‘What can I say?’ he asked with a hint of an exasperated smile.
‘Colonel, would I be allowed to give my husband a clean shirt? I've heard you permit such things.'
'Yes, that's perfectly acceptable. We may be severe sometimes but we're not savages. A man needs a clean shirt every now and then. If you want to give it to me.'
Lucienne passed him her carefully wrapped parcel. The colonel undid the packaging and held the shirt aloft, inspecting it. He found Lucienne’s message straightaway. Lucienne flushed red. He cast his eyes over the note, screwed it up and threw it in a bin at his feet.
'I'll make sure he gets it,' he said, handing it to the guard. 'You can put your postcard away, Madame Durand. Now, I shall tell you what happens next. We are investigating the attempted derailment of our train, and those found guilty will be retained here as punishment for up to six months. On release, they will be monitored. Any further transgressions would likely result in more severe punishment. I hope I’ve made myself clear?'
'Yes, thank you, Colonel.'
'You may, on occasion, like today, bring in provisions, small food parcels and such like. Do not ever attempt to smuggle in messages again otherwise your husband's stay here will automatically be extended.' Pierre made a conscious effort not to look at his mother. 'Now, if you don't mind, I have a lot of other business to see to.'
'Yes, of course.' Lucienne rose to her feet, her face flushed. 'Pierre...?'
'Before you go, however, I'd like a word with your son. In private.'
'Oh.' Lucienne looked at Pierre. 'In private?'
'Please.'
Lucienne looked flustered as she gathered her things. Pierre stood still, trying to maintain a look of impassivity, while wondering what on earth the colonel wanted.
The guard held the door open for Lucienne, who retreated with a final, worried look at her son.
'Right then,' said the colonel. 'Take a seat. Cigarette?' He pushed forward a pack towards Pierre.
Pierre looked at it. He was tempted but his mother would smell it on him. 'No, thanks.' The colonel took one and, finding a box of matches, lit it.
'So, when are you seventeen?' he asked, blowing out of column of smoke.
'Four months.'
'Old enough. Good.' He sat back in his chair and considered the young man opposite him.
Pierre felt as if he was being assessed and tried to hold the German's gaze. Failing, he glanced up at Hitler. A little jolt of apprehension ran down his back.
'What I am about to say is between you and me,' said the colonel. 'Is that understood? Not a word.' Pierre nodded. 'I wasn't being entirely honest with your mother. The fact is your father has been identified as being one of the ringleaders of this puerile attempt at sabotage. Now, if we show leniency, it would merely encourage others. This cannot be. Your father is due to be executed.'
'Shit, no.' The word tumbled out. His hand went to his mouth. Pierre looked aghast at the colonel, not totally sure he'd heard correctly.
'Tomorrow morning. Five o'clock.'
'No. Please. It wasn't that serious, no one–'
'It's not for you, young man, to tell us what we deem to be serious.' The colonel blew out another puff of smoke. Pierre felt a wave of nausea cloud his thoughts. 'But you can save him.'
'I'm sorry?'
'You heard me correctly. I said you can save your father from the firing squad tomorrow morning.'
'What can I do?' He tried to think but it was as if a thousand contradictory thoughts were rushing through his mind.
'Your father, I believe, was acting under orders. Someone else was the brains behind this little operation and I want to know who before he tries something else, something more adventurous, let's say.'
Immediately, Pierre thought of Kafka.
'Would you know who this man might be?'
Pierre tried to think of what his father would want him to say. 'No, I’m sorry.'
'Pity. We asked your father but he refused to name any names. I admire his stubbornness.'
'Did you–'
'We asked him. Let's leave at that, shall we?'
'Can I have some water?’
The colonel reached over and poured Pierre a glass. Sliding it over the table, he continued. 'I could ask you just to go home, find out the name and bring it to me. But that'd be too simple. I want more.'
Pierre gulped his water down. 'More?' He placed the glass on the desk and realised his hand was shaking.
'Yes, more. I want you to go to this man and offer yourself as your father's replacement. Become one of them, this merry band of resisters. Find out what they're doing; become party to their plans. Then report back to Major Hurtzberger.'
'The major?'
'Yes, he has been briefed. He'll be expecting good things from you. If you agree, I will guarantee no one save myself and the major will know, and I will order a stay of execution.'
'But I can't. I'm only sixteen; they won't let me in.'
'Who's they?'
'I don't know. Whoever they are.'
'Come, come, you're almost seventeen. You told me. Need I remind you what's at stake? By just having this conversation, you've kept your father alive for a further five days.'
‘Five days?'
The colonel looked at his watch. ‘Five days. That's how long you have to inform the major that you have infiltrated the group. Now, I've kept you long enough. You'd better not keep your mother waiting any longer. Off you go.'
The guard appeared at Pierre's side, casting a sinister shadow over him. 'Can I see my father?’
‘No.’
‘How do I go about–’
‘That’s for you to work out.’
The two of them locked eyes. Pierre felt the man’s power invade his being.
‘Five days, don’t forget,’ said the colonel.
‘Can... can I take a cigarette for later?'
The colonel smiled an icy smile. 'Here, take the pack.' He threw it over.
As the guard escorted Pierre to the door, the colonel spoke. 'Remember, young man – not a word to anyone, including your mother. Especially your mother.'
*
With the colonel's cigarettes in his back pocket, Pierre descended the stairs, the guard behind him. He found his mother in the waiting room, now empty except for Lucienne and another guard.
'Pierre. Is everything OK?'
'Yes. Let's go home,' he said.
Outside, under the beating sun, they headed back towards the bus station, their shadows behind them. Everywhere were Germans, laughing, taking photos of each other, shopping for jewellery and souvenirs.
'Idiots,' growled Pierre under his breath.
Lucienne glanced behind her. Satisfied they were out of earshot, she asked Pierre why the colonel had wanted to see him.
‘I can’t say.’ He hoped his voice was firm enough to dissuade her from pressing him.
She stopped suddenly. She reached out for his hand. He refused to give it. With her hand resting on his sleeve, she spoke quietly. ‘Pierre, please, what did he want? You were in there for such a long time; I’m worried for you.’
‘I’m not allowed to say and, anyway, you don’t want to know.’
‘He’s asked you to do something. For the love of God, you’re sixteen; you’re a boy.’ Her eyes narrowed, her shoulders flexed. ‘How dare he.’ She turned abruptly, and made to walk back.
‘What are you doing?’
‘If you’re not going to tell me, the colonel can.’
He reached out for her. ‘No, you can’t do that.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
He had to jog to keep pace with her. ‘What are you doing?’ he repeated. He ran in front of her, then stopped her as she tried to sidestep past him. ‘Maman, this is not one of my old teachers you’re dealing with, it’s a...’ He stopped himself before saying something unflattering about the Germans.
‘Tell me then.’
‘Look at me. Yes, I am young, but I am no longer a
boy. This war has made men of us all. You just have to trust me.’
She seemed to diminish in front of him, her verve draining away. ‘They took my husband and now, somehow, they have you. Promise me, Pierre, whatever it is, you’ll be careful.’
He tried to smile a reassuring smile. ‘Yes, OK, I promise I’ll be careful.’
Chapter 10
Pierre could only stare at his work. Chisel in hand, he had neither the strength nor the will to apply it. It was early; the yard was still mostly in shade. The hens pecked at the grain he had just scattered while Maurice, the cock, strutted around. The sculpture had broadly taken on the height and shape that he had been aiming for. One could see that it was a woman. But now came the part where more detail was needed – to separate her arms from her body, to slim down her neck, her ankles. Having come this far, he felt a strange responsibility for her. He had to give her characteristics, features. Her had to give life. She provided him the means to escape but he realised now, that she was as dependent on him as he was on her. He stroked her shoulder. ‘Give me time,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll get you out of there.’ They had questioned him, the colonel had said; they had tortured him. ‘Give me time.’
‘And now you talk to her.’
Pierre screwed his eyes shut. He wanted to be left alone. He no longer enjoyed this routine – the major’s daily intrusion into his thoughts. Pierre turned. The major stood there, in his uniform, his cap, coffee mug in hand. It annoyed him that his mother would have made him that coffee. Coffee was a fast disappearing product yet here they were – offering it to the fucking Germans. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. The major’s expression was not one of conviviality. His features had hardened, his eyes cold. Pierre knew their relationship had changed. He was one of them now. The major knew. They both knew. He had four and a half days. He remembered the colonel’s icy smile, his aura of power. He saw it too now in the man who stood before him. He hated him. He hated him for being in his home, for being there when his father was not; for coming between him and his White Venus. He hated him for fucking Claire, for sullying his romantic boyish dreams.
The major sipped his drink, his eyes still fixed on Pierre. Pierre’s fingers gripped the handle of the chisel. How easy it would be, he thought. And think of the satisfaction. The chest; he would aim for the chest. He felt every muscle tense, felt himself rocking on his feet, ready to pounce.
The major spun on his heels and left. Pierre stared at the kitchen door as it swung shut. The chisel slipped out of his hand.
*
Standing outside, Pierre realised he had never been to Kafka’s house before. He lived in a small grey-stoned bungalow on the outskirts of the town. Behind it, a vast expanse of woodland. The windows and shutters were open; everything quiet. To the side of the house, was a garage, its doors open. From the house to the garage, scattered everywhere, were bits of rusting machinery – old car engines, tyres big and small, a bashed-up car door propped up against the house, discarded boots, garden tools, an empty birdcage, a wooden chair without its seat. Gently, Pierre knocked on the door. Kafka’s face appeared at a small window, pushing aside the net curtain. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ A moment later, he was at the door. ‘Jesus, you gave me a fright. What brings you here? You’d better come in.’
He found himself in the living room – an upright piano with brown keys, an Eiffel Tower on the dresser, a large stove, a collection of pipes in a rack.
‘I heard about your father. Hard luck, that was. I sort of guessed I’d be next. Guess your father is tougher than I thought. Anyway, what brings you here?’
‘I want to take my father’s place.’
Kafka seemed taken aback by the boy’s impertinence. ‘You want to take your father’s place,’ he said slowly. ‘In what exactly?’
‘In your group.’
‘In my...?’ With two quick steps, he was on Pierre, clasping his shirt, pushing him back against the wall. ‘What do you think you’re saying? What group?’
Fighting for breath, Pierre gasped, ‘I thought...’
Kafka released him. ‘You thought wrong. You stupid little fool. Get the fuck out of here before I put you over my knee.’
Pierre felt the surge of humiliation but with it, came the anger, an outpouring of indignation. ‘I am a patriot,’ he said, his eyes prickling with tears. ‘I watched them take my father away. I can’t stand by and do nothing. I have to do something, anything. If you won’t take me, then I’ll find someone who will.’
‘Oh, mighty words from one so young; so fine and dandy. And how do you propose this, eh? Go up to any fucker on the street and say, “I want to be in your gang”?’
‘If need be.’
‘Right. Easy as that. Go ahead and try it. Everyone is scared to death; no one will act. The Krauts have beaten them into submission. Collaborators – each and everyone of them. Active, tacit or horizontal – collaborators. So, you go and politely ask them. You’ll be sharing a cell with your old man before you can say jackboot. Get out of here. Come back when you’ve become a man.’
Pierre tried to find a retort, his mind struggling with half-hearted insults. By the time he finally said, ‘I’ll show you, you stinking Kraut,’ he was back at home.
*
Xavier knocked on the front door. ‘Fancy coming out?’ he asked.
‘No, I bloody don’t,’ said Pierre.
He seemed taken aback by Pierre’s abruptness.
Afterwards, as Pierre paced round the house, flitting from one room to another, he realised he’d been unfairly rude to his friend. His mother was out – where, he didn’t know. He went into his parents’ bedroom, rooting through their belongings. He had no idea what he was looking for, and he knew he was clutching at straws. The colonel’s five days were already ticking by. His only idea had come to nothing. He didn’t have a second option, no back-up plan. He hoped his father’s belongings would provide some form of inspiration. There was nothing. A few letters, a couple of books, and that was it.
He tried to think of everyone he knew. Would Monsieur Bonnet be a secret resister? Hardly likely. And what about Clément? Perhaps. Who knows? Kafka was right – how does one go about asking the question?
He sat at the kitchen table, then stood up again. Finding a pack of playing cards, he sat back down again. Shuffling the cards, he tried to think. He kept glancing up at the clock. He laid out a card. The ten of spades. Spades. Without thinking, unconscious of where his feet were taking him, he went outside into the yard and to the shed. Yes, there were a couple of spades, a pick, an axe, a brush, the cans of paint, gardening gloves, secateurs, a jam jar full of screws, another of nails. He heard the front door. His mother was back. He found her in the kitchen, still wearing her headscarf despite the heat of the day. She had bought a few potatoes and a cabbage. ‘Oh, Pierre. There you are. The major said he might be able to procure half a chicken for us tonight, save us having to kill one of ours, so I thought I’d get some veg. We might be eating like kings tonight.’
‘Good.’
‘But, my, it’s so expensive. Prices are shooting up. I don’t know how we’ll manage. You must get yourself a job. You’re the man of the family now, Pierre.’
‘Funny that. I thought that was Major H.’
‘We rely on his generosity. We have to be thankful for that.’
‘Great. They take everything away; and give us back a little. And for that we have to thank them.’
Lucienne sat down with a heavy sigh, removing her headscarf. ‘I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. How quickly you’re growing up.’
‘Yeah, well, like you say, I’m the man of the family now.’
‘Oh, and more coffee. The major said he could get more coffee. He likes his coffee in the morning, does the major. Poor Georges. I wonder how he is.’
‘Nails.’ Pierre slapped his forehead.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s it, the nails.’
*
The major did indeed bring back ha
lf a chicken. The smell of it cooking in the oven was both tortuous and wonderful. Lucienne ensured they had only small portions – enough for cold chicken tomorrow, she’d said. They ate in silence. Gone was the former joviality. OK, it may have been forced but at least it had been there. But since Georges’s arrest, smiles had given way to fixed expressions, conversations on music to brief exchanges on the weather, the pretence of host and guest all but gone.
Afterwards, having eaten well, they sat in the living room and read. The major flipped through his papers, scanning each in turn before filing them neatly in his folder. Pierre picked up his book on renaissance art and scanned the pages for the umpteenth time. But, meanwhile, his mind tried to work out his plan of action. He had to be patient, had to hold his nerve.
‘Are you tired, Pierre?’ His mother’s voice brought him back to the present.
‘What? No.’
‘It’s just that you keep looking at the clock.’
‘Am I? Oh. Sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologise.’
‘No.’
They all went to bed early. Night had still not fully fallen. Pierre lay, fully dressed, on his bed, the jar of nails in his haversack behind the door. It seemed weeks, months, since the night of the graffiti. But that was child’s play compared to what lay at stake now. In some ways the task that lay ahead of him was easier. But it was more important. His mind raced through numerous scenarios and slowly he dozed off.
*
He awoke with a start. Finding the torch that he put beneath his pillow, he shone it on his alarm clock. Two o’clock. Quietly, he opened his bedroom door. He could hear the major snoring. Good. His mother, a heavy sleeper, would also be out for the count. The time was perfect. Outside, the night had retained the heat of the day. He slipped out of the yard, rounded the house and onto the street. He’d stuffed the jam jar full of socks and underpants to stifle the rattling of the nails. He looked left, right and around. Everything was inky black, no hint of a moon to illuminate the way. All the better for not being seen. Slowly, wearing his soft-soled shoes, he crept up the street, heading towards the town centre, his eyes adjusting to the blackness. The deep silence felt oppressive. There wasn’t even the rustle of leaves. There was nothing. If only he could slow down the pounding in his chest. He wished he’d recruited Xavier but then, perhaps not. He had to do this alone. It wasn’t difficult, he told himself repeatedly. It wasn’t difficult.
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