‘Look out, here comes your mother.’
‘Pierre.’ Lucienne emerged from the throng. ‘They won’t let us through.’
‘Why not?’
‘Hello, Xavier. I don’t know. They say only family can attend the funeral.’
‘But he doesn’t, I mean, didn’t have any family,’ said Xavier.
Pierre could see the German lieutenant leaning against a jeep to one side while his men stood in front of the church gate, their rifles held across their chests.
Bouchette and Dubois were among the villagers. ‘This is outrageous,’ shouted Dubois, dressed in a black suit, approaching Lucienne. ‘They’re saying we can’t even pay our respects now?’
‘They don’t want a repeat of the Algerian funeral,’ said Pierre.
‘Buggers. Oh, sorry, Madame Durand.’
The villagers began dispersing, intimidated by the German presence. ‘Let me try. I’m doing the headstone; they’ll let me through.’ said Pierre. He approached the soldiers at the gate as everyone else left, Bouchette and Dubois among them. Beyond the gate, Pierre could see Father de Beaufort arguing with a German soldier who was smoking, sitting on the grass next to the gravelled path, with his back propped up against a headstone. The soldier threw away his cigarette and rose, slovenly, to his feet.
‘Hello,’ said Pierre to two German privates, adapting a deep tone. ‘I am preparing the headstone for the deceased. I’m supposed to be here. Can I come through, please?’
The soldiers stared blankly beyond him, resolutely gripping their guns. Behind them, Father de Beaufort had stubbed out the fizzing cigarette end with his shoe, and was walking back into the church, his robes flapping behind him.
In his side vision, Pierre saw the lieutenant spit. ‘It’s you again, Frenchie,’ he said in German.
‘I want to go to the funeral.’
The lieutenant idly produced his revolver, clicked the hammer back and, without warning, fired at Pierre’s feet, hitting the gravel path with a sharp ping. A cloud of dust exploded around his shoes as Pierre jumped back. ‘OK, OK,’ shouted Pierre, scurrying back to join Xavier and Lucienne.
He found his friend almost doubled-up in laughter.
‘Are you all right, Pierre?’ said his mother, reaching out for him.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, jutting out his jaw.
‘Well, they sure listened to you,’ said Xavier, guffawing.
‘Yeah, very funny.’
Lucienne shook her head. ‘Come on, I think we should go home.’
*
The night was eerily still, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. Pierre looked up as the slither of moon disappeared behind a cloud. Kafka had told him to meet up at eleven in the ditch beneath a small junction box on the railway line. He was told to keep an eye out for the French guards the Germans had posted as patrols along the track. The railway was a good couple of kilometres’ walk away. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to. He walked slowly, continually checking behind him, pausing at corners, conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the road. He knew that if caught out this long after curfew, he would never be able to explain it. He’d reached the point where he had to leave the road and follow a path with a field on one side and the woods on the other. Here, at least, he felt more secure – the trees providing him ample cover. He realised how heavily he was breathing – not from the excursion but from the tension. Glancing behind, beyond the field with its corn swaying gently in the breeze, he could make out the outline of the town, the church spire looming in the dark sky. How peaceful the world seemed. A bat flew by. Pierre wanted to smile, wanted to console himself with the thought that nature had no truck with the misdeeds of man. But the thought provided no consolation. He pressed on, his feet as heavy as clay.
Beneath the trees he could no longer make out the time on his watch. He could see the junction box ahead of him, up on the embankment. No sign of a patrol. The last stretch, from the edge of the woods to the line, was across an expanse of barren grass. He ran across, stooping, half expecting to hear a shot ring through the air. As he approached, he saw the figures of others crouching against the bank. They weren’t Germans – that was all he needed to know for now.
‘Good boy.’ It was Kafka. Someone shook his shoulder in a paternal sort of way – it was Monsieur Dubois, wearing his blue corduroy jacket with a wide leather collar. Next to him, Monsieur Gide. Pierre felt relieved to see them all. Safety in numbers, he thought. But no Lincoln or Claire. Pity, he thought, she’d be missing out. Behind Dubois, crouching, was Monsieur Bouchette. The man gave Pierre a wave. They were lying in a ditch at the bottom of the bank – above them, the junction box.
‘Right,’ said Kafka. ‘Everyone ready?’ He spoke in a whisper yet it still sounded too loud. ‘Good. Let’s go.’
As previously instructed, Pierre and Dubois edged about fifty metres to the right, while Bouchette and Gide covered a similar distance to the left – leaving only Kafka, with his explosives, in the middle. Dubois led the way. A thin veil of rain began to fall. Continually crouching, Pierre’s back began to ache. After a while, Dubois told Pierre to stay put while he went further along. Kafka had devised this system of lookouts – an outer one and an inner one, each armed with a white handkerchief and, if that failed, a whistle. The whistles, Kafka had told them, had been provided by a sympathetic school teacher in Saint-Romain, while the explosives had been commandeered from a quarry left to waste since the Germans’ arrival. Dubois and Bouchette, as the further lookouts were each armed with a cosh. Kafka held onto the only firearm they possessed – his wartime revolver.
Pierre watched as Dubois made his way along the ditch. With a start, he realised someone was on the track; two men heading their way. Dubois, too far down, hadn’t seen them. The men, strolling along, had rifles slung behind their backs, their silhouettes made hazy by the rain. Pierre had his handkerchief at the ready but he couldn’t use it – Dubois had his back to him and it would only attract the patrol. The whistle was just as useless. He looked back, hoping to see Kafka but the man was out of view. His mouth felt dry. Creeping forward on the damp grass, he kept the two men in sight. They had stopped. Holding his breath, Pierre stopped also. Dubois, at last, had seen them too. He also halted, waiting, Pierre guessed, for him to catch up. One of the men was patting his pockets, as if looking for something. Pierre crawled forward on his knees, using his hand on the grass to help him keep balance. The patrolmen were lighting cigarettes, talking quietly but loud enough for Pierre to hear what they were saying. They were talking about the war memorial, Soldier Mike. The Germans had ordered its destruction. Why, wondered Pierre, would they want to do that?
With a wave of the hand, Dubois urged Pierre forward but he felt unable to move any further. The two patrolmen moved slowly on – they were now half way between Pierre and Dubois, Dubois behind them, making hand signals which Pierre tried to decipher while not wanting to take his eyes off the men on the line. Dubois was creeping up the embankment. Pierre felt at a disadvantage – the men were in front of him; if he moved now, they would see him. Dubois had reached the train track. One of the men turned. Dubois screamed as he sprinted with, thought Pierre, surprising speed for a man in his forties. Both men reached for their rifles. Pierre tried to climb the bank but his legs, shaking uncontrollably, gave way beneath him and he slipped down the wet grass. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, trying to maintain his balance. With frightening clarity, he suddenly realised he would rather be shot than be found simpering at the bottom of a ditch. With renewed determination, he ran up the bank, knowing that any moment could be his last. Clambering to the top, his mouth gaped open at what he saw. The three men were sharing a cigarette.
‘Pierre,’ whispered Dubois, beckoning him over. ‘Come here. Come meet my brother-in-law.’
His knees gave way as the relief flooded through him. With a stab of shame, he realised he had tears in his eyes. Surreptitiously wiping them away, he hoped Dubois and the patrolmen wouldn’t
notice in the dark and the rain.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dubois. ‘We’re safe here.’
But, thought Pierre, are we not exposed up here on the track?
‘Hello,’ said the two patrolmen, shaking Pierre’s wet hand.
‘You gave us a fright there,’ said Dubois’s brother-in-law.
‘Likewise,’ said Dubois.
Pierre couldn’t see their faces. He hoped they couldn’t see him. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Gustave and François are, how shall we say it, unwilling collaborators.’
Gustave sniffed. ‘I’d rather we didn’t use that word, unwilling or not.’
‘We didn’t ask to do this,’ said François.
‘Don’t worry about Pierre,’ said Dubois, wiping the rain off his spectacles. ‘He’s just a kid.’
Just a kid? thought Pierre. I’m out here, aren’t I?
Footfalls on the track made them step back. ‘It’s only Kafka,’ said Dubois.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Kafka, his revolver at the ready.
‘Put that away, you fool. We’re among friends here.’
‘No man doing Germans’ work is a friend of mine.’
Dubois flung his cigarette away. ‘Oh, do shut up.’
Bouchette and Gide had joined them. The seven of them climbed back down the bank.
‘Have you chaps heard?’ said Gustave on reaching the bottom. ‘The Germans are planning to pull down Soldier Mike.’
‘What on earth for?’ screeched Bouchette.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said François. ‘It’s a memorial to the 1870 war – against them.’
‘Yeah, but they beat us that time.’
‘And that will be the only time,’ said Kafka.
‘You’re going to have to hit us, you know,’ said François.
‘My sister won’t thank me for it,’ said Dubois.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Why do we have to hit them?’ asked Pierre.
‘Come on, boy, think about it. So they can say to the Krauts that we overpowered them.’
Kafka put his revolver back into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll happily oblige. I’ll take you,’ he said, pointing at François. ‘Pierre, you can hit the other one.’
‘Me?’ The idea of hitting someone without the benefit of a fight seemed preposterous.
‘It’ll be good for you. So, how shall we do this?’ he said, stepping up to François.
‘I don’t know but...’ The man fell back as Kafka’s fist caught him on the jaw. He remained on his feet until a second punch floored him. He landed on the grass. After a while, he sat up, puffing his cheeks, and holding the side of his face. ‘Whoa. Hopefully that’ll do it.’
‘Your turn, Pierre.’
Pierre considered Gustave. The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Get it over and done with,’ he said.
Clenching his fist, clenching his jaw, Pierre stared at him, trying to summon a feeling of hatred. But it wasn’t working; he felt himself go slack. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘You have to,’ said Dubois.
‘You’ll be doing me a favour,’ added Gustave softly. ‘Believe me, I’d rather be hit by you than a Nazi.’
Not wanting to give himself time to think about it, Pierre swung his fist. It caught the man on the side of the nose. He shook his knuckles, surprised at how much it hurt. Gustave, meanwhile, did not move. With a groan, Pierre realised that his punch had barely registered.
‘Come on, boy; you can do it,’ said Kafka behind him. ‘Imagine he’s a Kraut, imagine he’s just raped your mother; no, not your mother. Claire. Yes, Claire. This bastard in his Nazi uniform who has no right to be in our country has just forced himself onto Claire. Poor Claire; defiled by a...’
Gustave staggered back. Having hit him, Pierre held his fist under his armpit. Gustave laughed. ‘That’s better,’ he said, dabbing his lip.
Kafka stepped up to him just as he was recovering his balance and struck him again. ‘Just for good measure,’ he said.
Gustave flew back, landing heavily. This time he didn’t move. Dubois went to him, bending over his stricken friend. ‘Jesus, Kafka; you’ve knocked him out cold.’
Kafka winked at Pierre. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said. ‘Right, back to work. Our little homemade device is in place. Now, just a gentle little explosion. Oh...’ He took the patrolmen’s rifles, handing one each to Dubois and Bouchette. ‘We’ll take these, thank you very much.’
Chapter 15
Pierre lay in bed, watching the second hand of his bedroom clock go round. It was almost eight. He knew he had to get up; he had work to do – now that Monsieur Roché’s headstone was finished, he wanted to get on with his Venus. He replayed the events of the previous evening through his mind. They’d left François dozing in the rain next to his unconscious friend. The story for their German employers was that both had been taken by surprise and knocked out. By the time they came to, it was almost morning; too late to check the rail track. Kafka had cursed the lack of rope to tie them up with. The first German train, which would have left Saint-Romain at six, should have been derailed. Pierre hoped their battered faces looked convincing enough.
*
Hair is a difficult thing to fashion on stone. Success is in the detail. But not too much. Too much and it detracts from the rest of the work; too little and it begins to resemble so much rope. Consulting his book containing Botticelli's masterpiece, Pierre saw the amount of work that lay ahead of him. The hair of Venus ran down her back, round to her front, finishing at her pubic mound. It amounted to hundreds, no, thousands, of strands. It was easy for Botticelli, he concluded – he had only to work on the front. For him, Pierre, it was far more daunting a task, because it had to look right front and back. The more he pondered, the greater his sense of unease. Best, he thought, to make a start, to allow the chisel to do its work, and to see where it took him. He'd propped Monsieur Roché's headstone up against the yard wall. His mother said she would call on the cemetery boys to ask them to come pick it up. Then, he could make his way to the town hall and pick up his wages. The thought pleased him no end – a man's wage for man's work. His father would be proud.
It had been over a week now since Georges's arrest. It disturbed Pierre how quickly he had become accustomed to his absence. He reasoned that it was not necessarily due to a lack of concern. It was just that he could not imagine what ordeals he would have had to endure; what indignities may have been heaped on him. And he, Pierre, had been given to the chance to save him and he knew, following the railway sabotage, that he was already failing him. He only hoped his information on Victor and his friend made a difference.
The kitchen door burst open. It was the major, already returning from work, and Pierre knew straightaway that he wasn’t pleased.
'Did you know about last night?' snapped the major.
'Last night?'
The major considered him for a few moments, as if trying to see whether a lie hid behind his idle tone.
'I’ve just found out. I came back because I thought you might, perhaps, know something.’
‘No.’
‘I believe you do. The railway line has been sabotaged. Two guards beaten up.'
‘I didn't know.'
The major's eyes scanned the yard as if looking for evidence. He stiffened, his eyes momentarily narrowing. 'OK; you can lie to me if you want to but I warn you, you cannot lie to the colonel. And it is to the colonel you have to report.'
The major was right – it was easy lying to him, but he baulked at the thought of being confronted by Colonel Eisler. 'I have to go see him?' he asked, aware of the quiver in his voice.
The major heard it too. His eyes beamed, pleased to have caught Pierre out so easily. 'He wants a word with you right away.' He looked at his watch. 'You'd better go now. Take your bike.'
Pierre gazed at Venus. Her hair would have to wait a little longer. He wondered whether he ought to change, to
dress up for the occasion. No, he decided, it wouldn't make any difference. ‘I’d rather take the bus.’
‘You’ll have to wait too long. No, cycle. It’ll be quicker.’
Well, it wasn’t far, he thought, and the ride might help calm his nerves. He ought to tell his mother. He made for the kitchen.
The major called out to him.
'Yes?'
'Don't even attempt to conceal the truth; don't play games with him. His eyes will see into you.'
*
Colonel Eisler eyed Pierre menacingly from across the mahogany desk, his fingers intertwining a fountain pen. On the desk stood a vase of flowers; many of its petals had fallen, forming a circle of colour round its base. The brass desk lamp with its hexagon-shaped shade was lit despite the light pouring through the huge French windows. ‘I think you know why you’re here,’ said the colonel in a gentle tone.
‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ said Pierre, trying to maintain the colonel’s gaze.
The colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t know anything about it,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Not good enough. You had your instructions and you have failed me.’
Pierre had to stop himself from shrugging his shoulders.
The colonel continued. ‘As it is, the saboteurs caused minimal damage. We are dealing with amateurs here. The railway line will be fixed in no time but my point is your failure to keep the major and me informed. I thought you knew what was expected of you. Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry. Is that it?’
‘I tried but I can’t find out who is part of this group.’
He slammed the table with his palm causing Pierre to jump. ‘You have to try harder. What you do think this is? A friendly chat with your headmaster? First we have the incident with the nails and now this. Major Hurtzberger told me about the printing press and the flyers. You’ll be pleased to know that their little operation has been broken up, and both men are now in the custody of my seaside colleagues. So, that was good; enough to save your father from the firing squad for a while longer but it’s not enough. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Have you forgotten we have your father within these walls? I have come to admire him; he is a stubborn man. Foolish but stubborn. He is our hostage but he is only useful to us if, in return, we have a grasp of what’s going on in your town. If not, as I told you before, he will be executed. We, the might of Germany, have conquered huge swathes of Europe. Do you think I will allow this little community of ne’er-do-wells to derail my work here?’
The White Venus Page 16