‘He does that and your friend here will be a dead man, you mark my words, there’d be no hiding. They won’t want to lose a major – far too senior. A private, yes, they’re two a penny, but a major with all those years of training and experience, no.’
‘The Germans, they killed Monsieur Clément – in the square, in front of everyone.’
‘Monsieur Clément? No,’ said Georges.
‘It was horrible. And they’ve taken hostages.’
‘What?’
‘Six hostages, including Claire.’ The mention of Claire brought both the major and Georges to their feet. ‘If you don’t return the major by midday tomorrow, they’ll be shot also.’
‘You must give yourself up,’ shouted the major.
Kafka slid off his stool, gripping his rifle, his face screwed with hatred. ‘All the more reason for the boy to get back there and tell them our terms.’
‘How do you know I won’t just lead them back here?’
The gunshot took them all by surprise. Instinctively, they ducked. A black hole smouldered in the wooden wall just above Georges’s head. ‘You try it, and it won’t just be the major with a hole in his head. You understand? OK, so a few people get shot. Such is war. They’ll die in the name of sacrifice.’
‘Steady, Kafka,’ said Georges. ‘The boy said they had Claire.’
‘Good, she deserves to be shot, the slut. It was she who denounced us, told the Germans our plans.’
‘No,’ said Pierre. ‘It wasn’t Claire; it was never Claire.’
‘What? What are you saying?’
‘Was it you, Pierre?’ asked his father. ‘Did you tell the Germans?’
Kafka shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re weak. Sucking up to the Krauts. Like father, like son.’
Georges stepped forward. ‘I’ve had twenty-two years of this. Murder is murder, you pig. The rules of war–’
‘The rules of war! There are no rules in war. Get back, all of you, get back.’ The veins throbbed in his neck, his bestial eyes glared.
But Georges didn’t step back, inching towards Kafka, his eyes red with pain. ‘You killed that boy in cold blood. I’ve lived with his memory all these years.’
‘Proves my point – you’re weak, sentimental. Get back or I’ll shoot you now.’
‘Papa, get back, please,’ screamed Pierre.
Kafka, so concentrated on Georges, didn’t see it coming. In a flash, the major was on him, seizing him by the waist. The two men fell but Kafka, holding onto his rifle, was too fast for the German, pushing the major down. He punched him in the chest. Nimbly, rising to his feet, he lifted his rifle and smashed it into the major’s face. The major fell onto his back, blood streaming from his cheek. Kafka spun his rifle round, taking aim at him. The major covered his face.
‘No,’ cried Pierre, leaping onto the major, trying to smother him.
‘Pierre, stop,’ screamed Georges.
Kafka, with the rifle ready to shoot, shouted at Pierre, ‘Stand aside, boy, now.’
‘Get off me, Pierre,’ groaned the major. ‘Don’t do it. Just get off.’
‘You harm my son...’ Kafka turned to face Georges, just as Georges’s fist caught him on the chin; just at the moment the gun went off. This time, Kafka fell back. Georges leapt on him before Kafka had chance to right himself. Both men fought for the rifle, grunting, trading ineffectual blows. Pierre stood up, wanting to help but, with a jolt, realised he was afraid. He looked to the major for support. The German staggered to his feet only to fall again, his eyes glazing over, blood pouring from his shoulder. The stray bullet had caught him. Pierre looked round, searching for something, anything, to help. The chair. Get the chair. Georges and Kafka screamed at each other, the rifle spinning loose, sliding across the floor. Both men leapt for it, each preventing the other from reaching it. Calmly now, Pierre picked it up, nestled the butt against his shoulder and pointed it at Kafka.
‘OK, OK,’ said Kafka, extricating himself from Georges. Puffing his cheeks, he rose to his feet, raising his hands. ‘What now, eh?’ He stood, hands in the air, his chest heaving. ‘Durand and son; turncoats, each as fucking useless as the other.’
Georges, too, got up, dabbing the blood from his lips, stepping to one side.
‘Shut up, Kafka.’
Kafka laughed. ‘So, are you going to do the Germans’ work for them again and shoot me then, Pierre, like I taught you? Remember?’
‘No, I’ll do it; nothing I wouldn’t like better.’ It was the major, panting, leaning against the chair, his face white, accentuated by the deep red hole in his left shoulder.
‘Let the boy, do it,’ said Kafka, slowly putting his arms down. ‘Let’s see if he’s man enough.’
‘Put your hands back up,’ ordered Georges. ‘Pierre, give me the gun.’
‘Man enough? People always want me to be a man.’ He was speaking in a whisper, to himself. ‘Pierre, you’re just a boy. We need men, not children. Come back when you’ve become a man. He’s only a kid. If this is being a man, I’d rather stay a child.’ He tried to focus but realised his tears were obscuring his vision.
‘Here, Major, tie him up.’ Georges threw the German the coil of rope.
Distracted momentarily by the rope, they didn’t see Kafka’s hand as it went to his back pocket. Backing against the wall, he pointed his revolver at Pierre, clicking off its safety catch. The two of them faced each other, their guns trained on the other, Georges and the major either side, the German holding the rope. Transfixed by the black hole of the revolver’s barrel, Pierre’s vision blurred. He knew he could never pull the trigger, even to save his life; the rifle was as useless in his hands as a stick. ‘Don’t do it,’ said the major. ‘Like you say, he’s still only a boy.’
Kafka’s eyes darted from one to the other, his revolver still trained on Pierre, snorting like a bull.
‘Please, Kafka, I beg you. I’ve lost one son, don’t take the other.’
It took but a second. The barrel in his mouth, the shot; Kafka on the wooden floor, the splatter of blood and brain on the wall behind him.
The three of them stood in silence, gaping at the fallen figure, the revolver still in his hand.
‘Pierre? Pierre, you can put the gun down now.’
But Pierre didn’t hear his father. Images flashed through his mind – Claire’s ashen face as she was led away, Tintin at the moment he knew death was about to come, Monsieur Roché with his skull caved in, the exhausted Algerian killed like a dog. Vive la Framce. Michel. Poor Michel, at the bottom of the lake, dead at six. The rifle felt heavy now, his arms weak. Gently, a pair of hands circled round the barrel, taking its weight. He saw the glint of the signet ring.
‘It’s OK, Pierre,’ came the reassuring German accent. ‘It’s over now. It’s over.’
Chapter 23
There were perhaps two dozen or more of them, crammed into the waiting area at Gestapo headquarters in Saint-Romain. Parents, spouses, children, siblings. A soldier stood guard at the door kept open on a latch. The atmosphere inside, although tense and full of anticipation, was jovial. They had all believed they would never see their loved ones again yet, here they were, within minutes of being reunited. Everyone seemed to have dressed up for the occasion, the men in suits and ties, the women in their best frocks. Pierre too had worn his father’s smart jacket with a blue-collared shirt and matching tie; his mother having helped tie it while he tried to flap her hands away. At least he had managed to persuade her that he didn’t need her to accompany him to Saint-Romain. They had gathered earlier in the town square to catch the bus. They greeted each other with hugs and tears. People slapped Pierre’s back and shook his hand; the women kissed him – congratulating him on having such a brave father. Pierre, like many of the others, bore a bunch of flowers, wild flowers plucked from the village hedgerows. The mayor would have disapproved – having issued a ban on such activities. But nothing mattered – their loved ones had been spared the bullet, the sun was shining and t
he world seemed a better place. Major Hurtzberger, Georges and Pierre had left Kafka’s body in his lakeside shack. Later in the day, four privates were sent to retrieve it. What happened to it after that, no one knew and no one cared. On receiving back his major, Colonel Eisler called off the town gathering and declared that the six hostages would be released from Saint-Romain at midday.
There had been similar outpouring of emotion when Georges, Pierre and the major returned home. On seeing them, Lucienne cried. And then carried on crying for hours, thanking God, unable to speak coherently, hugging all three of them in turn. It was, she said between sobs, the happiest day of her life. A bottle of red wine was opened, toasts made. Retiring to her bedroom, Lucienne returned a couple minutes later, in her yellow dress, having stuffed, she said, the black dress to the back of the wardrobe. ‘I hope not to see that hideous garment again until the day I have to bury Georges.’
‘Lovely,’ said Georges.
‘And let’s hope,’ said the major, lifting his glass, ‘that’s not for many, many years to come.’
‘Absolutely,’ she purred, planting a kiss on her husband’s cheek.
Pierre smiled at the memory. The mood in the waiting room became almost hysterical with good cheer. The men swapped jokes, the mothers reminisced about their children growing up, husbands recounted their first dates, wives their wedding days. Even the guard was unable to keep a straight face. Pierre had no history with Claire, and providing an account of boyhood lust and a solitary kiss didn’t seem appropriate somehow. A sudden hush descended over the room at the sight of the receptionist, Mademoiselle Dauphin, with her tight skirt, pink nails and bright red lipstick, approaching them. ‘Monsieurs, mesdames,’ she said, enjoying the moment. ‘If you would care to follow me.’
After numerous rounds of ‘after you’; ‘no please, after you’, the gathering tumbled past the grinning guard and followed Mademoiselle Dauphin into the courtyard. Despite the jovial mood, a chill ran through Pierre, remembering all too well the last time he’d seen this place with its red brick flooring, its laurel hedge. Along the far wall of creeping ivy, standing to attention under the shade, eight German soldiers, with their rifles against their shoulders. He felt weak all of a sudden, dizzy almost.
‘You all right, Pierre?’ said Madame Bonnet.
‘Something’s wrong,’ he muttered.
‘Wrong? What on earth could go wrong now?’
An arrow of terror struck Pierre’s being – this was their shooting range; it was a trick; they were going to shoot the hostages after all. They weren’t here to welcome back their loved ones, but as witnesses to their deaths.
‘Oh, Lord, no.’
Madame Bonnet had already disappeared, her arms round a friend, giggling with excitement. There was nothing he could do; no way out; they were trapped. With every sense on full alert, he heard the click of the door latch open. They all turned to see the hostages file out, under German escort, one after the other. Screams of delight ensued as they were engulfed by their loved ones. Claire was last to appear, in her polka dot red dress, now crumpled, her face pale. She waved on seeing Pierre, an embarrassed little gesture, and came towards him, almost stumbling. Pierre pushed his flowers at her but couldn’t bear to look at her; too fearful of the soldiers against the wall, distracted by their hateful expressions.
‘I can’t take these,’ she said handing them back to him. ‘Everyone despises me. I killed Clément.’
‘You had no choice.’
‘No, but... Pierre, are you OK?’
He looked up to the balcony, to where he had been, to see if he could spot Colonel Eisler looking down on proceedings. He dropped the flowers.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, her expression streaked with concern.
Around him, people embraced, laughing, crying with such gaiety, such joy.
‘Claire...’ He didn’t know what to say. Taking her hand, he pulled her to one side, yet knowing that these four walls offered no escape.
‘Pierre, you’re worrying me now.’
‘When I say get down, lie down and I’ll lie on top of you. I’m sorry; it’s all I can do. I’m so sorry.’
‘For what, Pierre? Tell me, for what?
‘Attention!’ The word rang out across the yard, bringing with it immediate silence. It was Colonel Eisler. Pierre’s hand tightened on Claire’s. ‘It’s lovely to see such celebrations, but we have work to do. So I ask you kindly to make your way out now please. Mademoiselle Dauphin will escort you. Good day.’
With a wave and a kindly smile, Mademoiselle Dauphin beckoned everyone to follow her. The soldiers next to the wall remained static, their expressions unchanged. Still laughing, the gathered trotted back inside, and along the ground floor corridor. Last in line were Claire and Pierre, Pierre continually glancing behind but slowly daring to hope that they were free.
He wandered slowly down the corridor, falling behind the others, Claire looking at him with a puzzled expression.
‘I think we’re OK now,’ he said, hardly able to breathe.
‘I don’t understand. Did you... did you think they were...?’
He nodded.
‘You said you would have lain on top of me. You...’ Pierre felt Claire’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
The others had disappeared.
‘Pierre, I have to leave.’
‘Leave what?’
‘This town. I’ll go back to Paris.’
‘Oh, there you are.’ It was Mademoiselle Dauphin, holding a clipboard to her chest. ‘I thought I’d lost you for a moment. Unless you particularly want to extend your stay, Mademoiselle Bouchez, I’d recommend you and your friend follow me.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Pierre.
They stood outside, alone, exposed to a shower. Pierre looked back at the grey, foreboding building, a guard standing at the door, oblivious to the rain. He hoped never to see the place, or Colonel Eisler, again.
‘Do you have to leave?’ he asked.
‘You should have heard them in there. The names they called me.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t stay. They’ll never forgive me for what I did; they’ll never forget.’
‘Take me with you.’
Chapter 24
Perched high above them on a branch, a pigeon cooed. Madame Picard passed by, walking her little terrier, stopping to allow the dog to sniff. She waved on seeing Pierre and Xavier resting against the tree across the green, opposite the library. They waved back.
‘How long now?’ asked Xavier.
‘About five minutes, I think.’
‘She must love her work to want to go back straightaway.’
‘She’s not going back. She just wanted to collect her things.’
‘Must have been difficult, thinking, you know, this could be my last night on earth.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you, eh? You got the girl in the end?’
Pierre tried to smile. ‘I guess.’
‘Well, you’re one lucky chap, Pierre Durand. Horrible business, though, wasn’t it? Everyone was worried about your papa. Has he spoken to you about it?’
‘Papa? Speak to me about anything? Hardly.’
‘People are saying all sorts of things. How he singlehandedly found Kafka out on that lake, and the wounded major, and killed him. Claire and the others, how do they express their thanks for something like that? I mean, hell, if it wasn’t for your papa, they’d be...’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s at home at the moment, doing a stone for Monsieur Clément.’
‘Oh yeah. Poor old sod.’ Xavier pulled up a few blades of grass. ‘Fancy a fag?’
‘Not really.’
Xavier took a blade of grass and, holding it between the tips of his thumbs, blew on it, producing a high-pitched whistle sound. ‘How’s that thing of yours?’ he asked between whistles. ‘What do you call it? The Black Maria thing?’
‘Oh that. I don’t know
if I can be bothered with it any more.’
‘You should. It’s good.’
‘I’m not sure. I think I should have started on something... I don’t know.’
‘A little bit less ambitious?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Something a little bit less ambitious.’
‘Come on, she should be coming out now.’
‘Hopefully.’
They got to their feet and stretched.
‘I know,’ said Xavier, ‘let’s have a race. To the library wall and back. Oh no, I’m sorry, I forgot, it’s too childish for you now.’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. I’d beat you too easily.’
‘You... What? Right, that’s it.’
‘Get ready then. On your marks, get set... go!’
‘Hey, I wasn’t ready. That’s unfair!’
Thus, almost tripping over with laughter, the two boys sprinted across the soft grass of the green, with the wind in their hair, the sun on their backs. Claire appeared, her yellow dress flapping slightly. She stood with her back to the library wall and watched, smiling, as the two boys sprinted towards her. She squealed as Pierre, on seeing her, ran straight at her. Slamming his hands against the wall either side of her, he leant forward, planted a kiss on her lips, before racing back to the tree. And there, bending over, catching their breaths, hands on each other’s shoulders, Pierre and Xavier laughed, at nothing really, just the pure delight of being there, of being young and alive.
*
Major Hurtzberger stood in the centre of the living room in full uniform, his suitcase and a shoulder bag at his feet, scanning the room, knowing he would probably never see it again. Georges, Lucienne and Pierre were with him, also on their feet, making the room seem rather small. ‘Well, this is it,’ he said, with a sigh.
‘We shall miss you,’ said Lucienne, her hands clasped as if in prayer.
‘Yes, well. I shall miss you too.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know it hasn’t always been easy; I am your enemy, after all. My presence here could not be under more unfavourable conditions. Yet... yet, I could never have asked for kinder, more generous hosts. And for that, I thank you all.’
The White Venus Page 26