by Vic Robbie
They’d been watched by two youths sitting by the roadside and now they jumped on the running boards either side of the car and hung on. The one on Alena’s side stuck his head through the open window and almost into her face.
‘Thanks for the ride,’ he chuckled enjoying the innuendo.
‘Get off,’ she ordered him.
He glanced at the youths on either side but had to concentrate on taking evasive action to miss a horse fallen on the road.
‘No way, we’re coming with you.’
What struck him most was the way Alena handled herself. She was in control as if she’d been in difficult situations before. ‘If you don’t get off now, I will shoot you,’ she warned the youth, reaching into the glove box and removing the revolver and pointing it at him in one smooth movement. ‘I know how to use this.’
Doubt swept across the youth’s face and he glanced down at the moving road below. ‘I can’t. I’ll break my neck.’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘No, I can’t, I won’t.’
‘Let me help you.’ She slammed the butt of the revolver down hard on his fingers clinging to the frame of the door.
With a scream of pain, he released his grip and fell backwards onto the road rolling over and over like tumbleweed.
She swung round to face the other youth pointing the gun at him so it was now in front of Ben’s nose. ‘Get off.’
‘I’m going, I’m going,’ he shouted watching for a spot to soften his fall and then leapt onto the grass verge. Ben glanced in his mirror and was relieved to see both youths were sitting up in the road shaking their fists at the disappearing car.
She leant back closing her eyes. Whether asleep or just warding off any attempts at conversation, she kept them closed as they skirted Joan of Arc’s city of Orleans. Perhaps she was the modern equivalent of Joan of Arc. He chuckled. The city’s spectacular Sainte-Croix Cathedral and its Gothic spire, which he could just make out in the distance, sparkled untouched in the afternoon sunshine. Even here a stream of refugees made its way out of the city heading south.
A couple of miles on as they rounded a bend he saw men in the road. His mouth dried up and he felt his pulse racing. They looked like soldiers.
As he started braking, she opened her eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ And he detected panic in her voice.
‘That.’ He pointed at a soldier holding a rifle and standing in the middle of the road with a hand raised ordering them to stop.
‘Oh, merde!’ She gripped the sides of her leather seat.
From behind Freddie chirruped. ‘Look, maman, soldiers with guns.’ And he made the childish sound of a gun firing.
They came to a halt just a couple of feet from the soldier who walked around to Ben’s window and peered in checking his passengers. The officer was probably in his early twenties yet had the strained face of a middle-aged man. He was hatless and the two top buttons of his jacket were undone.
‘M’sieu, pardon,’ he said. ‘There’s a convoy coming and I need you to pull over so my trucks can get through.’
Alena put a hand on Ben’s arm. ‘Where are you headed, mon capitaine?’
‘North to engage the Germans, our defences are being overrun.’ He shrugged his shoulders and sounded beaten already. ‘The Nazis have taken Rouen and Reims, Paris is next, then … what does it matter now?’
‘We’re heading south to Spain. What’s the road ahead like?’
He gave a weary smile as if he’d been asked the question many times before.
‘You must be careful,’ warned the officer. ‘Much damage. Many casualties. There’s nothing we can do. German planes are bombing the roads and shooting women and children. Don’t let the boy see. We got our trucks through though I don’t know about your car.’
He gave a perfunctory salute and what he thought was a smile, although more a painful grimace. ‘Bonne chance! Vive la France!’
The trucks thundered by much to Freddie’s delight, but the troops they carried knew there was no hope.
17
LUCIEN and natalie sat hunched by the side of the road. Lucien was ten and Natalie seven. Terror sculpted Lucien’s pale and narrow face and his red-rimmed eyes were unseeing and his sister was numbed by shock.
They’d been riding in the back of their father’s truck and playing amongst the family’s possessions while their parents sat up front in the cabin. Oblivious to the human tragedy unfolding around them, the children regarded it as an adventure and their parents not wishing to burden them with their fears did nothing to dissuade them.
It came without warning, a hurricane of destruction.
The screaming noise exploded from the sky like some aggravated banshee. The plane diving almost perpendicularly on the column of refugees releasing bombs, which whistled on their descent, then flattening out and raking the fleeing refugees with its machine guns. The explosives made contact with a dull thud, first one and another close behind followed by screams. A column of humanity now lay strewn by the roadside. Broken people and horses, with their huge stomachs torn apart and their innards spilling out, lay side by side, and some refugees had died where they’d hidden in ditches like ready-made graves. Cars, trucks and carts were lifted up in the air and twisted into strange shapes and deposited in fields. The Stuka had flown low over their truck and Lucien was convinced he saw the face of the pilot surveying the scene of his day’s work.
And then it was gone and around them there was silence save for the low sobbing and moaning of the injured. A young mother carrying her baby had been cut down and spilled the infant now lying alone and crying on the road. Some who’d escaped the attack got to their feet to help the others.
Lucien watched the Stuka climb high in the azure sky and when it reached its zenith, there was no sound as if the pilot had switched off the engine and it almost looked like a thing of beauty. It rolled on its back and started down in another steep dive and he knew it was coming back for them. Sirens screamed its intent and two more bombs were released and he saw the flashes coming from the plane’s machine guns before everything went black. Those who’d survived the first run died then.
Well, almost all, Lucien and Natalie had been protected by the bundles of clothes in the back of the shattered truck, now lying half on the road and half in a field. The truck’s cabin was ripped open and their father had disappeared. One minute he was there, the next gone. They came across their mother face down some yards from their truck and with considerable effort pulled her up into a sitting position. No amount of cajoling could bring her back even though Natalie cradled her mother’s bloodied head and appealed over and over to her.
‘Wake up, maman, wake up.’
In their grief, the children didn’t notice a car appearing amongst the carnage and mayhem. Its driver peered through the windscreen as he tried to see through the black smoke while steering around the debris and bomb craters. Sitting beside him, a blonde woman, looked out of her window with a mixture of shock and anger spreading across her face.
‘Stop, Ben, stop,’ she shouted.
‘Not here. The plane might come back. We’ve got to get out of here as fast as we can.’
‘No, no, we must stop.’ Her voice crackled with emotion. ‘The children. We must save the children.’
18
PARIS belonged to renard, or so he’d always believed. Whenever he needed to reinforce his feeling of ownership, he’d stand on the steps in front of the Sacré Coeur, its travertine stone sparkling white in the sunshine, on the hill of Montmartre. And he would look out over his city and marvel at its size, its substance, its majesty. Occasionally, he would climb the 234 spiral steps up to the dome from where you could see forever. Today with the imminent arrival of the Germans he wasn’t sure if there was a forever.
From there, he made his way up the cobbled lanes and across the Place du Tertre, where artists exhibited their colourful paintings to sell to tourists. It always made him smile seeing the paintings on display on the
ir easels. The tourists never realised if they returned the next day they could just as likely see an exact copy of the picture they’d bought the day before on the very same easel. Not all the artists were artists. Some just owned the pitch and bought in paintings from wherever they could and stood around with paint-smeared smocks to add credence to their fiction. This was a village within a village and although there were now no visitors to buy their paintings the artists were still out in force as if to demonstrate the strength of their community.
In times of trouble, he would head for his bolthole, a short distance away in a side street, where he could while away his spare time, a place of refuge to exclude the outside world. So it was no surprise Renard came here after he left the bank for the last time. It was where he felt safe. He’d taken his usual table at the back of the café near the urinals. The smell didn’t bother him or the other regulars and in the winter when the café was warm and the air was thick with tobacco smoke misting up the windows it added to its familiarity. In the summer, the smell was its first line of defence and it amused him to see the look on the faces of newcomers as they entered. Their noses would twitch and they would depart without buying anything trying to give the impression they’d stumbled in by accident and it was another bar they’d intended to visit. It was good; he didn’t want his café being overrun by tourists. This was one for locals.
He’d been a regular for many years and the patron knew him by his first name, as did most of the other regulars yet they never engaged him in conversation. Arrivals raised an arm in welcome and shouted ‘Bonjour, Arnaud’ although it never went beyond that. He always sat alone often listening into conversations at other tables, nodding and smiling in agreement, or shaking his head in disagreement as if part of their debate. And when they raised their glasses to drink he would, too. A long time ago he’d realised he could talk to cats and engines. People were a little bit more difficult.
Bernay had advised him to get out of Paris and as far away as possible. But to where? And how could he? His cats needed looking after. He couldn’t take them with him and the neighbours who might have looked after them had already fled the city. He felt a growing stubbornness anyway. This was his town, why should he let the Nazis drive him out? Surely they’d have more pressing things to take care of. He was too old to be a threat to them and he wasn’t a Jew, and if he kept his head down they’d probably not notice he was there.
He was well into his second bottle of Bordeaux, a better quality and much more expensive than his usual. Bernay had given him the money so why not spend it? He hadn’t seen the newcomer come into the café and now noticed him sitting across the room at a table against the wall. Tall with grey hair, he wore a black leather coat and looked out of place amongst the locals. His first instinct was that he was German although the man began a conversation with the patron in perfect French and Renard thought no more of it. Before the man was a cognac and a café noir and he’d spread a copy of Le Matin out on the table and seemed oblivious to all around him.
The Bentley had left the bank after he’d given it one last loving polish so it gleamed like never before. It would be the last time he’d see it and it was like saying goodbye to a child or even one of his cats. They hadn’t allowed him back in the basement garage although he’d managed to get to an upstairs window with a good view of the exit. From there, he had watched it lurch out onto the street and almost come to a halt in the tide of refugees.
The American, Ben, was at the wheel and he saw the profile of a woman sitting beside him and there also appeared to be the face of a child pressed up against the rear window.
His table being jolted interrupted his thoughts and his bottle of Bordeaux, now almost empty, toppled over onto the floor in slow motion. He looked up into the eyes of the outsider and thought the man was observing him as if storing in his memory every line and blemish of his face. It was a fleeting feeling and the warming glow of the wine was taking over.
‘Pardon, m’sieu, pardon.’ The man looked upset to have spilled his wine. ‘Please...’ He put out a hand and turned to the patron. ‘Encore, s’il vous plaît.’
The patron uncorked another bottle and placed it in front of him with two fresh glasses before, irritated by the extra work, sweeping up the broken glass from the wine bottle.
‘May I?’ The man gestured to the empty chair.
‘Of course.’ Renard was pleased he wanted to join him. In all his years of using the café, no one had ever sat down with him.
‘Ludwig Weber.’ The man offered his hand.
He paused as he filled the glasses and his eyes narrowed. ‘German?’
Weber put up his hands in mock horror. ‘No, no, my father was a musician and loved Beethoven.’
‘Dah, dah, dah, DAAH!’ Renard beat out the tune with his fist on the table.
They both laughed.
Weber extended his hand again and he took it and was reassured by the strength of the grip.
‘Arnaud Renard.’
‘Santé!’
They both took a couple of gulps of the Bordeaux before Renard broke the silence.
‘Are you from around here?’
‘No, from out of town. Many years ago I lived in Paris.’
‘It’s all changing now.’
‘For better or worse?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’ve always believed it doesn’t make any difference to someone like me. Just keep your head down. Communists, fascists they’re just labels, they don’t affect ordinary people...’
‘Germans?’
‘As I said who knows, look at the Catholic Church they seem to think they’d be good for us.’
‘Ah, the Church, it always goes with what it thinks is the winning side.’
‘I don’t know, I just get on with my job...’ He looked pained as he remembered he no longer had the job he loved.
Weber put out a hand and touched his sleeve. ‘What’s wrong, my friend?’
He gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘I just remembered I no longer have a job. I’m retired now... I no longer work at the bank.’
He couldn’t quite make out the look on Weber’s face whether it was one of envy or sympathy for him. It was in that split second he realised he should leave. The wine may have dulled his senses, but he saw a warning sign blinking at him in the fog. Bernay had warned him not to talk about his job. What did they say? Walls have ears. There’s a time when you’ve drunk a lot that you know there’s a point of no return and one more drink could have you stumbling across the threshold. If he stayed, everything he’d done in the garage and his own safety, not to mention Bernay’s, would be in danger. He lurched to his feet and summoned the patron. ‘L’addition?’ he requested and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the francs.
‘Excuse me.’ Weber pointed towards the toilet doors.
The toilets were empty and Weber went into a cubicle and closed the door behind him. He reached into his coat pocket and extricated a metal object and pressed a button so its blade shot out reflecting the light from the bulb above his head. He ran a finger along the edge and felt its cold sharpness and touched the end of it pricking his finger and drawing blood. Sucking his finger dry, he folded the knife again and replaced it in his pocket.
He’d waited for Weber to reappear and shook his hand and tried to give the impression it was not because of him he was making a hasty departure. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Ludwig, but I must go. Things to attend to...’
As he left, he heard Weber order another cognac. The fresh air took him by surprise as he stepped down the steps of the café and into the street and it made him wobble.
Within seconds of his departure, Weber got to his feet, threw down more than enough francs on the table to meet his bill and headed for the door.
Renard had gone no more than a hundred yards when he realised he was being followed.
19
THEY stopped. no matter the danger from the skies or elsewhere they couldn’t leave the two children sitting alone with
their dead mother by the roadside.
As soon as Ben brought the car to a halt, Alena was out and running towards them with Freddie right behind. The children didn’t acknowledge their presence as the boy was immersed in a world of his own while the girl was still talking and staring at her mother’s body.
Alena placed a hand on Lucien’s shoulder and with the other stroked Natalie’s head. There was no acknowledgement from either and not even Freddie’s efforts to engage them distracted them.
‘Get some food and drink,’ Alena ordered, and Ben went back to the car to fetch provisions.
When he returned Alena had managed to coax the girl onto her knee and whispered in her ear all the time stroking her hair, which was caked with dust and blood from her mother. Freddie, copying his mother, massaged the boy’s head. Natalie was now beginning to respond to Alena’s ministrations and Alena managed to persuade her to take some water that she sipped warily. She offered her some bread, but Natalie shook her head and began to cry again, a whimpering sound like a wounded animal.
As if he were awakening from a deep sleep, Lucien’s eyes suddenly focused. He looked around, remembering the terror of before, and asked, his face full of suspicion: ‘Who are you?’
‘We were just passing.’ Alena offered her hand, which the boy took. ‘We can help you get away from here.’
‘My maman...’
‘I know, I know. Sssh...’ She pulled his head to her breast. ‘We’re here to help you.’
‘Are you angels?’ Natalie’s eyes were wide in wonder.
Alena chuckled throatily and the boy joined in hesitantly at first and then let it go moving to the edge of hysteria.
Ben took Freddie away and wandered into an adjoining field. He found a broken spade and with it started to dig a shallow trench. The earth was soft and he made good progress.