. He’d made it this far. The bravado chased away the demons of doubt. The clock showed nine fifteen. Was that all, he thought; he felt as if he’d been out on his mission for hours. Checking to see the coast was clear, he dashed for the next tree. He plucked a leaf. From the tree, a quick run to the war memorial. It was only now that the thought occurred to him that the Germans might post a sentry at the doors of the town hall. But, as far as he could make out, they had not. He almost laughed. He’d got to the last tree, the last point of safety. The town hall door was just a few yards away, a little stretch of no man’s land between him and it.
Checking again for movement, straining his ears, Pierre took a deep breath, thought of Claire’s smiling face, and stepped out from behind the tree. Across the cobbled stones, he walked quickly, resisting the urge to run. Crouched down by the door, the entrance afforded him the comfort of darkness. Fumbling, he took out the can of paint and eased open the lid with the screwdriver. With paintbrush in hand, he suffered a moment of hesitation – the solid oak door seemed too good to deface. But seconds later he had painted an enormous red ‘V’. He had done it. The rest came easily as he worked quickly. He thought of his mother; she’d be so proud, his dear maman. By the time he was painting the last ‘e’, he was giggling under his breath. Now he felt exultant; felt like screaming with joy. His work done, he wrapped the brush in newspaper and put everything back in his haversack, tying it shut, shaking with excitement.
Making sure again he was still alone, he stepped back and admired his handiwork. In glistening red paint, letters writ large, he had written Vive La Framce. He clenched his eyes shut as the realisation hit him. What a prized idiot; what a bloody fool. He thumped his thigh with frustration. He knew immediately how it had happened – it was the point he’d been thinking about his mother. The ‘m’ for maman had subconsciously gone where the ‘n’ should have been. Could he fix it? No, his nerves were frayed enough; he knew he’d used up his courage for the night, possibly a lifetime; he had to get home. His bed couldn’t come soon enough.
He’d only made it as far as the second tree, the war memorial still ahead of him, Soldier Mike upon his plinth, when the stillness was shattered by the single shout: ‘Halt!’ Had he hesitated a single moment, he would have stopped. Instead, he ran. And ran. ‘Halt!’ came the voice again, this time even more urgent, more threatening. Gripping his bag to stop it clanking against him, he ran knowing his life depended on it, his vision blurred with tears. The sharp crack echoed through the air. He instinctively knew that it was a warning shot, fired high. The next one would be aimed at him. He sensed the German taking aim, closing an eye. Dead at sixteen; shot in the back. Vive La Framce; Vive La fucking Framce.
The White Venus Page 6