‘Are you all right there?’ It was Madame Picard who had reappeared out of nowhere. Her dog sniffed at him. He scrambled to his feet, fighting back the urge to scream, fighting the urge to kick the sodding dog, the ugly mongrel. ‘Are you... are you crying?’ said Madame Picard, relishing the moment.
She stepped back on seeing the look of rage on his face.
He walked quickly, muttering the word ‘bitch’ over and over again, his fingers digging into his scalp. He could feel the bile at the back of his throat. He shook his head, as if trying to free his mind of the image. But it remained, imprinted, refusing to fade away. The image was of Claire – on the counter, her eyes closed, running her fingers through his hair; her skirt ruffled up, her legs around him as he fucked her, his trousers down at his knees. The bitch. They’d kill her if they knew; they’d kill her for that; they’d bloody string her up for fucking a German, a fucking German, the fucking major.
Chapter 7
Pierre stared at his sculpture, wondering whether to carry on with his work. What held him back was the fear that the major would make his usual morning appearance before he went off to work, or to fuck Claire. Pierre couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him. He’d spent the previous evening shut in his room, reading and sketching. He could hear his father and the major talking about art. He pricked up his ears whenever he heard his name mentioned – usually in the form of compliments from the major, about his artistic eye, his feel for sculpture. He waited for his father to say something of his own accord. But no. Nothing. Today for the first time in weeks, there was no sun. Overcast but still warm. His mother had been urging him to go to the town hall and ask if they had any jobs. So far, he’d resisted. His father’s work, although well paid, was sporadic. It was, after all, a strange way of making a living – to wait for someone to die. Fortunately for Georges, his catchment area included the nearby town of Saint-Romain, five kilometres away. It was where the Germans had set up their headquarters; they’d requisitioned a large office block next, apparently, to the dentist’s. But she was right; he needed his own job.
The kitchen door opened. Pierre made to leave. He saw the major. ‘No work today?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Pierre, barging past.
‘Pierre,’ called his mother. ‘If you’re passing the baker’s...’
And so he found himself, again, queuing up at the baker’s. Outside, on the door window, the Germans had put up a notice announcing a blanket ban on anyone attending the funeral of the Algerian, due the following day. Any citizen attempting to attend the funeral will face harsh consequences, it read in bold red letters.
Inside the bakery, Pierre saw Xavier a few places ahead of him. They saluted each other. Monsieur Gide, the baker, was reading aloud from his newspaper. Marshal Pétain, apparently, had now been confirmed as president. ‘He’s too old,’ said Madame Picard. ‘He doesn’t know what day of the week it is.’ ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ came a reply from further up. ‘He’s the right man for the job. At least he’s here, unlike that de Gaulle man, spouting nonsense from his cosy London home.’ ‘You know, Pétain’s found him guilty.’ ‘Who? De Gaulle? How can he? He’s not even here.’ ‘You can try someone in absentia, it’s called. And they’ve found him guilty of treason and he’s to be shot.’ ‘In London? Will the English do that?’ ‘No, not the English. If he steps foot in France again he’ll be arrested and then shot.’ ‘Shush, here come the Germans.’ ‘They’ve got Touvier.’
Pierre recognised the young lieutenant from Café Bleu, Lieutenant Neumann, walking ahead of two privates, his rifle over his shoulder, his belt buckle glinting in the sun. The soldiers were leading a dishevelled Monsieur Touvier, the blacksmith. Pierre slunk back behind Madame Picard; he didn’t want the lieutenant to see him. Touvier, his overalls streaked with the dirt of his trade, was clasping his beret, his eyes looked wide with fright. But as they passed the bakery, Touvier shook himself free of his minders, and shouted at the queue. ‘You have to resist, all of you; before it’s too late, you have to–’
The lieutenant punched him hard in the stomach, bringing Touvier to his knees. He groaned, clutching his stomach while the queue gasped as one. One of the privates kicked him in the ribs. Touvier fell but was immediately scooped up by the other.
‘Leave him alone,’ shouted Monsieur Bouchette, stepping out of the baker’s. Taking his revolver from its holster, the lieutenant strode up to the Frenchman who stood transfixed while those inside melted back. Without a word, the lieutenant pointed his revolver, pressing it against Bouchette’s forehead. The two men glared at each other. Bouchette’s courage took Pierre’s breath away. The thought of that cold barrel against bare skin made him shiver. Slowly, Bouchette put his hands up. With quick movements, the lieutenant returned the gun to its holster and clicked shut the button, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on Bouchette.
He motioned at the privates to follow him. Now gripping the spluttering Touvier more firmly by his arms, they dragged the unfortunate blacksmith away.
The queue breathed a sigh of relief as Bouchette returned indoors. ‘Are you OK, Monsieur Bouchette?’ ‘You’re so brave.’
Pierre and Xavier acknowledged each other with raised eyebrows.
‘Monsieur Touvier is right,’ said Bouchette. ‘We can’t just let the Boches ride roughshod over us.’
‘What did they want with Monsieur Touvier?’
‘Perhaps it was to do with the other night. You know, on the railway.’
For his bravery, Monsieur Bouchette was allowed to jump the queue to be served ahead of everyone else. He left, with two baguettes under his arm, to a round of applause.
*
Xavier and Pierre walked home together, Xavier pushing his bike, a baguette each. ‘You should do that,’ said Xavier.
‘What?’
‘Stand up to the Boches like that.’
‘What and get my head almost blown off?’
‘Yeah, but just think how impressed Claire would be. Girls love that sort of thing.’
Pierre’s stomach ached at the thought of Claire. ‘So, you’re an expert on girls now?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? What’s the matter? You all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We could go out later, maybe–’
‘No. Can’t today.’
*
On returning home Pierre told his mother about the blacksmith. She called Georges in from the yard and made Pierre repeat the tale.
His father blanched. ‘Shit. When did this happen?’
‘About half an hour ago. Maybe more.’
‘And you’ve only just come back?’ He sprang over to the front door, turning the key and bolting it locked.
‘I didn’t want to lose my place in the queue.’
‘You didn’t want to... Oh Lord.’ He began pacing up and down the kitchen. ‘Someone’s talked.’
‘Georges, what’s the matter? What are you talking about?’
He looked at his wife and Pierre, glancing from one to the other. ‘Look, that night up at the railway.’
‘Oh no, please, Georges, don’t tell me you were involved.’
He nodded. He seemed to take no pleasure from confessing his involvement because, Pierre knew, Lucienne would be furious. He waited for the barrage of anger but instead his mother collapsed in tears. ‘Georges, no, I begged you.’
‘I had to. I’ve waited twenty-two years for this; I couldn’t turn away – not now.’
‘I don’t understand – twenty-two years for what?’
‘I can’t explain; they could be here at any moment.’ He started pacing again, running his fingers through his hair.
‘Who? The Germans?’
‘They’ve arrested Touvier. That means I’ll be next. Maybe the others.’
‘What others?’ asked Lucienne, biting her nails.
‘Don’t ask. The less you know the better.’ He stopped, as if an idea had just hit him. ‘Listen, I need to go and
lie low for a while.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘I don’t know,’ he screamed. ‘That’s the problem; I don’t bloody know.’
‘Why don’t you stay at Monsieur Touvier’s?’ suggested Pierre. ‘He lives alone, and they’re hardly likely to return there, not now that they’ve taken him.’
‘My word; that’s not a bad idea. Lucienne, go pack me some clothes. Not too many. Thank you, son.’ Georges briefly hugged him. He felt awkward but Pierre experienced a tremor of pleasure.
‘It’s OK, Papa. It’s OK.’
‘You’re a good lad.’
Lucienne called through from the bedroom, ‘Georges, will you want...’
The urgent rap on the door stopped her short. The three of them stood stock still as if frozen.
‘Open up,’ came the accented voice from outside, pushing at the door.
Georges’s eyes darted left and right. ‘I’ll make a run for it.’
‘Darling, no; they might shoot you.’
His body sagged. ‘You’re right. Pierre, let them in.’
It was strange, thought Pierre, how heavy his arm felt as he lifted his hand to turn the key in the door and undo the bolt.
The Germans barged past, pushing Pierre to one side, as a flurry of grey-green uniforms flooded into the living room. ‘Georges Durand?’ shouted the lieutenant, his revolver drawn. The two privates seized Georges’s arms, twisting them behind his back. He made no resistance. ‘You come with us.’
Lucienne screamed, her hands at her face, her wide eyes full of incomprehension. The soldiers pushed Georges towards the door.
‘Where are you taking him?’ screeched Lucienne.
‘He come with us,’ said the lieutenant, brandishing his revolver at Lucienne.
She stepped back, her eyes full of tears.
Georges managed to stop at the door, next to Pierre. ‘Don’t fight back, son, it’s not...’
With a yank of his arm, the privates pushed him outside. The lieutenant pointed his gun at Pierre and, at that point, recognised him from the café. ‘Heil Hitler,’ shouted the lieutenant, his arm stretched out, before following his men out, laughing to himself.
Pierre caught his father’s eye a second before the door slammed shut. He seemed calm, thought Pierre; resigned almost.
The sudden silence weighed heavily. Lucienne stood, her arm extended, as if seeking her husband’s hand, her features drawn. She seemed to stagger through to the kitchen and plonked down on the armchair. Pierre knew he had to say something, to try and reassure his mother with empty words. Placing an awkward hand on her shoulder, he said, ‘It’ll turn out all right, Maman. Just wait and see.’
‘Yes, Pierre; you’re right. I know you are.’
*
Many hours later, near bedtime, Major Hurtzberger returned to the house. It had been an awful afternoon. Lucienne was beside herself with worry, frequently breaking down in tears, frequently washing her hands. The claustrophobia of her grief was too much for Pierre, who felt totally ill-equipped to handle the situation. He knew circumstances dictated he should hug his mother but having grown up in a less-than-tactile family, it was beyond him. Instead, he found himself agreeing with everything his mother said, even though she said the same things again and again, and making her so many cups of coffee, she complained of a headache. By early evening he was hungry. But how could he mention dinner on a day like this? Fortunately, around seven, his mother went for a lie down to help ease her head and Pierre attempted something he had never tried before – to cook. But the scrambled egg he cooked himself was burnt, littered with fragments of shell, and quite revolting. At least with his father gone, he was able to help himself to a larger portion of baguette than normally allowed. The pan proved almost impossible to clean but it provided a distraction. His mother had made him promise that he wouldn’t go out. It was approaching curfew now, anyway.
He wondered where his father was at that moment. What would they do to him? Would they hurt him, torture him? He had heard such dreadful rumours. How long would they keep him? And what did he mean when he had said he’d waited twenty-two years? Waited for what? Twenty-two years – that made it 1918. The war.
An hour later, Lucienne re-emerged, her hair, usually so neat and carefully brushed, out of place; her eyes red. ‘There is nothing to do except wait until the major returns,’ she said, sitting at the kitchen table. And so they waited, in silence, for an age. When he went to put the light on, his mother asked him not to, she couldn’t face the brightness of artificial light. So denied even the chance to read, Pierre sat in the armchair and, along with his mother, waited for the major’s return. He still hadn’t really spoken to their houseguest since he saw him with Claire. He realised that his anger with Claire, the all-encompassing hurt he had felt, had rapidly faded. Jealously had evaporated, leaving, in its place, a deep sense of disappointment and revulsion – disappointment with the major and revulsion at having caught him in the act. However much he tried, Pierre couldn’t rid the revolting image from his brain. And the more he tried to purge his memory, the more ingrained the image implanted itself. The major had said he and his wife were separated, not divorced, thus he was still a married man. He would have thought that the major, so much older and so cultured, would have been above such baseness.
With the kitchen in total darkness, Pierre began to resent his mother for forcing him to endure this ridiculous situation. Had it not occurred to her that he might not want to sit in the dark for hours on end? When, at some point, he said he wanted to go to bed, Lucienne asked him not to; asked him to wait with her, her voice coming through the dark.
Sitting in the armchair, Pierre had drifted off into a light sleep when his mother said, ‘He’s here.’ Sure enough, he could hear the major’s now distinctive footsteps on the gravel outside, then on the wooden steps. Lucienne buttonholed the major the moment he stepped through the door, bombarding him with questions about her husband. ‘Is there a power cut?’ He flicked the switch. Pierre blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. ‘Why were you sitting here in the dark?’
‘Major, I asked you about my husband. Your colleagues... comrades, whatever you call them, came and took Georges away.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘Oh dear? Is that all you have to say? They came in here, just barged in, and pushed him out of the door and took him away. Did you know about it, Major; did you know he was about to be arrested?’
The major sat down at the table. ‘Not really. I’m sorry to hear this.’
‘Not really? Is that a yes or a no? Did you know, Major?’
He took off his hat. ‘OK, I admit, I knew it was imminent.’
‘Imminent? Did you order his arrest?’
‘No, the order came through from Colonel Eisler.’
‘The officer based in Saint-Romain?’
‘Yes, the Ortskommandantur. Lucienne, you must understand – Georges, the blacksmith and a couple of others, tried to damage the railway line. They did not succeed but that doesn’t diminish the gravity of what they did. We, as the German authorities, take this sort of thing very seriously. Georges knows that. Everyone does. Why, they even had a third party paint the door of the town hall as a sort of diversion. This third party was spotted – a young man but, lucky for him, he evaded capture.’ The major glanced at Pierre. ‘They were prepared to sacrifice a younger member of their community to obtain their objectives.’
‘I heard about the paint. It caused some amusement.’
‘Yes. Probably not the intended reaction.’
‘This is beside the point, isn’t it?’ barked Pierre.
‘I couldn’t ask for a cup of your fine tea, could I, Lucienne?’ Why did his mother’s name always sound so odd when the major used it? He felt pleased that his mother was still calling him by his title.
‘Major, I don’t think you understand how worried I am, and Pierre, both of us. What can I do?’ The major remained silent. ‘Apart from make you you
r blessed tea?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Where are they keeping him?’
‘Headquarters, Saint-Romain. It’s where they take anyone wanted for questioning.’ Pierre hoped it was just questioning.
Lucienne got up to make his tea when the major said, ‘Lucienne, listen, I have a suggestion for you.’
Immediately, she sat down again. ‘Yes? Yes, what is it?’
‘It probably won’t work but no one’s tried it before, at least not to my knowledge. Colonel Eisler is a hard man; he has to be, it comes with the job. But he’s not an unreasonable man.’ Pierre could sense his mother’s spirits lifting. ‘Go and see him. Don’t phone up first; you’ll only be told no. So just go to Saint-Romain, both of you, and demand to see the colonel. Be prepared to wait; all day if need be. Be prepared to return the following day, the day after that. Eventually, Colonel Eisler will grant you an audience.’
‘An audience? Is he the pope?’
‘Tell him Georges is a soldier. Once a soldier, always a soldier. We all have respect for a man in uniform, even the enemy. Tell him you’re all supporters of Pétain. Buy one of those postcards of him and have it in your purse and make sure the colonel sees it. Tell him Georges was led astray, that he hadn’t been aware of what he was being told to do. Make him sound a little simple even. Simple but honest and honourable. It might help if you could borrow a small child; Pierre is too old. It probably won’t make any difference but who knows? Colonel Eisler, I know, is a family man.’
The White Venus Page 9