‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No, sir.’
The telephone on his desk rang. He looked at his watch, snapped it up, grunted something in German, and slammed it down again.
‘Right,’ he said, returning his attention to Pierre, ‘it’s time.’ He rose from his chair and squared his cap. He clicked his fingers. ‘Follow me.’
Pierre felt a wave of fear; he hadn’t expected this. A soldier, standing guard outside the colonel’s office, closed the door behind them, then followed the colonel and Pierre down the corridor. Together, they descended one flight of stairs in silence, and along another corridor where they came to a halt next to a window half way along. The soldier opened the window, pushing up the top half, then stepped back. Peering out over the balcony, Pierre saw beneath him the courtyard, the floor made up of red bricks, the occasional potted plant dotted round, along one side a laurel hedge, at the far end a stone wall partially covered by creeping stands of ivy. In itself, it was a pleasing view yet for reasons he couldn’t fathom, Pierre’s blood ran cold. Something, he knew, was wrong.
They waited but for what, Pierre had no idea. The colonel stood, his arms behind his back, watching him, his face stern. Pierre felt himself wilt. The whole building seemed to hum but despite so many people within its walls there were no voices to be heard. A flock of swallows flew by overhead; somewhere, on the street, a lorry sounded its horn. The soldier behind him cleared his throat. And still the colonel remained motionless. Then came the noise from beneath him, of a bolt being pulled back, of a heavy door being pushed open. Craning his neck over the balcony, Pierre saw a number of German soldiers appear, one after the other, their rifles against their shoulders. Six, seven, eight of them. They drew up in one line, facing the ivy wall, a few feet away. Then, more slowly, a man accompanied by a priest, his hands behind his back, followed by an officer and two more soldiers. It took a few seconds for it to register. ‘No,’ Pierre yelped as his knees buckled. The colonel stepped forward to hike him back up. Pierre reached for the windowsill to steady himself. The man was his father and he was being led to his execution. The priest, a Frenchman, walked alongside him in his black robes, his bible open, reading quietly in a soothing voice. Whether Georges was listening, whether he found it any comfort, Pierre could not tell.
‘Do not to say a word,’ said the colonel. The soldier was directly behind him. Pierre felt a nudge in his back, a revolver.
He tried to control his breathing; clutching at his heart. Feeling lightheaded, he feared he was about to fall.
His father was placed against the wall. His hands had been tied behind his back. Pierre’s mouth gaped open at his appearance – his father looked ten years older, his skin taut and grey, heavy bags beneath his eyes. His clothes, streaked with dirt, hung off him. He hadn’t said a word; not a flicker of emotion had crossed his face. He seemed almost not to care. ‘Look at me,’ thought Pierre. ‘Look up, look up at me.’
The officer stepped forward and, from a sheet of paper, read a few words aloud at Georges. The firing squad took their positions, rifles drawn, at the ready.
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Pierre, aware he was crying. He spun away, unable to look. The guard jerked his revolver up, aiming at Pierre’s forehead. ‘Turn around,’ ordered the colonel.
‘No, please, no.’
The guard clicked off the safety catch.
Feeling unable to stand, Pierre turned back to see the priest cross Georges. He placed his hand on Georges’s head, muttered a final few words, then stepped back.
The officer’s voice echoed across the courtyard as he ordered his men to take aim. Pierre swayed on his feet. He heard the round of rifle fire just as he blanked out.
*
Pierre opened his eyes and realised he’d fallen against the colonel who now had his arms round him, propping him up. The sound of gunshot still reverberated through his head. His limbs felt heavy, his heart more so.
He felt the colonel’s hand resting on his head. ‘It’s OK now, Pierre. There is but a hyphen that separates life and death. Look outside.’
Pierre wanted to pull himself away but found he had not the strength.
‘Go on; look outside,’ repeated Colonel Eisler. ‘Tell me what you see.’ The German helped Pierre find his feet and most gently pushed him back towards the open window.
Pierre wanted to protest but his voice could not be found. He felt nothing; his mind devoid of thought, his heart laden with so much weight. Even the smallest movement felt as if he was struggling through the heaviness of nothingness. It took him a few seconds to register as he tried to focus his eyes. Yet, there, standing in the courtyard, as if nothing had happened, was his father. He still wore the same dulled expression as if he was unaware of his surroundings; of what was happening around him. But yes, he was standing, he was breathing. He was alive.
Behind him, with head bowed, stood the priest, his bible, held in both hands, closed. Pierre noticed the officer glance up at the balcony and from the corner of his eye, he saw Colonel Eisler nod. A soldier prodded Georges from behind with his rifle and slowly he stepped forward. Pierre watched, numb, unable to understand, as his father was led back the way he came. A few seconds later, he heard the door close, the bolt pushed back into place. The courtyard was empty. Yet Pierre continued to stare, unsure now whether the drama had been a figment of his imagination. One of the potted plants had been kicked over.
*
Pierre sat in the colonel’s office, unaware of having been led back. Colonel Eisler sat opposite him, staring, his head cocked to one side, a look of concern in his face, his hands on the armrests of his chair. The French windows had been opened, the heavy turquoise-coloured curtains swaying slightly in the wind. The desk lamp had been switched off. Sunk in the chair, Pierre felt tired, exhausted even. He concentrated his gaze on the vase of flowers, on the petals around it. The vase, also turquoise, was embedded with the shape of a woman with a long flowing dress that disappeared into the glass. Pierre studied her hair, following its contours as it circled round the vase.
‘Pierre.’ He looked up. The colonel had removed his cap. He looked younger for it; less severe. ‘You’ve had a shock, I understand. Forgive me but it was necessary.’ He paused perhaps waiting for Pierre to respond. ‘You were not taking me seriously. I believe you saw it as a game of some sort. I had to make you realise that war is not a game and that I am serious. Go home now. Find out who is in this town gang of yours and report back to me via Major Hurtzberger before they manage to do some real damage.’
Pierre tried to speak but could only manage a nod of the head.
‘Next time, your father’s execution will be for real.’
*
Riding home on his bike was an effort; he could hardly concentrate. He had stumbled out of the building and had to return to sign out with the receptionist with pink nail varnish. Wherever he could, he freewheeled, zigzagging down the streets of Saint-Romain, passing a parked convoy of German trucks, and out into the countryside. The clouds hung low but it was still warm. He wondered whether his father was aware that the execution would be fake. Somehow he thought not. His father had stood up to them; and even at the supposed moment of death, he refused to break. His courage was admirable. Should he tell his mother? Tell her what a brave husband she had? No, he couldn’t. Not yet. So why did Kafka mock his father so? He’d like to see Kafka withstand a week in Nazi custody with such dignity.
Some three kilometres from home he faced a steep incline. Any other day, he knew he’d be able to cycle up without too much effort but this was far from any other day. Half way up, short of breath, he dismounted. In his trouser pocket was the packet of cigarettes the colonel had given him on the first visit. Dropping his bike on the grass verge, he sat down and leant against a tree. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes. The thought of his father remaining in that place, at the mercy of the colonel, was too much to bear. The colonel had made his point – he would, from now on, do w
hatever he could to save his father. Sod France, sod patriotism; his father was his father, his flesh and blood. Nothing else mattered any more.
Having smoked his cigarette and cleared his mind, Pierre re-mounted his bike and cycled up the rest of the hill. Having reached the top, a nice downhill road led to home. He paused and looked upon his town in the valley with the church tower at its centre. From here, from this vantage point, it seemed as if God had casually dropped the whole place from on high. He never felt so pleased to see it. He raced down, pedalling hard, joyous with the wind blowing through his hair. He felt like screaming but couldn’t find it within himself to let go of his emotions to such an extent. Having reached the bottom of the hill, the road flattened out as it snaked into the town itself. This was the road the PoWs came through, he remembered. Would he ever forget? He slowed down as the road plateaued. Then, from seemingly nowhere, he felt a terrific smash against his right side. He screeched as he fell and landed heavily on his left arm, his bicycle skidding on its side away from him. A man in a cap appeared from behind him, running. Pierre sprung to his feet, the pain in his arm vanishing in an instant. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted as the man grabbed his bike. The thief tried to make off but, losing his balance, had to try again. Pierre was on him, barging into him, pushing the man off. He pulled the bike from him, its pedals hitting the man in the shins. Now, he feared the man would turn on him.
Instead, he remained on the ground, his cap lying next to him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Slowly, he got to his feet. He was tall with black hair, shaved at the back but long at the front, his fringe covering one eye. He tossed his hair back to reveal strange eyes. His black trousers were covered in dust, a jacket pocket torn. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ He offered his hand.
Pierre, sensing a trick, ignored it. He didn’t recognise the man’s accent – he wasn’t a local. ‘Where are you going to?’
The man eyed him, perhaps, thought Pierre, wondering whether to trust him. He didn’t look much older than himself – perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Eventually, he answered. ‘I need to get to the Free Zone,’ he said, looking round as if they might be overheard. But there was no one around – just large expanses of fields flushed with corn, grass verges adorned with wild flowers, the sound of bees.
‘The Free Zone? That’s miles away.’
He shrugged. ‘That’s why I need a bike.’
‘Well... I suppose you could take mine.’
The man smiled. ‘That’s awfully generous of you but I feel bad enough as it is; I couldn’t now. Are you hurt?’
‘No.’ Pierre looked down at his left arm. His sleeve was ripped, the skin beneath grazed. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘You’re not French.’
‘No. Belgian. Listen...’ The man ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I need... I need your help. They’re looking for me. You could turn me in; you’d probably get a decent bounty.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘No, I guessed that. You offered me your bike after I tried to steal it from you.’
Pierre thought of Kafka. How much he would relish this. ‘I know a man who could help.’
‘You do?’
‘The town wouldn’t be safe now. If you stay here, I’ll come and fetch you about six o’clock. That’s the time the Krauts eat their dinner. It’s the best time. Do you have a watch?’
The man nodded. ‘I’ll find somewhere to hide in those woods.’ He scooped down to retrieve his cap. ‘I couldn’t ask you to bring me some food, could I? I’ve a bottle of water but that’s it. And this man of yours... I don’t have any money on me.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
The Belgian smiled. ‘I’m lucky to have found you.’
‘If you can’t tell me your name, I’ll call you Tintin – he’s Belgian, isn’t he?’
‘Tintin’s a great name. You’re a good man. So, what’s your name?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
*
Pierre cycled straight to Kafka’s and found him wearing overalls, painting his porch. The old car door propped up against the house was still there, along with the empty birdcage and discarded boots.
‘Ah, young Durand. What brings you here? You can give me a hand if you want.’
‘I found a Belgian,’ said Pierre, propping his bike against a tree.
‘A Belgian bun?’
‘No, a...’ He hated it when Kafka mocked him. ‘A Belgian on the run.’
'Ha, it rhymes. Have you indeed? Good for you.’ Kafka stepped back to admire his work.
‘He needs our help.’
‘Does he? In what way?’
Pierre stood next to him. The new green paint reflected the sun. ‘He’s on the run from the Germans. He’s trying to cross the demarcation line.’
‘He’s got a long way to go.’
‘That’s what I said. He needs somewhere to stay until things quieten down.’
Kafka placed his paintbrush on the upturned paint tin lid. ‘OK, tell me everything.’
The two men sat on the porch as Pierre related his tale, of how the Belgian, Tintin, had tried to steal his bike, of how he said he would return at six. Kafka picked up a bamboo stick and jabbed at the ground, making little holes in the dry soil. Pierre could tell Kafka was excited by the prospect of doing something.
‘And how do you know he’s trustworthy?’
‘I don’t; not really. Although when I knocked him off my bike he could have fought back – he’s bigger than me. And desperate.’
‘True. I’m impressed; you’ve done well.’
Pierre smiled.
‘I’ll speak to Bouchette and Dubois. You can leave it to me now.’
‘But you’ll need my help. He might not trust you if you all turn up looking for him.’
‘Hmm. All right. Meet us at a half past five at Bouchette’s garage. We’ll be within striking distance of him from there.’ He threw away the bamboo stick. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll work out what to do with this Belgian.’
*
Pierre returned home, waving to Xavier as he passed.
‘Pierre, where have you been?’ Lucienne was outside the house watering the flowers as Pierre jumped off his bicycle.
‘Nowhere. Just things to do.’
‘Your sleeve – it’s ripped. What happened?’
‘I fell off.’
‘Is that all? Does it hurt? You’re up to something. Tell me, what is it?’
‘Nothing, Maman. I need to get on.’
Having escaped his mother, Pierre paced up and down the yard disturbing the chickens. Already, the certainty he felt cycling home had drained out of him. This was the sort of thing he should report to the major but he’d taken an immediate liking to the Belgian with his strange eyes. How could he deliver him into the hands of the Nazis? God knows what they would do with him. He remembered enough from Sunday school to know that he’d been assigned, albeit unwittingly, the role of the Good Samaritan.
*
‘We have to be careful. After the railway attack, the Boche are more nervy.’ Kafka, Bouchette, Dubois, Claire and Pierre had gathered in Bouchette’s kitchen. Monsieur Gide, apparently, had declined to have anything else to do with Kafka’s group, finding the derailment episode too traumatic. On the kitchen table, a fishing rod and a small bucket of maggots. It was half five.
‘How’s the coffee?’ asked Bouchette. His wife had made them each a cup. Every time one of them took a sip they couldn’t help but grimace.
‘Disgusting,’ said Dubois.
‘It’s made of beetroot and chicory.’
‘What happened to all your wine? Did the Germans take it?’
‘Ha, no! The idiots. I buried it in the garden.’
‘All of it?’
‘Every last bottle.’
‘What do you think of the coffee, Pierre?’ asked Claire.
‘It’s... it’s fine.’
> ‘Not like the coffee your friendly Hun supplies, eh?’
‘Leave him alone,’ said Kafka. ‘The boy’s done good work today.’ Pierre noticed Kafka’s fingers were stained with green paint. How did Claire know the major gave his mother coffee? The answer, he guessed, was obvious.
‘So how do we know if he’s genuine, this Belgian?’ asked Claire.
‘We’ll interrogate him tonight.’
‘And if he’s not?’
‘Then we’ll deal with it,’ said Kafka, patting the revolver in his jacket pocket. Dubois and Bouchette exchanged glances, raising their eyebrows.
‘Do you always carry that thing with you?’ asked Dubois.
‘Only on special occasions.’
The Bouchettes’ Alsatian dog wandered in. It made for Pierre’s bag and sniffed it, pushing his nose against it. ‘Oi, Daisy, leave it alone,’ said Bouchette. ‘What have you got in there?’
‘Two chicken legs. For the Belgian.’ He placed the bag out of reach on the kitchen table.
‘I’d like to see you explain away chicken legs if the Germans stop and search you.’
‘So, what’s the plan, boys?’ asked Dubois.
‘Hide him in the crypt,’ said Claire. ‘Father de Beaufort wouldn’t mind.’
‘Are you mad?’ exclaimed Kafka. ‘That means bringing him into town. Too dangerous. No, what we’ll do is take him to Lincoln’s farm. I’ve already spoken to him. He said we could hide him in his barn. It has a loft.’
‘Perfect,’ said Dubois. ‘Then what?’
The White Venus Page 17