The major smiled a smile filled with painful regret. His eyes turned heavenward, running his fingers through his hair, clenching at strands so tightly to have hurt. He shook his head and was gone.
Pierre leant over and scooped up the major’s half smoked cigarette.
Chapter 17
Kafka slammed the table. ‘What idiots we were; we should have kept him alive.’
‘No – the only good German is a dead German,’ said Bouchette, his hand beneath the kitchen table, stroking Daisy.
‘Don’t you see, you fool; if we’d kept him alive, we would have had a bargaining tool. One German SS for our boys holed up in Saint-Romain.’
‘No, you’re the fool here. If you can think you can outfox the Germans at games like that, you’re mad. Can you imagine the swap? Off you go then, Oskar, go join your mates over there while our lads come back to us. Can you imagine? They’d slaughter us; they’d shoot us down in an instant.’
‘He’s right,’ said Dubois. ‘If there’s one thing their madman of a leader has taught them, it’s that you don’t win wars by gentlemanly agreements.’
‘That’s your problem, Kafka,’ barked Bouchette. ‘You think only of the here and now; no thought to the repercussions.’
Kafka sprung out of his chair. ‘And your problem is that you’re cowards.’ With his knuckles on the table, he spoke quickly. ‘All we’ve done so far is down to me. The railway sabotage, the capture and killing of that Kraut.’
‘Right, yes, the railway sabotage that they fixed within a couple of hours, and the killing of one solitary boss-eyed Kraut hardly dismantles a regime, does it?’
‘He wasn’t boss-eyed,’ said Pierre. ‘It was just that his–’
‘Yes, whatever, it doesn’t make much difference,’ said Bouchette.
Claire winked at Pierre.
‘And now, Lincoln’s bowed out.’
‘Another coward,’ said Kafka.
‘We need more men,’ said Dubois.
‘And we will have more men,’ said Kafka, sitting down. ‘I’ve been sounding people out; we have a lot of support.’
‘Is that so?’ shouted Bouchette. ‘So where are they, these mythical men?’
‘They’ll be ready when I tell them, don’t you worry.’
‘Oh but I am; I’m very worried.’
‘Let’s be honest,’ said Dubois, ‘we’re out of our depth. The Krauts think we’re simple hillbillies and frankly I reckon they’ve got a point.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Claire.
‘Yes, sorry, Mademoiselle.’
‘Any coffee, gentlemen?’ asked Madame Bouchette, popping into the kitchen.
‘No.’
Daisy barked. ‘Shush, girl,’ said Bouchette, slapping the dog.
‘Hey, what’s happened to those leaflets?’ asked Dubois. ‘Claire said we’d have them by now.’
Kafka shrugged. ‘That’s a point. Do you know, Claire?’
She shook her head. ‘They must’ve got held up.’
‘Not good.’
Pierre tried to hide his grimace as he thought of Victor and Alain hauled away by the Gestapo on his say so.
‘So, what’s next?’ asked Dubois.
Kafka grinned. ‘Our next hit.’
Bouchette threw his hands up in the air. ‘I’m not risking my neck for another pointless–’
‘No, this will be big,’ said Kafka sharply. ‘This will show we mean business.’
‘Oh, so that’s all right, then,’ said Dubois. ‘And what did you have in mind?’
‘A bomb. Right at the heart of their operations.’
‘What?’ screeched Bouchette. ‘That’s preposterous.’
‘Hear me out. We quietly leave a bomb in a briefcase at the town hall reception. You know I used to work in the quarries. The Krauts may have closed it down but they didn’t empty it. Never even bothered to look. I know for fact there’s still a mass of explosives down there. You know how busy it gets in the town hall and tomorrow they’re tearing down Soldier Mike so no one will notice. But, just in case, we’ll create a diversion or two.’
‘Tomorrow? You’re mad,’ said Dubois. ‘Quite mad. Have you thought of the consequences? For every Kraut we kill; they’ll kill ten of us – at random. I’ve heard it done, not far from here–’
‘This is war, for pity’s sake. Yes, there’ll be casualties but we can’t lie back and let the bastards trample over us. This is just a small outpost for them. By our actions they’ll think it’s not worth the candle and move on. Christ, Bouchette, they killed your son. We have to fight back.’
‘If you want to go down in history as a martyr, Kafka, that’s your lookout.’ Bouchette’s face had turned quite red. ‘Shed your own blood, not the blood of innocents.’ He looked round the table, seeking support. ‘I can’t be party to this; I’m going home.’
‘This is your home, you idiot,’ said Dubois.
‘Yes, yes, I know that; I meant hypothetically.’
‘What about you two? Claire? Pierre?’
‘There is a risk, yes,’ said Claire. ‘But it’s war. I’m prepared to help. As a woman, they’d suspect me less.’
‘Good girl. Pierre?’
He would have said no, but following Claire’s show of hand, he felt he had no choice. ‘I’m prepared to help in any way,’ he said quietly.
‘Ha! So you see, Bouchette, even the kid and the girl you’ve so dismissed in the past are prepared to play their part.’
Bouchette slapped his dog in frustration. ‘OK, OK, tell me the plan – in detail; then I’ll decide.’
*
Pierre felt sick. He accompanied Claire in silence to the library. Despite hints of sunshine coming through the high windows, the place still felt dank and dark. A thin layer of dust had settled on the books. ‘Yes, I know,’ said Claire. ‘The place needs a thorough clean.’
‘Do many people come inside?’
‘Not often. The odd German. People are too busy trying to survive to worry about reading. Especially now that your major forced me to remove all the good books.’
Once, recently, Pierre would have resented Major Hurtzberger being referred to as his major; now, the thought struck him, he felt rather pleased with the association.
‘I have a few minutes before I need to unlock the front door. I’m going to write that letter today – to Bremen.’ She jumped up onto the counter and crossed her legs. Pierre tried not to look at those legs. If only he had the excuse to kiss her again. ‘So, Pierre, what do you think of Kafka’s grand plan?’
‘Bouchette is right – it’s a mad idea. The notion of walking into the town hall, nonchalantly leaving a bomb and making our escape seems absurd.’ Would it cow the Germans, he wondered? No, of course not. Since their arrival, the Germans and the French had settled into a state of acceptance. They weren’t the barbarians people feared they would be; they had, in fact, gone out of their way to be polite and accommodating. Life was harder, that couldn’t be denied; the lack of petrol, radios and the rising prices, the introduction of coupons to purchase items, these things ground people down. Yes, one knew who had the power and that the Germans, at any time, could turn nasty but for those who chose to accept their presence or simply ignore them, and that counted almost everyone, then life was bearable.
‘Kafka seems more unhinged with each passing day,’ she said, filing her nails. ‘He has to be stopped. How many innocent people, French people, would be caught by the blast?’
‘So why did you agree to it?’
‘I could ask the same. I wanted to hear his plan.’
‘Me too.’
‘We have to stop him; you need to tell your major.’
Now, Pierre had the perfect reason for approaching the major; something that, hopefully, would secure the release of his father. This time, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate.
‘Well, time to open the doors. Brace yourself for the rush...’
*
Back at home, Pierre found his moth
er at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, a glass of water next to her. More worryingly, on the table, in front of her, were his father’s war medals, unclipped from their frame.
‘Mama, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh, Pierre. I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to see me like this.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s just got on top of me today. Your father. I need him back.’ Pierre had to fight the temptation of telling her that it would soon be over, that Georges would soon be home, that he had the means to make it happen, but he knew he couldn’t say it. ‘I think it’s seeing the major in his sadness; it brought it all home for me. Do you think your father’s OK in there? You hear of such dreadful things.’
‘I’m sure they’ll let him go soon.’
‘Oh, I so hope you’re right. And the major, Thomas, why do I feel for him so? He’s lost his son, a German soldier, one of them. Yet I see only a father grieving. A friend. It feels terrible saying that.’
‘I know; I feel the same.’
‘He’s our enemy, isn’t he? Goodness knows how many Frenchmen he’s killed.’
‘Perhaps none.’
‘We don’t know, though, do we?’ She took a sip of water. ‘Well, this is no good. They may have taken my husband but I still have to prepare something to eat. I’d better put these medals away. Your father never looks at them. He would have thrown them away by now if I hadn’t stopped him.’
While his mother clattered around in the kitchen, tidying things that didn’t need tidying, sweeping the spotless floor tiles, Pierre stepped outside into the yard and turned his attention to his sculpture, trying to blank everything from his mind. It would be a few hours yet before the major returned. In some ways, he was pleased to have seen his mother in such a state. Without realising it, it had bothered him how calm she’d seemed; as if her husband’s arrest had not affected her. What he took as indifference was, in fact, strength. But now, at least, he knew she cared.
It was almost seven in the evening before the major returned. Lucienne was knitting and Pierre reading in the living room. A standard lamp standing on the fireplace hearth shone despite the day still being light; above the fireplace was a framed print of a Renoir painting – Young Girls at the Piano. A large bookshelf contained only a map of the area and a few books, a few French classics that no one read but Lucienne insisted on keeping, if only for appearance’s sake – Guy de Maupassant, Jules Verne, Flaubert and others Pierre knew nothing about. A pair of binoculars hung from the back of the door.
The major came in, unfastened his belt buckle, removed his cap and plonked himself in an armchair with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I hope dinner’s not ruined. I do apologise, Lucienne. A lot of work on at the moment. I’m expected back in two hours as well. Manoeuvres.’
‘I do understand, Thomas.’
‘It’s a good thing, really. It acts as a distraction from... you know.’
‘Yes, of course. Wait there, I’ll get your dinner. Nothing’s ruined.’
‘Thank you, Lucienne. I’ll go have a wash.’ He turned to Pierre, removing his boots. ‘And how are you, Pierre?’
‘Fine. I guess.’
‘I shall miss this place, this house. After a day’s work, it’s like coming home.’ He smiled. ‘I shall miss you all.’
‘Major, I need to speak to you.’
Lucienne, wearing her apron, appeared at the doorway. ‘Would you like to eat here or in the kitchen, Thomas?’
‘I think perhaps in here for a change.’
The major went to have his wash and returned as Lucienne came into the living room with his dinner and a small glass of red wine on a tray. ‘There you are,’ she said, ‘chicken stew.’
‘The chicken I brought yesterday?’
‘We wouldn’t eat nearly as well if it wasn’t for you. What shall we do after you’ve gone, Thomas? Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it.’
‘Give me a minute, Pierre,’ said the major as he tucked into his dinner. ‘Delicious.’ After a few minutes, he asked Pierre what he wanted to speak about.
‘Well... you know Colonel Eisler said I had to speak to you if I heard anything. I’ve heard something.’
‘This sounds serious.’
‘Yes, there’re some men who plan to bomb the town hall.’
‘Good God.’ He gulped down his wine. ‘Are you sure? How do you know this?’
‘I was... I was approached.’
The major placed his glass carefully on the table. ‘To do what exactly?’
Pierre glanced at the Renoir painting. He had never liked it. It reminded him of his own failure to learn the piano. Eventually, his parents, disillusioned with their son’s lack of musical aptitude, had sold it, replacing it, instead, with something easier – a guitar. That hadn’t worked either. They just had to accept their son had no musical ability whatsoever. The little girls in this picture looked too pleased with themselves, irritatingly self-assured with their pretty dresses and their concentrated expressions.
‘Pierre – I asked a question. To do what exactly?’
‘To work with Claire to create a diversion.’
‘Claire? How did she get involved?’ He played with the stem of his glass. ‘When? What time?’
‘Tomorrow. Eleven o’clock.’
‘You’ve done right in telling me. And who are these men?’
‘Do I have to tell you everything?’
‘You either tell me everything or you tell it to the colonel.’
‘Will it...’
‘Yes?’
‘Will it be enough to get my father released?’
‘I can’t promise, but I’ll speak to the colonel. He usually listens to me. And after all, you’ve done as he asked. Now...’ He took another mouthful of wine. ‘You’d better tell me everything.’
Chapter 18
Kafka was right. The town square was packed with soldiers and civilians. Even the mayor was present, standing outside the town hall wearing his robes, a tricolour sash across his chest, his face as red as the colour in his sash. The mayor had made his protestations, he had tried, at least everyone believed so, but he had failed. To remove the statue would be sacrilege, a violation to those who had fought in the war seventy years ago. There were still village elders who were alive and could remember, as children, the calamitous events of 1870 and 1871. Word went round that the official response from Colonel Eisler was that the steel within the statue would be better used as German bullets.
At the town hall doors stood two German guards, searching a woman’s handbag. Kafka had planned two diversions; the first, involving himself and Bouchette, aimed to divert these guards. The sun, although shining, was cool. A pleasant wind filtered through the square. Pierre, who had joined the crowd of spectators, watching with Xavier, felt the tension in his head and his shoulders. The town hall clock showed ten to eleven, German time. Ten minutes. With plenty of shouting and bellowed instructions, the Germans had thrown ropes round the statue’s neck, torso, knees and ankles. ‘Shame on you,’ came a shout from the crowd of French onlookers. ‘Leave him alone.’ ‘Monsieur le Maire,’ came another voice, ‘can’t you do anything? Can’t you stop them?’
‘My dear people, don’t you think I’ve tried?’
A few Germans approached the crowd, their hands on their rifles, and eyed them while, behind them, their colleagues were busy securing the ropes to a truck. Murmurs of discontent circled the crowd, a constant hum of disgruntled voices.
‘Can you imagine what the square will look without our statue?’ said Xavier quietly. ‘I never really appreciated him before.’
‘I know; he was just – there.’
‘Exactly. I shall miss him. So, how have you been? Haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Oh, you know. Busy.’
‘Have you heard – some of the Krauts are being transferred to Paris. What about your major? Is he one of them?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. He’s not my major.’
A fresh chorus of complaint rose from the villagers. But it wasn’t the Fritzes lighting up their blowtorches that caught Pierre’s eye but the sight of Dubois appearing in the square, carrying a small, brown-coloured briefcase, his glasses perched at the end of his nose. Kafka had decided to entrust the placing of the bomb to Dubois, not Claire as originally decided. Claire reckoned Kafka didn’t trust her sufficiently enough to carry out such a task. ‘After all,’ she’d said, ‘I’m only a woman.’ He watched as Dubois mingled with the crowd, bumping into someone he knew, shaking hands and shaking his head. That means, thought Pierre, that Kafka wouldn’t be far away. He craned his neck, trying to find him. A different truck, one with a broken windscreen passed by, a swastika painted on its side, full of soldiers going somewhere, its exhaust clattering loudly, leaving a dense cloud of fumes in its wake.
‘Hello, boys.’ Claire had appeared, squeezing in between them. ‘Not a day we’ll want to remember, is it?’ She looked lovely, thought Pierre, very Parisian, wearing a polka dot skirt with a frilly white blouse, her hair tied back with a blue bow, carrying a petite red handbag with a shiny, silver clasp.
‘We’ll hardly forget it, though,’ said Xavier. ‘Not with the base left behind as a constant reminder.’
‘Plinth,’ said Pierre. ‘Not base.’
‘Ah, thank you. I stand corrected.’
Two of the Germans, wearing goggles beneath their helmets, were now working at the statue’s ankles, weakening them with their blowtorches. The crowd edged forward. The Germans guarding them pushed people back, making sure they were aware of their rifles. ‘Heathens,’ shouted someone from the back. ‘Barbarians,’ came another.
The mayor, still within the sanctuary of the town hall, had been joined by Father de Beaufort. The priest, in full regalia, shouted over, ‘Citizens, citizens, these men are under orders. Don’t persist in abusing them. No good will come of it.’
The White Venus Page 20