Soon, he was on the bend of Rue de Courcelles, the road leading to the town hall, the road the prisoners of war had come down. This is where he wanted to be. He peered round the corner. Nothing; the road was clear. Ahead loomed the town square with Soldier Mike silhouetted in the foreground. He had to work quickly. Undoing the lid, he stuffed his underwear back into his bag. Gently, he poured out a handful of nails. Too worried to throw them, he almost placed them across the road, one handful at a time. His father wouldn’t thank him for this – nails, like everything else, were now hard to come by, stupidly expensive for what they were. But, dear father, it’s for a good cause. Within a couple of minutes, he had scattered the entire jar of nails on the tarmac, covering a good expanse of road. Satisfied, he returned the jar to his bag and crept quickly away.
Less than ten minutes later, he was back in his bed. Mission accomplished. He lay there, staring into the dark, his heart refusing to slow down. It was two twenty. The whole thing had taken only twenty minutes. The major was still snoring. He felt euphoric. In the grand scheme of things, this was a minor act of sabotage, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was the intent.
Chapter 11
Pierre woke early – soon after six. It was cloudy. This, Pierre concluded, was a good thing – less chance of the Germans seeing the nails glinting in the sun. Not so good was seeing the major, also up early, half dressed, lighting the gas flame on the cooker to heat up his precious coffee.
‘You’re up early,’ said Pierre.
‘Yes, early meeting.’
Pierre’s chest tightened. The major’s route took him up Rue de Courcelles. He would see the nails. The morning convoy of German trucks, taking the men out on their morning exercise, or manoeuvres, whatever they called it, always passed by at seven. Shit, he had to detain the major for almost an hour.
‘What time is your meeting?’
‘Seven.’
‘Is it important?’
‘What? The meeting? What an odd question to ask. Of course, it’s important. Everything the German command does in the name of your country is important. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get dressed and shaved. Keep an eye on the coffee, would you?’
As soon as the major closed his bedroom door, Pierre turned off the gas, then switched the knob on again but without the flame. Taking the kitchen clock off the wall, he opened the glass and pushed the minute hand back ten minutes. He returned to his bedroom. Sitting on his bed, he tried to think. Nothing he said or did would keep the major from his meeting. Such a simple plan, puncturing a few German tyres, interrupting their routine, however briefly, seemed perfect for a solitary show of defiance. He hadn’t counted on the major, of all people, upsetting his scheme. Minutes later, he heard the major come back to the kitchen and curse in German. The major called out his name.
‘Pierre, what happened to the flame?’
‘Why? Has it gone out? Oh, must have been a draft.’
The German looked round the room, as if seeking out a draft. He glanced up at the kitchen clock, then checked his wristwatch. ‘Strange, your clock must have stopped – just in the last few minutes.’ He re-lit the gas flame. ‘Still time for a coffee, I think.’
At quarter to seven, the major pulled on his boots, put his cap on, checked his reflection and made to leave.
‘Have you heard from your son?’ asked Pierre.
‘Yes, he’s fine. Sorry, Pierre, I have to go.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘What?’
‘I feel like a walk.’
‘Hurry up, then.’
They walked in silence. Pierre struggled to keep pace with the German. He could think of nothing to say and felt annoyed that his plan was about to go awry. As they turned onto the road, a hint of sun appeared behind the clouds. ‘Could be a nice day again,’ said Pierre.
The major ignored him. As they approached the bend, Pierre thought he heard the rumble of engines. He strained his ears – yes, the convoy was on the move, he could hear the trucks revving up in the distance, shouted orders. Yet, he and the major had almost come to the spot. He had to stop the German. He could only think of one thing. He screeched and started hopping.
‘You all right?’ asked the major.
‘Ow, no. I think I’ve twisted my ankle.’
‘How did you manage that?’
Pierre leant against the wall banking the road, holding up his left leg. ‘It hurts.’
‘Here, let me have a look.’
Pierre rolled up his trouser leg. The convoy was coming, the big German trucks rolling down the road, one by one. The major clasped his hands round Pierre’s ankle. ‘I can’t feel anything,’ he said.
The first truck was now at the bend. This was it. The noise was surprisingly loud – a screech of brakes, a skid, men yelling from within.
‘What was that?’ said the major. They looked up to see the first truck with a swastika painted on its side coming to a juddering halt as its tyres burst. A second truck crashed into it, forcing the first one off the road, tumbling down the ditch. The sound of many men shouting and swearing filled the air. Together, Pierre and the major ran up the road, Pierre forgetting his pretence of pain. ‘It’s an ambush,’ shouted the major, drawing his revolver from its holster. ‘Pierre, get back.’ The scene was chaotic. Three trucks skewered across the road, their tyres rapidly deflating with a loud hiss; dozens of German soldiers pouring from the vehicles onto the road, their rifles at the ready, their eyes wide with fright and determination. They fell to their knees, the weapons trained on the surrounding area. The truck in the ditch had come to a halt, smashed up against a hefty tree trunk, a suspended wheel still spinning as men piled out. Then, everything stood still – dozens of Germans waiting for a burst of machine gun fire. Major Hurtzberger circled round, his every sense on full alert. Pierre, his back pressed against the wall, had to concede it was an impressive display. Satisfied that they hadn’t been ambushed, the major asked the sergeant if everyone was all right.
‘Look at all these nails,’ said the sergeant.
‘Swine,’ said a corporal.
‘We need to clear this up,’ said the major. ‘Rally up some locals. Where’s Pierre?’
Pierre’s heart sunk – not again. Instead, the major told him to go home. As he turned to leave, a number of villagers had already appeared, keen to know what had happened. Xavier slapped him on the back. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘What a mess, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t hang around, if I was you.’
‘Fair point. Come round to mine, if you want.’
*
An hour later, having shared a measly boiled egg breakfast, Pierre and Xavier decided to venture back out. The sun had appeared, the day was already stiflingly hot. As they walked up Rue de Courcelles, they could hear a distant sound of crying.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Pierre.
‘I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good.’
Exchanging worried glances, they picked up speed, climbing up the hill. What they saw as they approached the bend made them both stop in their tracks. Lined up, either side of the road, were a number of German soldiers, rifles at the ready, screaming orders. Between them, on their hands and knees, were about a dozen villagers. They were being forced to pick up the nails, every last one of them. Some of the women were crying, snivelling.
‘Have you noticed something?’ whispered Xavier.
‘They’re all old.’
The Germans had selected the elderly and the fragile to do their work. Their trousers or skirts had shredded at the knees; many were bleeding.
‘Faster, faster,’ yelled a German.
Monsieur Roché was among them, his knees red with blood, his face covered in sweat. He made the mistake of protesting. ‘We didn’t do this. Why pick on us?’ A German soldier swung his rifle round and with its butt hit him on the side of the head. Pierre grimaced at the sickening sound as the butt impacted the skull. People screamed as Monsieur Roché
collapsed. ‘Any more comments?’ asked the German, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
‘What do we do?’ asked Xavier.
‘We have to help.’
‘How?’
‘No idea.’
Together they strode up the hill. Pierre hoped to see the major – surely when he told them to round up some locals he hadn’t meant this. It was barbaric. The villagers were at least eighty, thought Pierre, all of them. One of the old women looked up at him, her face soaked in sweat and tears.
He recognised the fanatical lieutenant leaning against one of the trucks, smoking. Three of its tyres had been replaced and a couple of soldiers were about to embark on the fourth. The other trucks, including the one in the ditch, had already gone. Monsieur Roché, Pierre noticed, hadn’t moved, the side of his skull bleeding profusely.
‘Hello. We want to help,’ said Xavier, his voice cracking.
‘Was ist das?’ said the lieutenant.
Xavier pointed at Pierre and himself and at the old folk grappling for nails under the hot sun.
The German barked at a private, who came running towards the boys. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted in French.
‘We want to help,’ said Pierre, stepping back.
The private translated his request. The lieutenant laughed and responded in a quick, shrill voice.
The private snarled as he translated back. ‘If you wimps aren’t out of here in five seconds, you’ll be spending the next six months with the Gestapo. Now fuck off.’
The boys scampered back down the hill, the moans and groans of the villagers and the abusive shouts in German ringing in their ears.
‘Bastards,’ said Pierre, once they were out of earshot.
‘Whoever pulled that trick needs his head examined.’
‘What an idiot.’
*
Later on, once Xavier had returned home, Pierre was relating the sorry saga to his mother, who listened with her hand over her mouth. ‘Poor Monsieur Roché; he must be eighty-five if he’s a day. Is he all right?’
‘I don’t know. He needed a doctor but the Krauts weren’t about to call one.’
‘What’s happening to our world?’
A knock on the door interrupted his tale. It was Kafka, his pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You and I need words,’ he said, on seeing Pierre.
‘My mother’s here.’
‘Let’s go for a little walk then, shall we?’
They traipsed in silence through the field behind the house, lifting their knees to navigate the long grass, and headed for the woods. Pierre wondered what Kafka had in store. Kafka glanced behind as they left the field. Sheltered from the blazing sun by the trees, they stopped to catch their breaths, leaning on a prostrate tree trunk. Pierre was pleased not to have to look at the man. Instead, he concentrated on the dappled spots of sunlight decorating the forest floor. Above them, sparrows and finches sang.
Kafka lit his pipe. ‘Old Roché is dead,’ he said, discarding the spent match.
Pierre screwed his eyes shut. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘The sods.’ He thumped his thigh in frustration.
‘Who do you blame, eh? The Krauts or the person who laid the nails?’
‘The Germans, of course. They killed him, not... whoever it was.’
‘Still, I wonder who that person was.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you blame the Germans?’
‘Of course,’ he said, stroking the bark.
‘Well, you would say that.’
Pierre held his tongue. This is what he wanted, after all, but he wasn’t sure how to proceed. What if he’d read the signals wrong? He wouldn’t put it past Kafka to lure him into a trap.
Kafka stood up. Facing Pierre he leant towards him. Pierre recoiled from the stench of his tobacco breath. ‘Whoever did this did so with the best intentions. Anything we do, however small, that shows the Germans that we don’t accept their presence here is a step in the right direction. OK, Roché’s death was unfortunate and unforeseen, but what’s done is done. Now listen, take a book, any book, and meet me at the library at six this evening. The Krauts will be enjoying their dinner, scoffing our food and wine. Not a word to anyone. OK?’
Pierre nodded.
‘I’m off. Wait here. Five minutes.’ And with that, he was gone. Pierre watched as he strolled away, zigzagging through the trees, plucking at leaves as he went. The image of Roché lying on the asphalt, the side of his head congealed with blood, flooded his mind. ‘What’s done is done,’ he said aloud. After all, he’d got what he wanted. He was a step closer to saving his father.
Surely, he thought, nothing else mattered.
*
Pierre's feet felt heavy as he made his way to the library. Under his arm, his father’s copy of Voltaire’s Candide. He had not been back to the library since he had spied the major and Claire having sex on the counter. The thought of it still made him feel sick. It was like an unmovable stain on his memory. Indeed, he still had not spoken to or even seen Claire since. But, unsurprisingly, it was Claire he saw first on entering the dark interior of the library, behind the counter, serving an elderly woman. His heart lurched on seeing her, pierced by a stab of anger mixed with jealousy. She looked gorgeous in a thin red cotton blouse, her hair tied back with a yellow bow. He could hear them, Claire and the old woman, discussing the wicked killing of Monsieur Roché and the pointless vandalism that led to it. His romantic imaginings were interrupted by the image of Monsieur Roché, his skull smashed in. If it hadn't been for him and his nails, Roché would be still alive.
Pierre flushed with shame. He browsed idly through the books, eying the counter, thinking of Claire's bare arse sitting on it. One day, he thought, when he was older, he would make Claire his. He would woo her, gradually breaking down her defences and winning her heart. He, Pierre, was far too good a man to simply seize her and rape her as the major had done.
With the old lady gone, he approached Claire. 'Follow me,' she said, darting out from behind her counter, her hair bouncing with her steps. She seemed to be expecting him. She led him across the library to a door at the far end, and, holding it open, pointed up the stairs. 'Second door on the left. Knock four times.'
‘Not the basement this time?’
‘No.’ She left him to it, allowing the door to close on him. Pierre grimaced, annoyed that she hadn't said a pleasant word to him, not even an acknowledgement. He climbed the few steps slowly, wondering what on earth he was letting himself in for. He thought of his father, hoping the image of him would give him strength. It did no such thing. It'd been four days since they took him; and yes, he wouldn't want him to come to any harm, but, with aching guilt, he noticed how he was getting on with life without him.
He stopped outside the second door on the left – peeling green paint, a round, wooden door knob, a brass sign with the word 'Private'. Wouldn't this, he wondered, have been a better place to have sex? But then, with the library doors locked, one wouldn't anticipate anyone climbing up the outside wall to peer in.
He knocked. Four times. The door opened with a flourish and Pierre was surprised to see Monsieur Dubois with his blue beret and blue corduroy jacket glaring at him from behind his spectacles. A quizzical look passed between them until Kafka's voice came from behind. 'Let the boy in.'
Three men sat round an oval-shaped table in a dingy room, a small window high up let in minimal light, the brown painted walls were bare except for a large portrait of Marshal Pétain at the far end. The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke. 'Sit down, boy,' said Kafka.
'Merde, when you said you had a new young recruit, I didn't think he'd be still in his diapers.' This was Bouchette, whom Pierre recognised from his stand against the lieutenant at the baker’s, thin-lipped, dressed in dungarees, twirling a penknife round his fingers.
'Leave him be; this is Georges Durand's boy.'
'That makes it OK, then, does it?'
'Is Durand still locked up?' This was Monsieu
r Dubois.
Bouchette began cleaning his fingernails with his penknife. 'We need men, more men, Kafka, not children,' he said.
'How old are you, son?' asked Dubois, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the table top.
'He's seventeen. Almost.'
‘Well, Louis was only eighteen,’ said Monsieur Bouchette. ‘You knew Louis, didn’t you, Pierre?’
Pierre nodded. Louis Bouchette, an obnoxious know-it-all, once pushed Pierre off his bicycle for no apparent reason except to get a laugh from his equally-obnoxious friends. But he’d been killed just a few weeks ago, caught up in the Nazi advance, and for that Pierre chastised himself for thinking ill of the dead, a hero of the Battle of France. Madame Bouchette, rumour had it, hadn’t stop crying since.
Kafka held up his hand. 'OK, look; I know he's young but I reckon he's got fire in his belly. Think back to when you were seventeen, gentlemen. What if the previous generation of Krauts had taken your father? Isn't that motivation enough?'
Bouchette, still cleaning his fingernails, asked, 'And what exactly are your skills, boy? Any particular talents?'
'He's young. That in itself is good. He'll be able to get around easier than us lot. I can't step out of the front door without some sodding Boche asking me for my papers.'
'Yeah, but that's because you swear at them.'
'Not so much now. I keep my head down.'
'We can't talk while he's here,' said Bouchette, pursing his thin lips. 'We don't know whether we can trust him yet. Listen, son,' he said, turning to Pierre, 'one word to anyone that you've been here and...' He made an exaggerated throat-slitting gesture with his penknife.
'No need for that, Bouchette. Anyway, I have a job for him. A little mission with Claire. Nice and simple.'
'The leaflets?' asked Dubois.
'Exactly.'
The White Venus Page 12