‘No,’ said Kafka, his revolver trained on the Belgian. ‘Put that down or I’ll shoot you.’ He clicked off the safety catch.
The Belgian seemed to consider his options for a moment before dropping his axe.
Pierre tiptoed across and retrieved it.
Without taking his eyes off the Belgian, Kafka passed the card to Claire. ‘Here, read this.’
Claire’s eyes widened as she scanned the writing. ‘It’s an SS identification card.’
‘Is it indeed?’ said Kafka, a note of triumph in his voice.
‘Oskar Spitzweg, born ninth November 1920. It’s got a Nazi stamp on it.’
‘You rat,’ said Lincoln, spitting. ‘To think I gave shelter to a fucking Nazi. SS at that.’
‘You’re only nineteen, not twenty-three,’ said Claire.
’So what do we do with him now?’ asked Dubois.
‘We let him go,’ said Bouchette. ‘So that he can report us to his superiors who’ll come and arrest us and then execute the lot of us.’
‘Exactly,’ said Kafka. ‘That’s what will happen if we let him go.’
Dubois ran his fingers through his hair. ‘That means only one thing...’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Tintin, stepping forward. Kafka lifted his revolver. The SS man paused and lifted his arms higher. ‘Look, I won’t say a word. Please, you have to trust me.’
‘Huh,’ snorted Bouchette. ‘Trust a German?’
‘Not just a German,’ said Lincoln. ‘SS. Remember? Let’s see that card.’ He scanned it, shaking his head. ‘Just looking at it gives me the willies. You look like one evil sod.’
‘But I’m not. Not really.’ He was sweating now, his face red. ‘You saw the picture of my mother.’
The men laughed. ‘I imagine even Hitler loved his mum,’ said Claire.
‘Please, you can’t kill me like this – in cold blood.’
‘Oh the irony,’ said Dubois.
‘Here, Pierre, take this,’ said Kafka, handing his revolver over. ‘If he should so much as blink – shoot him. Got it?’
Pierre nodded and tried to control his trembling hand.
The four men moved to the centre of the barn where they fell into a heated discussion. Pierre gripped the gun, feeling vulnerable. Claire stood next to him; their eyes fixed on the German. His eyes looked left and right. ‘So I know your name now as you know mine. Tell me, Pierre, what would you do if I made a run for it?’
‘He’d shoot you dead,’ said Claire.
‘I doubt it. Ever handled a gun before, Pierre? I thought not. It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?’ He took a step forward.
‘Get back. Get back, I say.’
‘What, and wait for those fools to kill me? They wouldn’t have the balls.’
‘Those fools fought in the last war,’ said Claire. In the corner of his eye Pierre swore he spotted them playing rock, paper, scissors.
A sudden flurry of movement to his side took Pierre’s attention. The cat. A mouse. The German sprang, leaping through the air. Pierre fell back, the German fell over him. The gun fired. Claire screamed. The men came running, shouting. Pierre still had the gun. The German tried to release his grip, slamming Pierre’s hand against the barn floor, before slumping on top of him. Pushing him off, Pierre staggered to his feet. The German stirred, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Good work, Claire,’ said Dubois. Claire stood, panting, grinning, the spade in her hand. Behind her the cat dragged its victim away, its tail twitching.
Bouchette patted her shoulder. ‘That was one hell of a swipe, girl.’
‘Get up,’ ordered Kafka. The German straightened his back. ‘Are you listening?’ The German nodded. ‘We may be enemies but we are not monsters. However, we have decided we have no option but to execute you. Monsieur Lincoln owns a rifle and has volunteered to carry out this unpleasant duty.’
Lincoln had gone; presumably, thought Pierre, to fetch his gun.
The German stood hunched. The man was crying. ‘I had so many plans,’ he said. ‘After the war, I was planning to resume my studies in Bremen. Architecture. I never wanted to be a soldier. I had dreams of designing lovely buildings, meeting a pretty girl and settling down. Nice house, children, you know.’ His eyes widened as Lincoln returned, carrying his rifle. His legs buckled. Kafka helped him stay on his feet. ‘I am as helpless in the face of death as that mouse was with the cat.’
‘It’s a bit old,’ said Lincoln apologetically as he approached them. ‘It’s a Berthier from the war. My brother gave it to me.’
‘Oh God,’ said the Belgian. He began muttering in German, crossing himself.
‘I think it’d be best if you stand next to the wall,’ said Kafka to the German. ‘Come on.’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you.’
Pierre tried to swallow. He couldn’t believe he was about to witness a man being killed. It seemed unreal. Lincoln looked as if he might be sick. He too was muttering, talking about his brother. No one was listening. Bouchette and Dubois had stepped back. Dubois was shaking, Bouchette covered his mouth with his hand.
Claire wiped her eyes. ‘We should have a priest,’ she said. ‘Look at him; he needs a priest.’
‘I know but what can we do?’ said Kafka. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the German, who, gulping, tried to speak. ‘Lincoln, you ready?’
‘Here, hold this a minute, boy,’ said Lincoln to Pierre, handing him the rifle. Lincoln approached the German, now standing with his back against the wooden slats of the barn wall. He offered the German his hand. ‘I’m sorry I have to do this.’
‘You have no choice,’ said Oskar. ‘I see that now.’
After a moment’s hesitation, the two men embraced. The German sobbed into Lincoln’s shoulder as the Frenchman patted his back, repeating, ‘Forgive me, forgive me...’
‘Please, do it now. Get it over and done with.’
Pierre handed Lincoln back his rifle. The German hung his head, reciting a prayer in German. Lincoln lifted the gun, took aim. Everyone took a further step back. Lincoln, Pierre noticed, was shaking terribly. ‘Go on, do it,’ whispered Claire.
The crack of the rifle shot sounded. Oskar screamed. He fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder and grunting. Blood seeped through his fingers. Lincoln spun away; his eyes clenched shut.
Claire patted her pockets and found a handkerchief. ‘Here, let me,’ she said to Oskar. The man fell on his back. Claire scooped up his head and rested it on her lap. He removed his hand and allowed Claire to press the handkerchief against his wound trying to stem the flow of blood.
Lincoln let the rifle fall to the ground where it landed blowing up a cloud of straw dust. ‘I can’t do it again.’
Oskar screwed up his face. ‘Please, Mademoiselle, post the handkerchief to my mother.’ Claire glanced at the others. Kafka was removing his revolver from his inside jacket pocket. ‘I want her to have this handkerchief with my blood on it. The street is Winter Strausse in Bremen, number fourteen. It hurts. Will you remember that?’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll remember.’
Quietly, Kafka walked up to Oskar.
‘Tell her I died for Germany; tell her I died with her name on my lips.’ He looked up at her. He had no idea Kafka was next to him, slightly behind.
Kafka lifted his arm.
‘I’ll tell her; I’ll write to her. I promise.’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle.’
Pierre closed his eyes. The shot rang out. Claire screamed. Somewhere birds squawked. Pierre forced himself to look. Claire, her jaw quivering, her hands against the sides of her head, was sprayed with the German’s blood, her coat splattered with fragments of brain and tissue. Frantically, she tried to wipe it off.
Kafka strode back to his friends. Pierre was sure he was grinning. The nausea rose in his throat. They each patted him on the back; Lincoln, with great solemnity, shook his hand.
Pierre turned round and vomited.
*
Kafka allowed Pierre and Clai
re to return to the town immediately. He, and the others, would stay behind and bury Oskar Spitzweg in the grounds of Lincoln’s farm. ‘Should we not get Father de Beaufort?’ asked Bouchette.
‘No,’ said Dubois. ‘It could complicate matters.’
‘Perhaps after the war?’ suggested Claire.
Pierre pushed the small barn door open. He saw Lincoln’s wife at a distance throwing grain for the chickens while stroking the head of the goat. ‘She must have heard,’ said Pierre.
‘Yes, but it’s easier to pretend it’s not happening.’
The rain had stopped, the dark clouds dispersing revealing islands of blue sky. Pierre walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets; Claire alongside him, her coat filthy with blood.
‘I hope never to have to come back here,’ said Pierre. ‘That was horrible.’
‘But necessary.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course. It would have been us at the end of the rifle barrel had we let him go.’
They walked in silence until they were back on the road leading down to the town. The day didn’t feel real somehow, as if time had suspended itself. Outside, everything looked normal, the sky, the fields, the woods, the town ahead. Yet the world looked uglier; it felt different, and Pierre felt older, his feet heavier.
Claire muttered something to herself.
‘What did you say?’
‘I was just repeating the address. Number forty, Winter Strausse in Bremen.’
‘Number fourteen not forty.’
‘Is it? Are you sure?’
‘I couldn’t forget it if I tried. One day, after the war, in years to come, I might go visit it.’
‘And what would you say?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I won’t even knock. I’d just stand outside and watch.’
‘You’re being sentimental. The man would have had us shot in a blink of an eye.’
‘Different-coloured eyes.’
‘That’s what made you remember, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the Germans are pulling down the war memorial the day after tomorrow. It’s been announced. The barbarians.’
‘It won’t look the same without Soldier Mike.’
‘Listen.’
‘What?’
‘I can hear boots.’ It sounded like a group of German soldiers running, just round the bend in the road, their heavy boots slamming against the tarmac.
‘They might ask for our papers,’ said Pierre. ‘They might ask where we’ve been.’
‘They’ll see the mess on my coat.’
‘Get rid of it.’
‘Too late. Quick, kiss me.’
‘What?’ Before he had time to prepare himself, Pierre felt Claire’s arms around him, her lips on his. He closed his eyes. He felt quite lightheaded with the mixture of emotions – the tension of German soldiers about to pass them, the execution and the unexpected delight of kissing Claire. He felt her hand on the nape of his neck. His back muscles relaxed at her touch while the sound of the thumping boots became louder, pounding in his brain. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw them pass, about eight of them, exercising in full uniform, with heavy packs on their backs. They waved and cheered as they ran by. One of them whistled, another put his thumbs up. Pierre waved back but made sure to keep his lips to Claire’s. The sound of their boots receded but he held Claire tightly, not wanting the moment to end. But it did. Claire pulled back. ‘That did the trick,’ she said.
‘Perhaps we should carry on in case they come back.’
‘Come on, this is no time to be flippant. Oh, you’ve got blood on your coat as well now.’
‘It’s stopped raining so we can take them off.’
He walked with a lighter step, wanting to take her hand, holding his coat over his shoulder. He knew the kiss had been meaningless but still, he felt marvellous.
He hadn’t realised that Claire had stopped. He turned. She had her hand on her forehead. ‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Those soldiers – they may talk. They might tell their comrades.’
‘About what?’
‘About you and me just now. Merde.’
‘I don’t understand. What would it matter?’
But of course he understood only too well.
*
Having said goodbye to Claire outside her house, Pierre ambled home, in no hurry to return. He wondered about her life in Paris, how different it must have been from her life here. He wondered whether she wanted to return there; whether, indeed, she might take him one day.
Taking a detour via the library green, he leant against the tree he and Xavier often used to sit under. The grass was wet. He hadn’t seen his friend for a while. He rather missed him, yet when he thought of the games and antics they used to get up to, he realised none of it appealed any more.
A truck full of soldiers rumbled past behind him. So Tintin the Belgian had been Oskar Spitzweg the German SS. And now he was dead. It must have all been planned. Yes, of course it was – he remembered the major insisting on him cycling to the colonel’s office. So, Spitzweg, on duty there, would have known he would be cycling by on that road around that particular time, tipped off by Major Hurtzberger, and had enough time to set up his little ambush. After Pierre had been pushed off his bike, he was too stunned to react that quickly, and his left arm throbbed in pain. The man had plenty of time to make his getaway on the bike, but no, he purposely got the pedals stuck, allowing Pierre time to get up and seize him. But why? The man had offered his services to them. Perhaps that was it – simply to infiltrate and report back to the colonel.
Bremen. He wondered what sort of town it was, whether it was big, a city, or small like Saint-Romain. Did he drink coffee in its cafés, did it have a cinema, did he have lots of friends there? A girlfriend? One day, soon, Oskar Spitzweg’s mother would receive a letter from northern France enclosed with a handkerchief stained with her son’s blood. How does one cope with that? Did he have brothers in uniform? Sisters? What would Claire say in her letter? Would she say he’d been captured and executed with tears in his eyes, regretting the life that had eluded him, his plans to study, to become an architect? Would she say he was buried in unconsecrated ground on a bleak farm without the attendance of a priest? Nineteen years old, almost twenty, born after the last war, born in a time of peace. What an age to die.
He flung himself down on the armchair in the living room. The major had put up the painting of the Alpine scene. Pierre wasn’t sure that he liked it. He saw, hung up on the coat rack, the major’s cap. Normally, at this time, he would be still at work in the town hall. Something felt strange, an odd atmosphere in the house. As soon as he stepped through to the kitchen, Pierre knew something was wrong. He found his mother and the major in an embrace. Involuntarily, he let out a sound of surprise. He stepped back, hoping to escape back out but his mother heard him.
‘Pierre, come in,’ she said quietly, disentangling herself from the German. There was nothing unusual in her expression, no sign of shame. Pierre realised their embrace was not improper. Something was wrong. ‘Thomas has had a letter.’
The major’s eyes were red. He looked older, his face drained, his hair dishevelled.
Pierre sat down at the kitchen table. The major withdrew and disappeared into his bedroom, gently closing the door behind him.
‘What’s... what’s happened?’
Lucienne sat on the bench next to him. ‘It’s the major’s son, Joachim. He’s been killed.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes.’
*
Pierre spent the rest of the morning working on his sculpture, trying not to think about the major’s son or the executed SS man. He found comfort from the familiar presence of the chickens near him. Madeline, Marlene, Monique... The work was going well, he chiselled away feverishly, keen to distance himself from the real world. He remembered that the major had promised to have the finished sculpture displayed at the town hall. He hadn
’t mentioned it since. Perhaps, when the opportunity presented itself, he would remind him. He imagined the sign next to it – ‘The White Venus by Pierre Durand, 1940.’ His father would burst with pride. His mother would tell everyone in the town. If only things were so easy.
Concentrating as he was, Pierre hadn’t realised the major had come out into the yard and was standing behind him.
‘You made me jump.’
‘My apologies.’ He lit a cigarette, closing his eyes as the smoke filled his lungs. ‘It’s coming along nicely, I see,’ he said nodding at the sculpture.
‘Yes. I’m doing the hair. It’ll take a while.’ Pierre wondered if he should mention his son; he had no idea what the etiquette was concerning a bereavement.
‘Yes. It looks like a lot of work. I admire your patience.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My son, Joachim, he had too little patience. Always in a hurry, wanting to do whatever came next in life.’
‘Yes.’
‘Always in such a damned hurry. Too keen to do the Führer’s dirty work. Your mother told you?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘Hmm.’ He sat down in the rocking chair. ‘North Africa. Killed in action. “I regret to inform you...” Fighting for the Führer. At least that’s what the telegram said. It makes it sound as if it was a worthy death. Nineteen years old. No death is worthy at that age. Goodness knows how his mother is coping. I ought to... Never mind.’ He stood up again, struggling to extricate himself from the rocking chair. ‘I need to go back to work. It’s just another day; a day like any other.’ He threw away his cigarette, half smoked. The hens jumped and squawked. ‘Pierre, I have... There’s something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been told... I mean, they, my superiors, have told me...’ He looked to one side. ‘I’m being transferred. They’ll give me a few days leave, but when I return to France, I’ll be heading for another garrison, one in Paris, I think.’
‘Oh.’ A heavy silence settled on Pierre’s heart; a form of guilt that he should be pleased, pleased to ridding his home of this invader, but, instead, a blanket of sadness wrapped over him. He stared at the sculpture, his hand, holding the chisel, poised; his mouth hung open. ‘Oh,’ he said again. The news, so sudden, had taken him unawares; he’d never considered the possibility. Of course, it was obvious but still... ‘I...’ Summoning the courage, he turned to face the major. ‘I’d be sad to see you go.’
The White Venus Page 19