‘We need to find someone in Sainte-Hélène to take him.’
Bouchette slapped his dog. ‘That will take him four kilometres closer to the demarcation line.’
‘It all helps,’ said Kafka. ‘Right, we’d better go. Pierre and I’ll pick him up now, take him to Lincoln’s. Claire, you can come with us. A woman’s presence might help calm him down. We’ll all meet here tomorrow at ten.’
Dubois and Bouchette nodded.
‘Not at the crypt, then?’ asked Pierre.
‘No, we got short shrift from the father,’ said Dubois. ‘He went all strange when I mentioned Kafka’s name.’
‘Idiot,’ said Kafka.
Madame Bouchette reappeared, a rotund woman wearing a bulging floral dress. ‘Any more coffee, gentlemen?’
‘No, no, no.’
*
Bouchette’s garage lay on the outskirts of the town on the road to Saint-Romain. There was always a chance of a German convoy returning but Pierre knew they’d be able to hear that in advance. The chances of a German patrol, this far out, was, he hoped, slim, and, as he’d said to Tintin, they’d be having their dinner now. The three of them walked quickly, keeping to the side of the road. Kafka carried the fishing rod, Pierre the bucket of maggots. This was to be their alibi if stopped. Less than a kilometre on, they’d come to the place where Pierre had had his encounter with the Belgian.
‘Let’s hope he appears soon,’ said Kafka.
‘I told him six. Five minutes.’
‘I know.’
Sitting on the verge, they waited, their shadows on the road in front of them. Ahead of them, a field of corn, bordered on the far side by the woods. Pierre stared into the bucket and watched the constant movement of the maggots, with their slimy yellow and green bodies.
‘Revolting things,’ said Claire. ‘Any news on your father?’
‘No.’
The church bells rang six o’clock. They waited, the silence broken only by the sound of bees and the squawk of a blackbird. Two white butterflies danced before them.
‘Good God, is that him?’
Pierre looked up – coming towards them, across the field, was the Belgian, his cap pushed down over his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s him.’
The three of them stood up. Pierre waved. The Belgian waved back.
‘He doesn’t look like a man in a hurry,’ said Kafka.
‘Hello,’ said the Belgian, his hand outstretched. Shaking hands, Pierre introduced Tintin to ‘his friends who can help’.
‘Nice to make your acquaintance,’ Tintin said to Claire, removing his cap. He offered his hand to Kafka but Kafka, like Pierre earlier in the day, refused to take it.
‘So who are you?’ asked Kafka.
‘My name, as christened by your young friend here, is Tintin. I was fighting with the 35th Infantry Regiment.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were totally overrun.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘We suffered badly. Many killed. It was horrible. Truly horrible. I was lucky; I was taken prisoner. Then I escaped.’
‘How?’
‘On a march. A week ago. We were being transported. I don’t know where. Three of us made a dash for it. The others were gunned down, shot in the back, but, as you can see, I got away. I’ve been on the run ever since, stealing food, sleeping in forests. I stole these clothes. From a washing line.’
‘A good fit.’
‘I was lucky.’
‘I’m told you’re a Belgian.’
‘Yes but I’ve lived in France since I was ten. Look, I know it must be difficult for you, but can you help me? I thought of getting to the Free Zone.’
‘And then what?’
‘To get to Spain eventually, then perhaps from there, to England. I’m a captain; I have a lot of experience. I want to offer my services to the English army. Anything to fight these pigs.’
Kafka eyed the man, looking at him up and down, considering what to do. ‘OK, this is the plan. We’ll take you to a farm a couple of kilometres from here, belonging to a friend of ours. You can sleep in his barn for a night or two while I arrange transportation to the next town.’
‘Thank you; that’d be...’ Unable to finish his sentence, Tintin bowed.
‘Come on,’ said Kafka. ‘We ought to get going. We’ll need to go back through the field. It’s on the other side of the woods, nice and isolated. If we should get stopped, we’ve been out fishing. You lead the way,’ he said to Pierre.
Claire walked alongside him. ‘Is it just me, or does this feel wrong somehow?’ she whispered.
‘He seems genuine to me.’
‘I suppose. Ignore me, I’m being paranoid.’ After a pause, she added, ‘He’s got very clean fingernails.’
*
Ninety minutes later, Pierre was back at home. They’d taken Tintin to Lincoln’s farm. It was obvious that Kafka had browbeaten Lincoln into taking the Belgian. Reluctantly, Lincoln had led them to the barn. Inside was a loft, reachable by ladder. Having settled Tintin there, and left him with Pierre’s chicken legs and half a bottle of red wine and a hunk of cheese, courtesy of Monsieur Lincoln, they descended back down the ladder and removed it. Kafka told them all to meet again at Bouchette’s garage the following morning at ten. It had all gone well. Almost too well.
Pierre lay on his bed and tried to read his biography of Botticelli but something was troubling him. His mother came in, asking whether he’d taken the chicken legs she’d been saving. Pierre confessed and apologised. He heard the major return, heard him and his mother talking. He knew he had the power now to save his father; he merely had to tell Major Hurtzberger that they were hiding a fugitive in Lincoln’s barn. But he knew he wouldn’t.
That night, Pierre slept fitfully. When, finally, he managed to doze off, he dreamt vivid dreams that involved maggots and bicycles and eyes and dogs. The maggots, millions of them, were everywhere, climbing up his legs, wriggling on his stomach, crawling across his neck. He sat up, his hands frantically flapping them away, his body quivering with revulsion. Realising he’d been dreaming, he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt thirsty. Turning on his bedside lamp, he swivelled his legs out of bed, nodded at his Rita Hayworth poster and made for the kitchen. He waited for the tap water to run cold as he took a glass from the draining board. He drank the water down, relieved to feel the cold water cascading through him. Returning to bed more relaxed, he fluffed up his pillow and lay back, switching off the light. He lay there with his hands behind his back, hoping sleep would soon return. As, slowly, he drifted off, the Belgian’s strange eyes came into view. One was blue, the other green. He saw them, appearing in the dark, peering intently at him from beneath the Belgian’s cap. They seemed to be mocking him. The cap transformed into a helmet – a German helmet. Two different-coloured eyes beneath a German helmet.
The realisation hit him with the force of a hammer. He screeched, sitting up in bed. He had seen the Belgian before – in an SS uniform.
Chapter 16
Pierre woke up with a start but it took him a few seconds to work out why. The memory came flooding back. He remembered all too well – the guard with his different-coloured eyes beneath his helmet opening the door to Colonel Eisler’s office; his mother and he entering. He jumped out of bed and swiftly pulled on his clothes. He had to warn Kafka and the others. They were to meet at ten but were due to arrive in ten-minute intervals. Too many men arriving at the same time could raise suspicions. It was Kafka’s new idea. Pierre had been instructed to arrive last at ten thirty. He realised as he was getting dressed that mixed in with the dread was a sense of excitement. The gang would be pleased with him, pleased that Pierre, through his sharp observation, had spotted a trap.
He managed to escape the house without his mother noticing. The major had left earlier. A steady drizzle fell. The meeting in Bouchette’s kitchen was already well under way when Pierre arrived a few minutes before ten thirty.
Kafka was, as usual, holding forth. ‘We’ll have to search him, of course.
’ He looked up as Madame Bouchette showed Pierre in. ‘You’re wet. Were you seen?’ he asked.
In his haste to get there, Pierre hadn’t thought to check. ‘No,’ he said firmly, as he took his place opposite Claire. She winked at him.
‘What were you saying?’ said Kafka to Bouchette.
‘What? Ah yes.’ Bouchette twiddled his penknife between his fingers. ‘I have a mate in Sainte-Hélène. Owns a garage like me. And like me he has bugger all to do nowadays. Bloody Germans, how they expect us to survive when they close down our businesses, I don’t know. I’ll go over and see him today; see if he can help us move our Belgian friend.’
‘Good; that’ll get him off our hands,’ said Dubois.
‘He’ll still have a long way to go,’ said Claire.
‘We can only help so far,’ said Kafka.
Madame Bouchette appeared carrying a tray laden with steaming coffees. ‘Here were are, gents; I know how much you enjoyed it last night.’
A round of muttered thanks circled the table.
Pierre cleared his throat. ‘Ahem, erm, the Belgian; he’s not who he says he is.’
‘What?’ screamed Kafka. Claire choked on her coffee.
‘He’s German.’
‘Good God.’
‘Are you mad?’ said Dubois, his face red. ‘How do you know?’
‘You said he was a Belgian,’ said Bouchette.
Pierre hadn’t seen Kafka come over to him until he felt himself being hoisted out of his chair by his lapels. ‘You assured us; how do you know he’s German?’
Claire rose from her chair. ‘Kafka, leave him be, let him speak.’
Kafka thrust Pierre back down.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. It was only last night when I was asleep. I woke up and I remembered I’d seen him in...’ He stopped. He couldn’t tell them where he’d seen the Belgian.
‘In what?’ asked Dubois, his face redder still.
‘In a German uniform, SS. It’s his eyes.’
‘SS?’ shrieked Bouchette. ‘Oh shit.’
‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘His eyes are odd.’
‘Couldn’t you have remembered this earlier, you idiot?’ Pierre slunk down, fearful that Kafka was about to strike him.
‘There, there,’ said Bouchette. ‘Let’s not get upset. It’s not Pierre’s fault he didn’t recognise him at once. Indeed, we should be grateful he remembered at all.’
‘Exactly,’ echoed Claire.
‘But are you sure, Pierre?’ asked Dubois. ‘It’s important you get this right.’
‘I’ve never seen eyes like his. One of them is green and the other is blue.’
‘It would also explain why he was so clean-shaven,’ said Claire.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Kafka. ‘He’s got thick black hair; and he said he’d been on the run for a week. He’d have a full-blown beard by now. That man has had a shave within the last day or two.’
‘And it would explain how he miraculously managed to find perfectly-fitting clothes to change into, and why, for a man living off the land, his fingernails were so clean.’
‘Yes, good girl, Claire; you’d make a great detective.’
The five drank their coffee in silence. Daisy, Bouchette’s dog, entered, pushing open the kitchen door. Claire stroked it. ‘She’s got very thick fur for this weather.’
It was Dubois who broached the subject that was on all their minds. ‘So, what do we do with him? We can hardly return him to the Germans.’
Kafka took another sip of his coffee. ‘There’s only one thing we can do.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bouchette. ‘So I suggest we get it over and done with as quickly as possible.’
‘Claire and Pierre should go home,’ said Dubois. ‘This is no job for women or boys.’
‘No,’ said Claire. ‘I want to be there. I’m part of this group; I need to be there.’
Kafka nodded. ‘She’s right. And Pierre, you’re almost a man now.’
Pierre nodded, unable to speak.
*
Again, Pierre was obliged to arrive last at Lincoln’s farm. He waited in Bouchette’s kitchen while, one by one, starting with Kafka and Claire, the others went ahead. Politely, he turned down Madame Bouchette’s offer of more ersatz coffee.
She sat down with a sigh in a squashy armchair in the corner of the kitchen. Balancing two dirty cups on her hefty bosom, she said, ‘I was sorry to hear ’bout your father.’ It sounded as if he’d died. ‘It’s a nasty business all this, mark my words. I don’t like it one bit. Do you mind if I smoke? Don’t tell my old man, though. He’d have my guts for garters.’ She lit a handmade cigarette and blew a billow of smoke through her nostrils.
‘Won’t he smell it?’
‘He won’t be back in here until he wants his lunch. Anyhow, the windows are open. You won’t tell, will you?’
‘No.’
‘Our secret.’ Daisy wandered in and nuzzled her mistress. Placing the cups on the floor, she beckoned the dog onto her lap. Pierre couldn’t help but think she looked ridiculous sitting in an armchair with a huge Alsatian dog on her. She shook her head. ‘First they take your father, God rest his soul–’
‘Madame Bouchette, he’s not–’
‘Then that poor Monsieur Touvier.’ She tapped her ash directly on the dog where it rested on its fur. ‘It’s probably best we don’t have no horses left for there’d be no one to mend their shoes. And they killed my Louis. I hate them.’
Pierre nodded sympathetically. ‘Madame Bouchette, I have to go now.’
‘Yes, yes, you go. Don’t let me hold you up.’
She ruffled Daisy’s ears.
*
Pierre made his way to Lincoln’s farm. The drizzle of earlier had turned into steady rain. The clouds moved quickly across the sky. The road was empty, the rain keeping everyone inside.
Leaving the road, he followed the path alongside the cornfield to the farm, relieved to reach the shelter of the trees. Lincoln’s farm lay in a little dip and walking down the path towards it, the sight of it, cloaked in mist, depressed him.
He skirted past the farmhouse, across the yard, watched by a black and white goat, and made straight for the barn. The barn had two double doors, both painted black, one big, one small. The drain, he noticed, was blocked; rainwater was pooling beneath the drainpipe. It was only now that the thought occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap. Trying not to make too much noise, he eased open the smaller door and peered in. Inside, he saw the ladder lying on the floor, undisturbed since the previous evening. He crept in. Shafts of light broke through the doors. Bales of straw were stacked high to the far end. Nearer by was an assortment of crates, boxes and bins. A cat slept in a wheelbarrow; various tools were propped up against the barn wall – a couple of brooms, a hoe and an axe. A coat hung on a hook. The cat lifted its head as Pierre crept by but wasn’t perturbed enough to give up its place of comfort. The door behind him opened. Quickly, he looked round for somewhere to hide. But then he saw Claire’s silhouette. He breathed a sigh of relief. Lincoln, Dubois, Bouchette and lastly Kafka followed her in.
‘Is he still up there?’ asked Dubois, wiping the rain off his spectacles.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ve only just arrived. Where were you?’
‘In the kitchen.’
Tintin’s head appeared at the square gap above them. ‘Good morning, friends,’ he called down.
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Lincoln, who was wearing a long raincoat that reached his ankles. ‘Here, boy, help me with the ladder.’ Together, Pierre and Lincoln hoisted the ladder up to the loft. Tintin skated down, jumping off the last few rungs.
‘Here,’ said Lincoln, ‘breakfast.’
‘Lovely. Thank you. Wine?’
‘No coffee. Sorry.’
‘That’s fine.’ He bit into the baguette. ‘Mm, bread and wine. Anyone would think it was my last supper. Most welcome.’
Pierre and Claire exchanged gl
ances. Pierre noticed that Tintin’s stubble had noticeably grown overnight. Kafka was right – if it could grow this fast, how come he’d been so clean-shaven the day before?
‘Nice wine. And this sandwich – delicious. Listen,’ he said, his mouth full of bread, ‘I was thinking – perhaps you chaps could do with some help. Rather than going south or to England, I’d happily stay here and volunteer my services.’
Kafka cleared his throat. ‘That’s good of you. We’ll certainly consider it. Look, we’ll need to search you,’ he said.
‘What?’ His hand, gripping the baguette, stopped half way to his mouth.
‘I’m sure you understand.’
‘I assure you I’m who I say I am.’
‘You haven’t told us your name,’ said Bouchette.
‘I just thought the less we know of each other the better. I told you, I’m a captain in the 35th Infantry Regiment, I fought–’
‘You’re very young to be a captain,’ said Dubois.
‘I’m twenty-three.’
‘Come on,’ said Kafka. ‘Arms up.’
The Belgian glanced at each of them. Placing his wine on the ground and passing his baguette to Claire, he stretched out his arms. Bouchette and Dubois stood with their arms folded while Lincoln hung back near the barn door. Kafka delved his hands into the Belgian’s jacket pockets. He pulled out a penknife, a box of matches and, from the inside pocket, a photograph. ‘My mother,’ said the Belgian.
‘Pull out your trouser pockets.’
‘Is this really nec–’
‘Do as I say.’
The Belgian pulled his trouser pockets inside out – empty but for a trail of dust and crumbs.
Reaching behind him, Kafka checked his back pockets. ‘What’s this then?’ he said, retrieving a folded piece of card.
Kafka was standing too close to the Belgian to notice the fist. He doubled up as the punch caught him in the stomach.
‘Stop him,’ yelled Bouchette.
Dubois fell as he tried to seize the man. Pushing Claire aside, the Belgian reached for the axe leaning against the barn wall. The cat leapt from its wheelbarrow.
‘Hey, steady with that,’ said Lincoln.
The Belgian swung the axe in front of him. ‘OK, let me go, and no one will get hurt.’
The White Venus Page 18