‘You want me to fire it?’
‘Not the rifle, no, but this... another souvenir from the army.’ From his pocket, he produced a revolver. ‘That’s why I’ve brought you out here. I wasn’t taking you on a walk for the good of your health.’
Pierre watched as Kafka took a tobacco tin also from under his bed and fished out a handful of bullets. ‘Let’s go outside. Take the photo with you,’ he said motioning at Pétain.
Pierre followed Kafka out, the picture under his arm. ‘Right, there’s a hook on that tree there. See it? Hang the photo up on it.’ Pierre did as told, then re-joined Kafka, standing behind him.
Kafka loaded the revolver, took aim at the portrait and fired. The shot cracked through the trees, causing a cacophony of noise as thousands of birds, or so it seemed, took flight, squawking and flapping. ‘Did you see that? Right in the old git’s forehead. Dead. If only it was that easy. Right, your turn. Take the gun.’ He passed Pierre the revolver. ‘Always keep it pointing downwards until you’re ready.’ Pierre did as told. ‘It holds five rounds. I can only spare a few, so listen. Hold it solidly, keep your arms straight. The recoil on these things isn’t too bad.’ Pierre concentrated as Kafka went through his instructions. Finally, Kafka declared that Pierre was ready to have a shot. ‘Aim above your target and slowly lower it, then, just at the right moment, pull the trigger.’
Pierre held his breath and did as instructed. But he was unable to fire. Sighing, he tried again.
‘Steady now,’ said Kafka just behind him.
This time, Pierre pulled the trigger. The revolver jumped back in his hand, despite Kafka’s reassurance. What he hit, if anything, he had no idea.
‘Not bad. Try again,’ said Kafka.
The second attempt hit the tree above the portrait with a satisfying dull thud. ‘Hey, you’re a natural,’ exclaimed Kafka. ‘We’ll make a sniper out of you yet.’
Pierre grinned, felt his chest expand.
‘Come on, let’s head back and I’ll tell you what’s next.’
They returned to the hut. Pierre waited outside while Kafka went in, re-emerging a few seconds later, padlocking the door. 'Even if the Krauts managed to discover this place and ransacked it, they'd never know who it belonged to.'
'They're not likely to come out this far on foot.'
'No, exactly.'
Pierre followed Kafka back, back over the stream and down the zigzag path; this time trying to familiarise himself with the landscape, in case he ever needed to return alone. He noted a tree engraved with the initials ‘RJ’, and another fallen, its trunk blocking the pathway. With the town in view, nestled in the valley, they trudged back across the fields. As they drew closer, Kafka said, 'If anyone asks, we'll say we just went for a walk for a man-to-man talk. I'm looking after you now, we'll say; now that your father's gone.'
'I miss him.'
'I dare say. But they won't keep him long. I've heard they've got limited room, and they can't shoot all of them. Well, they could, I suppose, but I doubt it.' He stopped, gazing at the houses nearby. 'We'll go our own ways here. Listen, you've passed your first test but there'll be much harder, sterner ones to come. You still in?'
'Yes,' replied Pierre, despite wanting to scream no.
'Good man. Come to the library tomorrow morning at eleven. Make sure you're carrying a book – just in case, you know.'
Pierre nodded.
'See you tomorrow. Au revoir.'
*
Returning home, Pierre decided to make a start on Monsieur Roché's headstone. He slipped out the instructions from his pocket and re-read them. He did think the wording was rather brief – just the basics. And no hint about how Roché had met his end – clubbed to death like a baby seal by a German. It contained just the text – no clue as to what sort of lettering, whether it was to be big or small, straight or sloping. He realised he felt daunted by the task. It wasn't difficult but it was a responsibility and he had to get it right. It was the least he could do for Monsieur Roché. He wished his father was here to advise him. He fed the chickens some corn and watched as they fell onto their food. He poured fresh water into their trough, swept the yard, tidied the tools in the shed. Anything to delay actually starting his work. It was always the most daunting part – just starting; making that first engraving onto the pure, virgin surface of the marble. Taking his tape measure, he measured out the width of the stone, and how much space he needed for the first line, then the second, and so on. He wrote out the words lightly in crayon. Dissatisfied with the spacing, he rubbed out the crayon with a rag dabbed in white spirit, and tried again. This time, he decided, he had it right.
Poised with his chisel and hammer, he heard the front door open and clattering in the kitchen. It had to be his mother. Seconds later, she emerged at the kitchen door, her headscarf still on. 'Oh, Pierre, there you are. Where have you been?'
'Oh, nowhere really. I needed a walk to think about how to do this stone.'
'That's OK then. I do worry when I don't know where you are. You are being careful, aren't you, Pierre?'
'Yes, Maman.'
'I can see you're busy, so I'll let you get on. I'm going to Saint-Romain later today to take your father some fresh clothes and a bit of food.'
‘Don’t put a message in anywhere.’
‘Of course not,’ she huffed.
'I'll walk you to the bus stop.'
'No need but if you want to, that'd be nice.' She paused. 'Your father – he'd be very proud to see you doing this work.'
'I know.'
She smiled a maternal smile, and returned indoors.
'Right then,' said Pierre to himself. '"In Loving Memory of..."'
*
An hour later, and Pierre had finished. His mother, ready to go to Saint-Romain, joined him outside.
‘So, how’s it going?’ she asked.
‘All done, I think.’
Together, they admired his handiwork. 'You've done an excellent job. Simple but dignified. And there's not much of that around any more – dignity.'
Pierre tried not to think of Roché's undignified end. 'Yeah, I'm pleased. Poor old Monsieur Roché. I'll take you to your bus now, if you're ready.'
It was early afternoon. The streets were deserted, the shops closed; not a French person in sight. 'It's like a ghost town,' remarked Pierre.
'Things have changed so quickly. Only the cafés and restaurants seem to thrive nowadays. They're busier now than they ever have been.'
They passed through the town centre and, sure enough, the cafés were open for business and, as usual, doing a roaring trade with their German customers.
'Oh, isn't that our major?' said Lucienne, pointing ahead.
'Our major?'
'With that pretty girl. Claire.'
'Oh. Yes. So it is.'
'Pierre, I know what you're thinking but she is a little old for you. Can't you find someone your own age?'
'Where, Maman? They all left, didn't they, during the fighting.'
'They'll be back one day.'
Now, they passed through the square and onto the road on the other side that led to the bus stop.
'I don't think Claire should be cavorting quite so openly with the Germans,' said Lucienne. 'Especially our major.'
'Maman, stop calling him "our" major. He may be nice and all that, but he's still a German.' Pierre remembered Kafka's words. 'He may be cultured and hold doors open for you but don't forget, he's still part of the people who invaded us on the whim of a madman.'
'Invaded. You make him sound like a barbarian, like a Viking, raping and pillaging.'
'But that's exactly what he is.'
'What? Has the major raped someone? I should hope not. And I would have noticed if he had stolen anything from our pantry. There's little enough as it is.'
'No, I don't mean... It doesn't matter. Look, here's your bus. You don't want to miss it.'
'No. Thank you, Pierre. I'll be back in time to do some dinner. Major Hurtzberger brough
t us some sausages today. That'll make a nice change, won't it?'
*
'Claire told me more Germans are coming in to borrow books, at least the ones who can read French.' Kafka was at the head of the table, addressing the meeting which, this time, numbered six of them.
'I'm surprised they can read at all – French or German,' said Bouchette, idly playing with his penknife.
'She reckons they're bored.'
'Oh dear. Maybe we should lay on some entertainment for them.'
'Right. Yes. What did you have in mind? No, don't answer that. I'm worried in case you take me seriously and we start doing Punch and Judy shows for them.'
A polite tittle of laughter circled round the room.
'Anyway,’ said Kafka, ‘my point is that I reckon it's too dangerous to meet here any more. Pétain's portrait up there is a good cover but it's not enough. We need somewhere else. Any suggestions?'
Pierre put his hand up. 'What about–'
'Shut up, Pierre.'
'Sorry,' he muttered. Obviously, Kafka didn't want anyone knowing about his hut.
'What about the crypt?' said Dubois, wiping his spectacles.
'Yes, not bad.'
'The Germans are so atheist they never go in the church. We can go in, one-by-one, and sit at the front to say our prayers–'
'Or pretend to.'
'Or pretend to, and once we feel it's safe, we can pop down. Lots of exits too. Not out of the crypt but out of the church. And I'm sure Father de Beaufort won't mind.'
'Good idea. That's what we'll do. Can you speak to Father de Beaufort, Dubois? He's more likely to listen to you.'
Dubois nodded.
'Right, to the main business. No doubt you'll have noticed all the trains passing through at night from Nantes on their way to the Reich, filled to the brim with French goods. We need to do something about it, to hold them up for a few days.'
'Not again?' said Bouchette. 'Look what happened last time. Pierre's father was arrested.'
‘And Touvier,’ added Dubois.
'So what? They're stealing from us, stealing the fruits of French labour.'
'He's quite right,' said a man nicknamed Lincoln, a gaunt man with long, black sideburns who, people felt, resembled the American president. No one seemed to remember his real name. 'As patriots, we have a duty.'
'But the whole line is guarded, especially round here, after our last attempt,' said Dubois.
'Yeah, but only by collaborators, bloody traitors.'
'Have you a plan, Kafka?' asked Lincoln.
'What do you think? Of course I bloody have. It doesn’t involve all seven of us–'
'There's only six,' said the other new man, Gide, the baker.
'Plus we can always call on Claire.'
'A girl?’
‘She’s keen, and that’s what counts.’
‘For God's sake, man, what have we come to?' said Bouchette, stabbing his penknife into the table top. 'Children and girls. Next, Kafka, you'll be recruiting from the nunnery.'
'If I thought it would make a difference, I would.'
'And what if one of the nuns turned traitor?' asked Gide.
'I would deal with her. No hesitation. A traitor is a traitor. I'd shoot my own mother if I thought she was sleeping with a Kraut.'
‘Isn’t she dead?'
‘That’s not the point.'
'We don't have a nunnery,' said Dubois.
Kafka shook his head. 'Jesus, it's like a chimp's tea party.'
Bouchette whispered to Dubois, who laughed.
'Right,' said Kafka, 'here's the plan. We go tomorrow night, two hours after curfew. Memorise all of this, if you're capable of that. Don't write a single word of this down.'
*
The sausages, Pierre had to concede, were delicious. With a large helping of potatoes and French beans, the three of them retired to their armchairs, relaxed and opened their books or knitting. An hour before, the major had returned from his work with a framed watercolour – an Alpine scene portraying long-horned cattle on rolling lush grass with snow-peaked mountains behind. He said he'd bought it in Saint-Romain and was giving it to Lucienne as a present for all her hospitality. Lucienne oozed gratitude; said she loved it.
'I'll hang it up for you,' said the major. 'Perhaps after dinner.'
'Well, that would be lovely. Thank you.'
Now, after dinner, Pierre found himself alone with the major, or Thomas, as he seemed to have become. Pierre dreaded what he knew was coming next. It didn't take long.
'So,' said the major, quietly, drawing out the word. 'The colonel is expecting a response tomorrow, Pierre.' He didn't look up, keeping his eyes fixed on his book.
Pierre tried to picture his father, tried to remember why he was doing this. He had plenty to tell; enough to save his father and secure his release.
'I don't know anything.'
'And you think the colonel will accept this? I don't.'
'But I do know someone who is working against you – nothing big or dangerous, just leaflets, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh?’
This was difficult, thought Pierre but, after all, he had to save his father. It didn’t make it any easier.
‘Pierre – you have to tell me. Remember what’s at stake.’
‘I know. It’s... I met a couple of men – in a town on the coast.’
‘Go on.’
Bracing himself, Pierre told the major about Victor and Alain and their printing press. The major, having placed his book on the floor, listened intently, nodding his head.
‘Leaflets, you say?’
‘Yes.’ Pierre felt himself go red.
‘And where are these leaflets? I haven’t seen any?’
‘They haven’t arrived yet.’
‘When are they due?’
‘I don’t know. I think within the next few days.’
He paced up and down. ‘This is good.’
‘What will happen to them?’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ He slunk back into his armchair and reached down for his book. Reclining, he rested it on his lap, and closed his eyes.
Pierre sighed. He seemed strangely aware of his own naivety, aware of how ill-equipped he was in dealing with this. He felt as if he’d walked into a minefield and had no idea how to extricate himself.
Chapter 14
‘It’s Monsieur Roché’s funeral today, isn’t it, Pierre?’
‘Yes.’ Pierre was eating scrambled egg on toast for his breakfast – he was beginning to hate eggs. He had no appetite, too worried for Victor and his friend and what might happen to them. His mother hovered over him; the major was at the mirror, adjusting his tie.
‘Thomas, are you about to go to work?’
‘Soon.’
‘Would you have time to put that lovely picture up?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, of course. Shouldn’t take long.’
‘Pierre, you’ve got nails in the shed, haven’t you?’
‘Yes – in a jam jar.’
It was only when the major went out into the yard that Pierre remembered.
Within a minute or two, the major had returned, holding the jam jar in his hand. ‘It’s empty.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot, I lent them all to Xavier.’
‘You lent them?’
‘Gave.’
‘All of them?’ asked his mother.
‘Yes, his father needed them for... for something.’
‘But it was full before,’ said the major holding up the jar, peering into it as if he might have missed one. ‘There must’ve been a hundred nails in here.’
‘It was a big job.’
‘Let me have a look in the shed,’ said Lucienne. ‘There must be one lying around. It does seem strange though, Pierre. All those nails.’
The major waited for her to leave. Turning to Pierre, he said, ‘It was you.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t play games with me.’
‘I... I had
to do something – to get into the resistance.’
‘An old man died as a result.’
‘That wasn’t my fault.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ he snapped. ‘Every action has a consequence. You’re old enough to realise that.’
‘I didn’t want that to happen.’
‘But it did. As a direct result of what you did. I should tell Colonel Eisler.’
Pierre’s heart caved in at the sound of the name.
Lucienne returned. ‘Couldn’t find any. I don’t understand, Pierre – why did you have to give them all to Xavier’s father?’
‘Well,’ said the major, re-adjusting his tie, ‘if Pierre could ask Xavier’s father if he could give us one back, I’ll put the picture up tonight.’ He put on his cap. ‘I’d better go.’
*
It was the afternoon of Monsieur Roché’s funeral. Pierre and Xavier were slowly making their way to the church, surprised at how empty the streets were. Lucienne had left earlier. Xavier had elected to wear his father’s tight beret.
‘Why do you wear that thing? It makes your ears stick out.’
‘Your ears stick out by themselves.’
‘No they bloody don’t.’
‘Anyway, you’re telling me that you want one nail. Just. One. Nail. Don’t you have any left? None at all?’
‘No.’
‘One nail?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I’ll bring round one, solitary nail a bit later. So, why you’re so keen on going to this funeral?’ he asked.
‘I told you. It’s because I’m doing his headstone, so I feel I should attend and pay my respects.’ He could never admit the real reason, the sense of responsibility that hung so heavily on his conscience.
‘Should we be wearing black?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. We hardly knew him.’
‘I didn’t know him at all. I’m only going to keep you company – remember?’
‘Let’s go and see. We can always rush back.’
They heard the church clock chime two. As they approached, they could see a strong German presence and, in front of them, remonstrating, a few villagers. ‘This doesn’t look good,’ said Xavier, slowing down.
‘The church doors are open.’
‘There’s the coffin.’
Pierre narrowed his eyes. The coffin, on a trolley, was just inside the church doors. Draped over it was a French flag. The next moment, a German soldier passed by, whipping off the flag. ‘Arse.’
The White Venus Page 15