He decided he would venture out to Kafka’s hut as soon as he was done with breakfast. Best not tell his mother. If they weren’t there, he thought, surely it would provide a clue as to where they were. Problem was finding it. If only he’d paid more attention that time.
Lucienne snatched away his plate and eggcup before he had chance to finish. He thought it best not to complain and, instead, gulped down his cod liver oil.
An urgent knock on the door stopped them in their tracks.
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucienne. ‘Not again.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Pierre. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. He barely had time to register, when the lieutenant barged into the living room. This time, at least, he was alone. ‘Where’s your father?’ he snapped.
‘I – I don’t k-know.’
Lucienne came in from the kitchen, gripping a tea towel. ‘We – we both don’t know.’
The lieutenant eyed them both, his eyes narrowing. With quick strides, he marched into the kitchen, the bedrooms, the yard. Moments later, he was back. ‘Where is your father?’ he repeated, screaming.
‘We really don’t know, Lieutenant,’ said Lucienne, her nervousness dripping from her voice.
‘He’s not reported in. He has kidnapped Major Hurtzberger. We will find him. He will be shot for this.’
‘He hasn’t kidnapped the major,’ said Pierre quickly. ‘He wouldn’t–’
The slap took Pierre by surprise. Lucienne screamed. Falling back, he was more shocked than hurt.
‘We will find him, we will hurt him, then we will shoot him dead. Sie verstehen? You understand?’
Both of them nodded, too fearful to say anything more. The lieutenant clicked his heels and left as abruptly as he’d appeared.
‘Pierre, are you OK, my love? Does it hurt?’
Yes, he thought, it bloody did hurt. ‘No, not at all. I’m fine, Maman.’
They sat in the living room, neither able to talk. Every now and then Lucienne would mutter an ‘oh dear, oh dear.’ He had to find his father before the Germans did, thought Pierre; that much was obvious. But where? Where could he have gone?
A distant voice seized their attention. Both of them cocked their heads.
‘What is that?’ whispered Lucienne.
‘I don’t know. Wait...’ He went to the living room window pushing aside the net curtain. The sun shone weakly, failing to melt away the clouds drifting across the sky. Straining his neck, he saw, coming slowly up the road, a German motorbike and sidecar mounted with a machine gun. The driver looked slightly ridiculous – wearing goggles despite driving at walking pace. His companion, in the sidecar, was standing up, shouting through a loudhailer. People passing in the street had stopped to listen. Lucienne joined Pierre at the window.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘...At twelve o’clock. Attention, attention! By orders of the Ortskommandantur, all citizens without exception are ordered to congregate in the town square at twelve o’clock. Twelve o’clock. Any citizen not accounted for will face harsh penalties. Attention, attention! By orders of the Ortskommandantur, all citizens...’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucienne. ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘It must be something about the disappearance of the major.’
‘And your father.’
‘Maybe about Kafka too.’
Lucienne sat at the kitchen table, pulling at a thread in her tea towel. ‘Oh dear, oh dear; I don’t like this one bit.’
It was nine o’clock. Pierre wondered whether he had time to hunt out Kafka’s hut and make it back in time. No, he decided; it’d be too risky; he could easily get lost. He would simply have to postpone it until the afternoon.
*
At five minutes to twelve, Xavier appeared. ‘Hello Madame Durand. Hi Pierre. Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Don’t you want to go with your parents, Xavier?’ asked Lucienne.
‘They’ve gone ahead. They wanted a seat at the front.’
‘That’s brave of them,’ said Pierre.
‘Are they providing seats?’ asked Lucienne.
‘Huh, that’s what I said.’
‘We’d better go,’ said Pierre. ‘See what they’ve got cooking now.’
They joined a procession of villagers making their way to the town square. People raised eyebrows at each other in the form of acknowledgement but no one spoke. Everyone could sense the anxiety in the air. Shops were closed for the hour. As they turned the corner coming into the square, Xavier nudged Pierre in the arm. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing. There, on a tree, were two posters. Both posters bore the word, printed large, “Missing”. The top one had two pictures – of the SS man, Oskar Spitzweg, and Major Hurtzberger; the second had the names of Pierre’s father and Kafka – Albert Foucault. Beneath the names, also in large writing, was an offer of an unspecified reward. Peering closer, both posters warned of severe penalties to anyone withholding information or harbouring the four men. Every tree, Pierre noticed, every shop front, every lamp post, had these posters.
People had already gathered, milling round the square but no one pushed. Mothers held onto the hands of their children. A few chairs were provided for the elderly, including Albert and Hector, the cemetery boys. German soldiers lined the perimeter. At the front, Pierre spotted the mayor and the staff from the town hall. This time there was no stage, no decking, no microphone. He spotted Claire, looking gorgeous in her polka dot red dress, speaking to a couple of friends. The town hall clock chimed twelve. As the last peal faded away, Colonel Eisler, flanked by two privates, appeared from the town hall. A hush descended on the crowd. The colonel scanned the audience, his expression hard and resolute, emotionless. Lucienne reached for Pierre’s hand. As subtly as he could, Pierre ignored it.
One of the privates handed the colonel a loudhailer. ‘Monsieurs, mesdames.’ He held in his other hand a sheet of paper. Behind him, standing to attention, were another group of soldiers, their steely expressions fixed on the villagers in front of them. ‘I do not intend to keep you long. You will have seen the posters concerning the sudden disappearance of two of our men and two of yours. I am deeply concerned for the welfare of my men. I believe their vanishing is no coincidence. I also have reason to believe that these bandits, Foucault and Durand, are responsible for the disappearance of Major Hurtzberger and Lieutenant Spitzweg.’ Pierre winced at hearing his father being described as a bandit. ‘If my men are indeed being kept against their will, the consequences for their captors, and for you, will be severe. I will not tolerate such actions. If you have any information or suspicions, you must inform the town hall staff straightaway. Your information will be treated with the utmost confidentiality. If the provided information bears fruit in any way, you will be heartily compensated. You have until midday tomorrow. If our men are not located by this time tomorrow, there will be consequences.’ He paused. Not a sound. ‘I would like to call on the following citizens to step forward.’ Putting on his glasses, he unfolded his sheet of paper. He read out the names of six villagers, three men, including Monsieurs Picard and Gide, and three women. The last name was that of Claire. What was this, thought Pierre? Why Claire; what did they want with her? The six of them shuffled forward and made their way to the front, Claire glanced behind, anxiety etched all over her face. On making themselves known, two German privates herded them together, pushing Monsieur Gide, the baker, roughly in the back. Gide put his hands up.
The colonel removed his glasses. ‘Unless we can account for all these missing men within the next twenty-four hours, these six citizens will be shot.’
A shocked gasp passed through the crowd. Madame Picard screamed her husband’s name. Another fainted and had to be caught. Someone behind Pierre muttered, beasts. Resting the loudhailer against his side, the colonel turned to the hostages. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at Claire. ‘Come here.’ His voice was still audible.
Pierre held his breath. Cautiously, Claire approached the colonel, her
eyes downcast. Even from here, thought Pierre, one could she was trembling.
‘I need a seventh person. Choose someone.’
She looked up at him, her mouth open, shocked. Slowly, as if death had already half claimed her, she turned and gazed at the crowd. Instinctively, it drew back, frightened of her. Colonel Eisler had transformed her into the Grim Reaper. She had come amongst them to dispense death. So many people, but not a single sound save for the gentle mewling of a baby in its mother’s arms. Many were shaking their heads, beseeching Claire not to choose them. And Pierre was one of them. If you choose me, he thought, we’re as good as dead; I’m the only one capable of finding them. Claire stepped into the crowd splitting it into two as people backed away, like Moses and the waves. She cast her eyes left and right; her skin ghostly white, as if she was looking for someone specifically. His stomach caved in as the realisation hit in – she was looking for him. If he begged her she would only see it as cowardice and he would be damned in her memory for eternity – she wouldn’t realise. He had to remain free to save her, to save them all. Xavier glimpsed at him, his eyes filled with terror; a look reflected everywhere. And still she came, closer and closer. People were crying while shuffling away. Mothers hid their children; some of the men stepped in front of their wives, while most did not. Monsieur Bonnet, Pierre noticed, furtively stepped behind his wife. Claire ignored them all, looking for Pierre. And she found him.
‘No, not Pierre,’ said Lucienne, pressing herself into him, trying to ward death off.
She stood so close to him, he could smell her breath. Her eyes were dry, it was almost as if her brain had stopped functioning, as if her soul had already departed her physical presence. ‘Help me,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me... Tell me what to do.’
Aware of every pair of eyes fixed on him, he whispered back, trying not to move his lips, ‘I don’t know but I can save you. Give me time, I’ll save you.’
It registered. Her eyes widened a fraction. She stepped away. Pierre felt his knees give way. Three paces on, she lifted her hand and pointed a finger.
‘Nooo,’ screamed Monsieur Clément, shattering the unearthly silence. ‘No, I don’t deserve to die.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire quietly.
‘You chose him,’ shouted Madame Clément, pointing at Pierre. He felt the eyes of everyone bore into him. They knew she was right; he felt their raw hatred. Lucienne took his hand. He gripped it. ‘You chose him. I saw him – he asked you not to.’ She began crying while her husband, next to her, started shaking. ‘You – you can’t do that,’ she spluttered between sobs.
Two German privates approached, their boots resounding on the stones.
‘No, please, I beg you,’ said Clément, his knees buckling beneath him. ‘I beg you, Claire. There must be someone else. Please, I thought we got on.’ Claire took a step back, her work done. Clément knew it. ‘You bitch, you fucking bitch.’
‘You can’t take him,’ yelled Madame Clément at the soldiers as they almost picked her husband up by the elbows. ‘This is not fair; it’s not fair.’ She began thumping the back of one of the soldiers as they dragged her husband, still cursing Claire, through the crowd. ‘It should be him, that boy,’ cried Madame Clément. ‘That boy. Please.’
The soldier spun round and, without warning, punched her. Her body jerked back as if the life had snapped out of her. ‘Chrissy,’ yelled her husband. ‘Chrissy...’ His voice deteriorated into sobs. He tried to wrestle his arms free but stood no chance against the bulky Germans. Madame Clément lay in a heap on the ground, not moving. Those nearest to her seemed too frightened to help her, as if she was the carrier of a disease.
The soldiers deposited Monsieur Clément at Colonel Eisler’s side, where he fell, and took their places a few yards behind. Without being told to, Claire obediently followed them, her head bowed, and took up her place beside her fellow hostages. The crowd re-converged, a mixture of terror and relief sweeping through it.
‘Get up,’ shouted the colonel. If Clément heard through his sobs, fear had stripped him of the ability to move. The colonel unclipped his holster. ‘Get up,’ he repeated, brandishing his Luger in his right hand.
This time, Monsieur Clément heard. Looking up, he saw the revolver pointing down at him. With great effort, he clambered onto his knees and up.
The colonel clicked his fingers. A soldier passed him back the loudhailer. Holding it in his left hand, he switched it on. ‘I need these missing men here at precisely twelve o’clock tomorrow in this very place, otherwise these six men and women will be shot.’ Monsieur Clément’s weeping had been amplified by his close proximity to the loudhailer, sniffling in the background as the colonel spoke. ‘All citizens will be required to attend the executions.’
Why had he said six? thought Pierre. There were seven hostages now.
‘Be warned,’ said the colonel. ‘We are not playing games here.’ Then, sweeping his right arm straight, he fired his Luger. The sound of the shot rebounded throughout the square. People screamed. Like a collapsing puppet, Monsieur Clément fell at the colonel’s feet, dead, a crimson hole in his forehead.
Colonel Eisler cast his eyes over his audience. ‘I hope I have made myself understood.’ And with that, he handed the loudhailer back to his attendant, and returned to the town hall, the mayor in his wake. Monsieur Clément lay on the ground, his dead eyes open, a pool of blood forming beneath his head.
‘Claire... Claire,’ muttered Pierre. He watched, open-mouthed, as, together with the others, she was led away, German soldiers surrounding them.
He wanted to rush over, to save her now. He felt Xavier’s hand on his shoulder but there was nothing he could say.
Nearby, Monsieur Gide’s wife began crying. ‘This is not fair,’ she screamed. Her companions tried to calm her. ‘Bertrand! Why pick on my Bertrand?’
‘This is too awful,’ said Lucienne, her face etched with anxiety. ‘What can we do?’
‘Hope something happens,’ said Xavier. ‘Something will turn up,’ he said to Pierre.
‘You think so?’
‘Well...’
Someone pushed towards them – Madame Picard. ‘Did you see that?’ she shouted at Lucienne, her hand pointing at the Germans behind her. ‘They took my Gerard. This is your husband’s fault, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
Her son, a man in his late twenties, as wide as he was tall, tried to pull her back. ‘Where is he?’ hissed Madame Picard. ‘Where is he, you bitch? Him and that stupid friend of his.’
Pierre could tell his mother was on the verge of tears. ‘Madame Picard,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘This won’t help–’
‘Proud of your father, are you? Well, let me tell you,’ she said, turning to Lucienne, ‘if they murder my Gerard, I won’t rest until I find your husband and rip him to pieces.’ She spat at Lucienne, catching her fully on the cheek.
Taking her brusquely by her arm, Madame Picard’s son yanked her away. Delivering her into the arms of another, he turned back. Squaring up to Pierre, he growled, ‘She’s right. Your father’s as good as dead.’ Pierre watched as he disappeared, with his mother, into the crowd. He realised he was shaking.
Lucienne, also trembling, searched her pockets for a handkerchief. Xavier offered her his. She took it without thanks. ‘Pierre, take me home please.’
Chapter 21
Back at home Lucienne took to her bed. She had a headache, she’d said. Pierre, on the other hand, knew he had to find his father. The Germans were assuming Georges was in cahoots with Kafka; that, between them, they had somehow kidnapped the major and Lieutenant Spitzweg. It was vital he found Kafka’s woodland hut as soon as possible. He decided against leaving his mother a note. Taking his bicycle, he’d cycled through the town, passed the shops and through the town square. The crowds had melted away, gone home, like his mother, to lie down, to hope, to pray. Soldier Mike’s plinth remained in place, fragments of bronze scattered around its base. The cafés had reopened.
There were no locals, only Germans, filling every outdoor table, playing cards or dominoes, laughing. It was as if nothing had changed.
He visualised Claire’s face as she was led away, her eyes wide with fright. The thought made him speed up. It was down to him, and him only. To save them all. He had to find that hut. But why? They wouldn’t be there. He remembered Major Hauff, at the Gestapo headquarters in Saint-Romain, saying that Monsieur Dubois was leading the major and a couple of privates to Kafka’s hideout. Dubois would be dead by now, that was for sure, executed by a German firing squad. He thought of his father’s mock execution. He tried to remember everything his father had said about Kafka: The monster who lives in our midst. Kafka is a murderer and I, by my complicity, am no better. He thought about Kafka and the rabbit, hacking off one foot at a time. Was it possible that Kafka had taken Major Hurtzberger as a hostage? But why would he do that? To what end? Did he really think he could outwit the might and ruthlessness of the Germans? The war unhinged him, his father had said. So much to remember. Yet, he pressed on, pedalling hard, knowing that he had to do something; that doing nothing would be unbearable.
He’d come out of the town now, and had begun cycling up the hill, on the other side of which was where Oskar Spitzweg had knocked him off his bike. I know his hideaways. He braked abruptly to a halt, almost falling off. Letting out a cry, he could hear his father saying it: I know his hideaways. He’d said hideaways in the plural; that must mean he had more than one.
His breath came in short bursts, but whether from cycling hard or the realisation, he didn’t know. Hideaways. The lake. He’d heard it some point, a lake hideaway. Yes, it was that first day, when the whole town, like today, had gathered to ‘welcome’ their invaders. Kafka had been hit to the ground by Fritz One when the major had stepped in. Afterwards, as they wound their way home, his father had mentioned it – Take a few days off, Kafka. Go to your island on the lake, have a rest. An island on the lake. Good God, yes; that was it. But no, he couldn’t go there; he couldn’t face seeing the lake. He’d never been back; not since that day, had sworn he would never go back. He didn’t even know where it was; he’d blanked it out. He knew that it was kilometres away, a good ten, twelve kilometres. He could hardly breathe. The thought of it was too much to bear. All that water; that deep, dark water. Yet, he knew he had no choice; he had to face it; he had to go. There was a map back at home, on the bookshelf in the living room.
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