by Fredrik Nath
‘Pierre,’ she said, ‘don’t be too hard on us. How could Auguste stop being a policeman? He believed the Germans told the truth. We know now. We will get away and help in any way we can.’
Auguste said, ‘I have something to do first.’
Pierre said, ‘You have?’
‘You remember that horrible road accident in which the plumber Leclerc was killed?’
‘Yes. The wife was injured too.’
‘The daughter, Bernadette was murdered. I think Brunner, the SD Major did it. I want to prove it and have him guillotined before we escape.’
‘Leave it with me. We will put a bomb under him and teach him to fly.’
‘And the reprisals? Can you live with them?’
‘Of course. You maybe never read Lenin. If you want to make an omelette you have to break eggs.’
‘These eggs you talk about are the people you grew up with. Your neighbours, your friends.’
‘They were never friends. I never had many of those. I’m a Jew and always was. I could see it in their faces every time I went to the market. It was a look in their eyes if nothing else.’
‘Pierre,’ Odette said, ‘you are so unfair. What about us? Murielle was my closest friend. I was there for you when she died. You know it.’
He turned towards her, his eyes slit-like and dark in the candle-light.
‘Odette. You were Murielle’s best and closest friend. There was no one else who was there for me. You and Auguste. I will never forget it but I have to defend our country. I have to fight for my people.’
‘Which people?’ Auguste said, ‘French or Yiddish?’
‘You know the answer. It is the same answer you would give in my place.’
‘Yes, Pierre. I do know. I just...’
‘Papa?’
Monique’s small treble cut the atmosphere, like a hawk descending on its prey.
Pierre, startled by the sound, turned and his arms opened wide. She ran to him.
‘Ma Petite, my little one, Bubeleh. Oh how your daddy missed you.’
She said nothing. Auguste could see how she drank in his presence, his embrace; it drove all his doubts away. He knew where his first duty lay. He had to save his family and Monique was now his family too. And Pierre? He was as close to Auguste’s heart as anyone else was in the world. Like a brother. Like his alter ego, who had become the man he should have had the strength and courage to change into. Why had he never believed Pierre, never tried to change it all?
He saw Odette reach out to stroke Monique’s little hand, as the child held on to her father. Monique clutched him, squeezed his hair, his coat. It was a hopeless grip; a hand clenched in desperation holding onto all she loved in the world. Auguste knew Monique recognised how fleeting it had to be; for her years, she had a strangely adult view of things. Pierre’s very presence here put them in danger and they all knew it.
2
Time passed and no one spoke. Auguste retrieved the cigarettes and lighting one, pondered their predicament. Even if Pierre had the list of Jews, shifting all of them abroad would require resources even the Maquis could not boast. Internment for many would be inevitable. He hated the thought he would be responsible, yet he could not run away like Pierre. Brunner had to pay with his life.
‘Papa?’ a small voice interrupted his thoughts. Then, ‘Uncle Pierre!’
It was Zara. She ran across the stone flags and Pierre reached out his free arm to embrace her too.
‘Does no one sleep in this house?’ Auguste said, ‘Zara, what will we do with you?’
Extricating herself, Zara came to him and sat upon his knee. As the predawn light began to show itself, they sat enjoying an island of time as two families, combined into one. Auguste felt the scene was one of normality in a very abnormal world. It was a moment stolen from the clutches of an evil future and he knew it could not last.
‘Pierre, it is getting light.’
‘I know. I must go.’
‘Papa,’ Monique said, ‘can’t you stay? We can hide together when the bad men come.’
Pierre stroked her cheek.
‘Bubeleh, if I do not go, I cannot fight for us. It must be so. Auguste and Odette will look after you until it is time.’
‘What if they kill you?’
‘They won’t kill me. I am like Joshua. I will blow my trumpet and their walls will fall down. You remember?’
‘Yes, Papa. Will it be soon?’
He brushed away a tear at the corner of her eye.
‘No, not soon. Perhaps years.’
Auguste swallowed away the lump in his throat as he watched Monique cuddling her father.
Zara said, ‘Uncle Pierre, who are you fighting?’
Pierre said, ‘Why, the Germans, of course, Zara.’
‘But they said in school the Germans would not hurt us if we do what they say.’
‘No, my little one. They won’t hurt you. They hate Monique and me because we are Jewish. They want us dead, so I fight.’
‘Why do they hate you?’
Auguste said, ‘Now, now, ma fleur. Enough questions. Pierre, I will see you out. I need to give you the list.’
He went upstairs and searched his uniform jacket. He was glad to escape. He found it hard to witness the goodbyes. If he had to part from Zara under similar circumstances, he wondered how he would cope.
Pierre stood at the back door when he came down the stairs. Auguste handed him the list.
‘You will warn them?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will they listen?’
‘Who knows? They may not believe me. We can help them get out but if they won’t go there is nothing we can do.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘You have done a good thing here. When all this is over, I will remember.’
‘That is not why I have done it.’
‘I know.’
‘I will go out first and check around. I don’t want to know where you are going. It’s safer so.’
Auguste checked the grounds and came back.
‘It’s safe I think. Go through the woods. No one is up I think.’
‘Auguste,’ Pierre said, ‘you’ll take care of my little one?’
‘Pierre, we are brothers. I would never allow her to come to harm.’
‘No Auguste, we are not brothers. I am a Jew. You are a Catholic and yet we are as close as friends can become. I’m sorry I misjudged you.’
‘You did not misjudge me. You were right about everything. I have learned the truth and I will fight in my way, but I will also escape with our children.’
‘Go with God, yours or mine, I don’t care anymore.’
They embraced. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, Pierre turned and jogged away towards the tree line. Auguste stood watching as his friend disappeared into the wood. They both knew the place as well as if it was the old schoolyard, where they had played as children. Turning to the back door, he could not help but wonder if he would see Pierre again. He supposed in some way it did not matter, he had shouldered the responsibility of protecting Monique in any case and he knew he would fulfil it.
Chapter 13
1
The church of St Jacques de Compstelle was not popular with many of the inhabitants of the city. Most preferred the larger and more recently built church of Notre Dame. Auguste liked St Jacques because it was old and the sense of being where worship had taken place for hundreds of years had always fascinated him.
The yellow stone building, restored a hundred years before, stood near the river and Auguste felt nothing but relief as he climbed the rough stone steps, holding Odette’s hand with his left and Zara’s with the other. No military vehicles were parked nearby and no ominous black cars stood in the street to herald concern.
Père Bernard greeted them at the door. His white robes seemed a mockery of the dark times to Auguste, but he smiled to his priest and they entered the church. Each of them knelt and dipping their fingers in the holy water by the aisle, they made the
sign of the cross. They advanced, looking straight ahead along the red carpet. It put Auguste in mind of the carpet in the Medical College and he found it hard to shrug off the image in his mind of Himmler and his talk about the final solution. He wondered what Pius XII would have said if he had been there. He was sure he would have fought, using all the church’s weight to protect the innocent. Was it not the Church’s teaching over the centuries to protect them, whether they were Jews, Pharisees or Samaritans?
Auguste smiled and greeted the members of the congregation with whom he was familiar. They sat at the back of the church and he hoped Zara was invisible from the door. He still had an irrational fear Brunner, in some absurd way, might appear in the church or be watching outside.
When the service began, he listened to the liturgy and he knew he should not take communion. He became convinced he was guilty of mortal sin. He dredged up feelings of guilt and remorse too. He was sure the church would not condemn him for a crime never openly condemned by the Pope, but the guilt was for a sin in his heart, in the fibre of his being.
Odette stood to take communion. He felt the tension build. He could not remain seated yet he knew he was wrong to partake. The struggle made him sweat. He had not been strongly religious but the church had been part of his life and he felt taking communion now was a betrayal of his own beliefs. He wondered how many betrayals he could commit in his life; the Jews, Bernadette and now his faith. Had he lost faith? Had he succumbed to the evil Brunner and his fellows spread and promulgated?
‘Come,’ Odette whispered as she took his hand. Like a lamb to the slaughter, like his Lord led to Calvary, he allowed Odette to lead him from his seat, as he heard the Lord’s Prayer. Through the Agnus Dei thrusting itself into his hearing, he felt like crying aloud ‘this was a sin.’
He stared as father Bernard broke the host and placed it in the main chalice. He felt remorse again as he heard the words.
‘This is the lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.’
‘If only,’ he thought. ‘If only it could take away my sin. Those poor people, separated, imprisoned, work camps, dead.’
He looked up at Père Bernard as he approached. Despite all, he opened his mouth and the wafer felt dry and bitter to him. It was all in his head, he knew it, but the bitterness seemed symbolic of the guilt eating away at him at that moment, a moment of truth. The wine, sour and strong seemed to cloy in his mouth and his emotions brought unsteadiness to his gaze.
And then it was over. He rose as if from some mortal trial and he wondered why he had been so scared. Odette took his hand as they walked back to the pew. Zara looked up and smiled.
‘Is it next year, Papa?’
He shook his head. ‘What?’
‘Confirmation,’ Odette said.
‘No,’ he whispered, ‘in two years.’
‘Oh,’ Zara said and she smiled up at her father.
Auguste smiled back, reassured by his child. If all else came apart in his life, at least there was one anchor to keep him sane. Zara was all, even if Odette left him for the evil he had allowed to happen, he would still have Zara’s love. Yet, he also knew Odette was his woman, his adult life, his linchpin; having both of them made his existence worthwhile. He would do what he could in this mess of a war and he would protect Monique too. For Murielle, for Pierre.
The end of the service came and Auguste realised he had paid no attention to it. He had not worshipped, he had ruminated. He crossed himself, facing the altar on the way out.Père Bernard shook his hand as he left.
‘I was glad to see you here my son.’
‘Yes, Père,’ Auguste said, ‘I was glad to be here.’
‘Perhaps you wish to confess? I am here all afternoon. I know you are busy, but it has been many weeks. You must not leave the Lord and his Holy Church, my son.’
‘No. I can come today if you think it is necessary.’
‘Only you, my son, know if it is necessary. Take some time first to prepare and then come to me.’
They both smiled artificial smiles and Auguste felt like a man who refuses a forceful salesman but feels guilty all the same for not buying his expensive goods.
He stopped in his tracks on the steps. A black Mercedes stood parked in the street outside, next to his own battered car. Brunner. If the SD Major was here, he had his story prepared but it was thin. Because it was transparent, he knew there would be consequences.
It was almost with relief he saw Linz emerge from the vehicle, his black uniform smart and pressed as ever and Auguste wondered whether French hands or German had been employed in the pressing. He could imagine Linz working with Brunner raping and torturing Bernadette and he had an unreasonable urge to pull out his weapon and kill him. The thought was as fleeting as the smile one might offer to a passing stranger and Auguste smiled to the SS officer.
‘Scharfürer, how nice to see you,’ he said.
Linz gave his usual, smart, unwelcome ‘seig heil’ and this time Auguste gave him room for manoeuvre.
‘Major Brunner presents his compliments,’ he said, ‘he requires your services tomorrow.’
‘My services?’
‘Yes. It is necessary to find and arrest a man in the area east of here and he wishes you to accompany me.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, he has other things of greater importance to attend to.’
Auguste was tempted to ask if it meant leaving listening devices in someone else’s office but he resisted the temptation. He stood square in front of Zara. The chance of his hiding her completely was remote but he thought there was some possibility the arrogant German would not bother with a child, a French child in particular.
‘That is all,’ Linz said.
‘Where? When?’
‘I will pick you up from the Prefecture. At seven.’
‘No, you will wait for me outside at eight-thirty. I have things to do first.’
He watched Linz’s face as it changed from brash arrogance to puce irritation.
‘I was told...’
‘Damn it man. You are not in charge of civil matters. You are a soldier and do not direct me in these things. I will look for you at eight-thirty and you will not be late. If I am late you will wait anyway, clear?’
‘Heil Hitler,’ the SS officer said. The salute was less smart and it gave Auguste a childish satisfaction.
Linz opened his car door and got in. With a splash from the white-walled tyres of the black Mercedes as it decimated a puddle, his driver and he left the scene and Auguste prayed he had not noticed Zara.
2
As the Ran family drove home, there was silence in the old car at first. Auguste, deep in thought wondered whether the invitation to ride with Linz next morning was a pretext for something else. Had they become suspicious? Had Bruner sent Linz to identify his daughter?
It seemed unlikely. If Brunner suspected anything, he would have searched the house and he had not. No. Brunner would hardly describe Auguste’s child to his junior officer.
Presently, Zara said, ‘Papa, who was the man in the black car?’
‘He is a German, a soldier.’
‘Is he the one Pierre wants to kill?’
‘No. Pierre wants to kill all of them and there are many now in our country. We have to protect Monique from them, because they would want to kill her if they knew she was with us. I told you. If they find her in our home we will all go to a prison camp.’
‘I want her to go home.’
‘Darling we should always be kind, it is what Jesus taught us,’ Odette said.
‘Yes, never refuse to help a friend who needs you. Haven’t I told you many times?’
‘But she is Jewish and we are not. Besides, she takes my toys.’
‘She has none of her own. Pierre only brought one dolly when he brought her to us. Is it so bad to share?’
‘Why should I share all my toys with a Jewish girl?’
‘You have played together all your lives. She is your best friend,
Zara,’ Odette said.
‘Zara. Please try to understand. These are much more grown-up matters than dollies and toys. If the Germans come they will kill Monique and maybe us too for sheltering her.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Ma fleur, I hope you never find out. We are a family and we are together, it is all that matters.’
He was sure Zara understood nothing. He wondered how she could. A nine-year-old child he thought, could not have any concept of the evil adults could perpetrate upon each other. He realised Zara must see it as unfair, but he knew equally well there had to be a balance in life. He had to protect them both and if God allowed it, get them out of the country. At the same time, he had to keep his family together.
When the car drew up outside the house, crunching on the grey gravel by the front door, Auguste began to fear the worst. The front door was ajar and although there was no sign of forced entry, he worried the SD had found him out.
‘Stay here, both of you,’ he said, his heart racing.
He drew his pistol with a sweaty hand and approached the door. He moved with caution and made little sound. With his back to the door, he sidled in and heard a fat cough from the kitchen.
‘Who is there?’ he said.
‘Oh, Inspector. I am sorry. The door was open and I knew you would be in church, so I thought you would not mind if I waited here in the warm kitchen. It is so cold outside.’
‘Dufy, if you came here to steal, I will arrest you and let Judge Dubois deal with you in the morning. Empty your pockets at once.’
Auguste pointed his weapon at the old man. François emptied his pockets. Auguste detected an aroma reminiscent of dank ponds mixed with sweat as the man moved. Dufy was perhaps sixty years old or so Auguste estimated. He had clear, blue eyes and a scarred, grubby, bearded face. He wore a beret sitting perched at an angle on his large head. He wore a thick tattered, woollen coat.
Auguste looked at the pockets’ contents. In one, there was a button, a Laguiole knife and a few francs. In the other was a soiled handkerchief and a folded piece of Manila paper, perhaps torn from the back of an envelope.
Auguste poked the note with the barrel of his gun.