The White Venus

by Rupert Colley

  Pierre hadn’t thought of this. His heartbeat quickened. Pulling on his bag strap, he asked, ‘What should we do?’

  They heard raised German voices at the far end of the corridor, doors opening. ‘Too late now,’ whispered Claude. ‘We’ll just have to sit it out.’

  They waited, pressed into each other, Claude considerably taller, Pierre’s eyes level with the man’s mouth; the stench of stale smoke, drains and egg filling their nostrils. The floor was stained brown with years of piss, the tiny sink with its rusty tap marked with dark stains. Pierre could feel the sweat running down his back, like a thousand tiny insects creeping down his skin. The Germans were getting closer, more doors opening, barked orders, French protestations, doors sliding shut – all in quick succession. He wished he’d stayed now; the searches were quick. Claude jumped at the sound of his dog barking. He mouthed the word shit. More feet, more voices. How many of them were there? There seemed to be dozens. The dog didn’t bark again.

  Claude delved into his haversack, and pulled out a notebook. He began ripping out the pages from the binding, trying not to rip the paper in half. ‘Let’s hope the flush works,’ he whispered.

  Pierre found his single sheet of paper. Yes, there was writing on it, words leapt out – “We will not be defeated / Pétain has sold you out / Drive the Hun invader off our soil.” He wondered whether it should say “from our soil”. The footsteps were closer. Pierre realised what was happening – there were several parties of Germans, overlapping each other. Perhaps, after all, it was better to be here in this stifling toilet with eggy Claude. The man had his papers held above the toilet pan, ready to drop them in. It was too small a toilet, thought Pierre. Even if the flush did work, it would never get rid of all that paper in one go. With a sudden heaviness in his stomach, he knew they would never explain why the two of them were here together, in the toilet.

  The door handle rattled. Sweat poured down his brow. A shrill, German voice. Claude’s pupils dilated with fear, his mouth open, his dirty tongue lolling from his lips. Outside, the ticket inspector’s voice – ‘It’s out of order.’

  A pause. Silence except for the rumble of the train. Footsteps moving away. Claude’s shoulders fell. More footsteps but no more rattling of the door handle. Claude let his head fall back, exhaling a deep breath. Pierre clutched his heart, felt his sodden shirt.

  ‘Oh, mother of God,’ muttered Claude. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before we suffocate.’

  Back in the compartment, Pierre almost fell into his seat. He sat there, breathing hard, unable to talk, Claude opposite, a mirror image of relief. Claude’s wife had her hand clasped over Toby’s mouth. The dog, though muffled, was still trying to growl.

  Claire placed her hand on Pierre’s thigh. ‘Well done,’ she said quietly. Pierre looked round at everyone. The elderly couple were smiling. The man winked at him. Claude’s wife stroked her dog. Claude let out a little laugh. Everyone laughed quietly with him.

  ‘Good work, young man,’ he said to Pierre. Pierre beamed.

  Claude’s wife leant over, grinning. One of her front teeth was missing. ‘Would you like an egg?’

  ‘No. No, thank you. I’m fine. Just fine.’

  *

  Claire knew where to go. They headed towards the main street of the harbour town. Squinting his eyes against the sun, Pierre could see the sea in the distance. Seagulls flew above. Everywhere, the road signs were written in Gothic script. The street, fully in the shade, was lined with cafés, mostly full of Germans sitting outside under the parasols, enjoying rounds of coffee and cigarettes while playing cards. A couple of cafés had signs saying Germans only. Pierre shook his head. At one, he noticed a table full of German officers drinking champagne, the bottles resting in ice buckets. The atmosphere, as at home, was holiday-like with much laughing and soldiers taking photos of each other. Turning off the main street, Pierre followed as Claire wound down a couple of side streets full of boarded-up shops before coming to a stop outside a front door with a lion head brass knocker. Above it, a balcony with curved railings. ‘This is it,’ she said, pulling on the knocker. ‘Don’t say a word until I say.’

  A man in a vest appeared on the balcony momentarily before disappearing again. Pierre could hear footsteps on the stairs and seconds later the same man was at the door.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Claire, ‘but we’re lost. We’re looking for the Church of Our Saviour.’

  ‘Where?’ He wore shorts, was bronzed, solid muscles in his arms.

  ‘Oh.’ Claire stepped back. ‘I think... it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ He returned inside, shouting. ‘Victor, there’s a woman at the door, something about a church.’

  A distant voice responded, ‘Keep your voice down, you fool.’ More quick footsteps on the stairs and another man appeared, older, taller, round glasses, and blond eyebrows despite his dark brown hair, wearing baggy trousers and a buttoned shirt with a frilly collar.

  ‘Excuse my friend here.’ The man eyed both of them but he had, thought Pierre, a kind expression. ‘What were you saying, Mademoiselle?’

  Claire repeated herself, word for word.

  ‘Ah yes, as beautiful as anything you’ll find in Florence. Come in.’

  The man stepped aside to allow them through. ‘This way; follow me.’ The house seemed bigger inside – with a marbled floor, and an arched doorway to the side. He took them upstairs, a spiral staircase with an ornate iron bannister. Pierre noticed his well-polished shoes. ‘Welcome, my name is Victor. That was Alain you saw just now.’ Pierre turned round but Alain had gone. He realised the exchange about the church and Florence had been a pre-arranged code.

  Victor led them into a room on the first floor, a large room with an array of settees and armchairs, a big fireplace, its bricks burnt black, a stone floor with a deep red rug. ‘Take a seat. Can I get you both a coffee?’

  Victor shouted for Alain, telling him to make a round of coffees. ‘No sugar, I’m afraid. And the coffee is of inferior quality. But you know how it is,’ he said with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. He asked them about their journey, about life in the town and what their Germans were like. Pierre told him about the major in his house, glancing at Claire who sat impassively.

  ‘He doesn’t sound too bad then. There’s a big difference between your ordinary German and his Nazi colleague. You’re lucky, but still – be careful. When push comes to shove, he’s still a German. We’re having an easy time of it here – relatively. I think they’ve all got heatstroke; they all seem rather lethargic, poor dears. I doubt it’ll last long. So, while the lion sleeps, the deer will play.’

  ‘Is that a saying?’ asked Pierre.

  Victor laughed. ‘No, I’ve just made it up but I give you permission to use it as often as you wish and pass it off as your own. Well, thank you for coming to see us. I have to say I didn’t expect two of you but still, it’s lovely to see you both. So, are you two...’

  ‘No,’ snapped Claire.

  ‘No. Right. OK.’

  ‘So, erm,’ Pierre tried to think of something to change the subject. ‘Why are half the shops boarded up?’

  ‘Lack of customers. We don’t have any money to buy anything any more. Only the shops that appeal to the Boche survive.’

  ‘Souvenir shops.’

  ‘Yes, that sort of thing.’

  The door creaked open, and in came Alain carrying a tray bearing three steaming cups. ‘Ah, here he is; that’s what we like to see.’

  ‘Messieurs, Mademoiselle, your coffee,’ said Alain.

  ‘If you can call it that. Thank you, Alain.’ The two men exchanged furtive smiles. Victor watched as Alain exited, as if admiring him, thought Pierre.

  ‘Cigarette? No?’

  The coffee was fine, thought Pierre; he had become used to this ersatz stuff.

  Victor screwed a cigarette into a holder and lit it with a large, silver lighter. ‘So, what have you brought me?’

 
; ‘We have the text for the flyer,’ said Claire. ‘Pierre, have you got it?’

  Pierre fished out the piece of paper from his book and handed it over to Victor.

  Adjusting his glasses, Victor unfolded the paper. ‘Bernard Roché, fourth June 1861 to... I don’t understand.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s the wrong paper.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ He drew on his cigarette, producing a cloud of purple smoke. ‘For a horrible moment I thought you wanted me to print a death notice. Oh, he died yesterday.’

  ‘This is the text.’

  Claire cleared her throat. ‘Kafka, my boss, of sorts, said you could print a thousand of them.’

  They waited while the man read. ‘Yep,’ he said, pushing his glasses back up. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. It reads well. Perhaps a couple small grammatical errors but I can fix that. You can reassure your boss that I’ve got the transport heading your way at the end of the week. You’ll have five boxes – two hundred in each.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, a bit early perhaps, but how about a spot of lunch?’

  *

  An hour later, Claire and Pierre sat on the sea wall, watching the sea lapping on the beach, the sun beating down on their backs. Not too far away, a group of Germans were drying themselves off after a dip in the sea. ‘They really think they’re on holiday, don’t they?’ said Claire, watching the men with, thought Pierre, a little too much interest. ‘Drinking our best coffee, shopping, sunbathing. It’s sickening.’

  ‘At least we’re doing something about it now.’

  ‘Yes, it all helps.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ A German-accented voice made them jump. They turned to see another fresh-faced German struggling with a town plan. ‘Sorry to be startling you.’ He spoke slowly, each word separated by a space. ‘Do you know the way to Le Café de la Mer?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Claire. Pointing the way, she gave him a complicated set of instructions.

  The young soldier bowed and thanked her.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew this place so well,’ said Pierre.

  ‘I don’t. I just made it up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Did you see those café signs earlier – Germans only? Well, I’m damned if I’m going to tell him where a café is that I’m not even allowed to go into.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be that difficult – with all those Gothic signs everywhere. Poor chap; he’ll still be walking round in circles for hours to come.’

  Claire winked at him.

  ‘The men in the house – they were nice, weren’t they? Especially Victor.’

  ‘I thought he was a bit creepy. Nice lunch though.’

  ‘Yeah, saved me from having to eat my mother’s hardboiled egg.’

  Claire laughed. ‘I think we’ve had enough stinky eggs for one day.’

  ‘You should have been in the toilet with him. No escape.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘So, did they search you?’ he asked.

  ‘They searched my bags. Took everything out and went through it. Even my lunch. So I was happy not to have eat my sandwiches that had been manhandled by a German with dirty fingernails. In fact...’ She retrieved the sandwich, unwrapped it from its greaseproof paper, and left it on the sea wall a few feet away. Sure enough, within seconds a seagull swooped down and snatched it. They watched it as it flew round before disappearing, other seagulls in its wake. ‘That poor woman had to restrain the dog, Toby. I thought for a moment they might shoot it.’

  The Germans had dressed and strolled by in their bare feet, trouser legs rolled up, squinting in the sun. Each one stole a look at Claire. A young mother passed them, holding a toddler by his hand, a bucket and spade in her other hand. The boy, with his pudgy knees, wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. ‘Look at all the birdies, Patrick. Look, there’s one over there with a sandwich. Can you see? Oh, it’s gone.’

  This, thought Pierre, would be a good time to broach the subject of the major but however he tried to start the conversation, he couldn’t think of the words.

  ‘Come,’ she said, after a few minutes of awkward silence, ‘let’s have a paddle.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the sea.’

  ‘I... I’d rather not.’

  ‘Why on earth not? Come, I’ll beat you, last one in is a rotten egg.’ Hurriedly, removing her shoes, she raced towards the water, giggling.

  Pierre followed, slowly; his shoes scrunching on the sand and pebbles. He watched as Claire hiked up her skirt and waded through the gentle waves. ‘It’s cold,’ she screeched, holding out her hand.

  Pierre shuddered. All that water. Yes, it looked inviting in its calmness yet it still repulsed him.

  ‘Ow, the stones are sharp. Come on, what’s the matter for goodness sake?’

  ‘I don’t like water,’ he said, knowing how feeble it sounded.

  ‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ she said, splashing.

  Reluctantly, he took off his shoes and socks and gingerly stepped forward, allowing the water to reach his ankles. Yes, it was cold, but it wasn’t that that made him shiver. The teddy bear with its yellow waistcoat and green trousers flashed through his mind again.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, spinning round. ‘I just can’t.’

  *

  Ten minutes later, they were back on the sea wall, Claire with her bare legs stretched out, allowing her feet to dry off in the sun.

  ‘So, what was that about, then?' she asked.

  The mother and toddler sat nearby, building a sandcastle, the little boy slapping the sand with joy. Claire smiled, pushing tendrils of wet hair from her face, while Pierre tried to distract himself from her sodden blouse.

  ‘I have a thing about water.’

  ‘Why, you can’t drown if you only go up to your legs.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Can’t you swim?’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly.

  ‘But it’s more than that, isn’t it?’

  Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

  ‘Well? You can tell me, if you like.’

  He shook his head, ashamed that, after all this time, water still had the same effect on him. ‘I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.’

  *

  They caught the train home, again sharing a compartment with others. This time they were left undisturbed. Much to Pierre’s delight, back home, Claire accepted his offer to walk her back.

  ‘Well,’ said Claire, ‘that was a really entertaining day; I enjoyed your company. Thank you, Pierre.’

  ‘Pleasure. We must do it again one day. Soon.’

  ‘We’ll have to see what else Kafka has in store for us.’ They’d reached her bungalow, an old white-stoned house with small windows, a weather vane in the shape of a cockerel on its chimney, a gravelled front garden with a set of iron table and chairs. ‘Here we are,’ she declared. ‘I’d invite you in but I’m exhausted. All that sea air. And my feet are killing me.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m tired too.’

  She hesitated, as if changing her mind. ‘Another time then.’

  ‘Yes, another time.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘The thing is people are getting soft.’ Pierre had been instructed to have a walk with Kafka. They walked briskly through the woods, Kafka in front, a large bag round his shoulder, following a narrow path. The sun slanted through the branches, and the ground, after weeks without rain, was hard. The birds were in full song. ‘People seem to have accepted this invasion as if it was a good thing.’

  ‘People say the Germans will deal with the communists. And the Jews.’ Pierre regretted his afterthought.

  ‘We can deal with them ourselves. We don’t need foreigners coming in sorting out our affairs. People see the Germans as a sort of deliverance; they forget they invaded our country and for what? On the whim of a madman. Take your houseguest, for example. The villagers like him; he’s a cultured man, he holds the door open for the ladies. Your mother seems to have grown used to his p
resence. I know all this; I keep my eyes and ears open. They forget, he’s not here as our friend; he’s here as an invader, a bloody invader.’ They jumped over a stream. ‘It’s up to people like you and me to keep the flame of resistance alive. How will history remember us? You have to ask yourself that. In years to come will your children thank you for having been a collaborator?’

  They walked in silence for a while. Pierre picked up a stick and beat at the long grass bordering the path.

  ‘Keep up,’ said Kafka over his shoulder. ‘So, your trip went well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah, Claire told me all about it. You did well. Victor prints newspapers. The Krauts have got him printing their rubbish but by night he supplies the whole region with flyers and “subversive literature”, as our German friends call it. He’s rich; he can afford to do it for free. He’s got quite a network already.’

  They’d been walking for over half an hour when Kafka declared, ‘Here we are.’

  At first, Pierre couldn’t see what Kafka was referring to – but there, under the shade of a large cedar tree, was a small wooden hut. Its walls were made up of huge logs, it had a window covered in tarpaulin. Kafka undid the padlock and beckoned Pierre in. Inside, daylight permeated the gaps between the logs and through the roof. There was a bed covered in a brown blanket, a table and chair, a shelf half full of food tins, and, on the wall, a large framed portrait of Marshal Pétain peppered with holes. ‘Welcome to my second home,’ said Kafka. Reaching into his bag, he placed more tins on the shelf. ‘Emergency supplies.’

  Pierre watched, wide-eyed, as Kafka produced a rifle from under his bed. ‘Yeah, I know, I didn’t hand it in. I’d be shot for having this around. It’s an old M16 carbine. Old but still effective. I stole it from the army in eighteen. I used to be a sniper, you know. In my day, I could hit a centime from seventy metres. My eyesight’s not what it used to be, but, though I say so myself, I’ve still got an eye for a target. This,’ he said, lifting the rifle as if testing its weight, ‘is the only rifle we have but one day we’ll have more. I’m working on it. So, as you’re now officially one of us, I thought you need to be prepared.’