by Fredrik Nath
‘Is it not enough you have made me into an executioner’s lackey, to fetch men for you to hang?’
‘Ah, so that is what’s bothering you? Can you not see by hanging these men, you are protecting your people? They will never support the murderers if they know any of them can be hanged for a reprisal.’
‘I understand the logic. It will tie the Maquis’ hands.’
‘Exactly.’
Brunner looked at his watch.
‘Your men are bringing the prisoners at three o’clock?’
‘Yes in ten minutes.’
‘So we have time. A little music perhaps?’
Brunner stood and Auguste noticed for the first time there was a phonograph on a low table in the corner of the office. He watched as the German extracted a black vinyl disc from its sleeve, careful not to touch the glistening black surface. He placed it upon the red leather turntable and wound up the motor.
A soft crunching sound began as Brunner placed the needle into the outer groove. Music filled the office. It was Bruckner. Auguste knew the piece. He had heard it once when a German orchestra had played it in Lyon, on one of those rare occasions before the war when Odette and he had been able to take a short holiday.
The music started soft and gentle and rose to an early gradual crescendo. The loudness subsided only to approach again and as it did so, Brunner began to wave his hands as if he had become the conductor. He was smiling and Auguste realised this whole pantomime was symbolic. He thought Brunner really believed he was conducting everything in Bergerac, right down to the hangings they were both about to witness. He had an urge to shoot the man. It would be so simple to draw his gun and put a bullet into the SD Major’s face while the music blared. He imagined he could do it during one of these loud, ungainly and unsubtle German crescendos and perhaps no one would hear, but he knew it was foolishness. Someone would hear. They would arrest him. They would execute him. No, he must goad the man into confessing Bernadette’s murder. Only then, could he go through normal channels and arrest Brunner. He knew his murderous thoughts were sinful but they seemed to well up within him unbidden and foreign.
Chapter 18
1
Auguste recognised hate as a difficult emotion to control. He knew it was sinful too. Did not Christ preach forgiveness? It disturbed him he had no capacity in his heart to forgive Brunner. He detested the man and he knew it. The depth of his hatred seemed boundless in those moments before the hangings.
They descended the ornate staircase accompanied by six SS soldiers and the tall blond officer who showed him into Brunner’s office. No one had introduced Auguste, but manners aside, he had no interest in the man. He was German. He was Arian and worst of all he was a Nazi. Auguste surprised himself with the thought. He wondered if he was becoming as bigoted and anti-racial as these men with whom he found himself today, but in reverse. He hated them, all they stood for and most of all he hated Germany.
One of the soldiers opened the doors for the group and they emerged into the small cobbled square outside the Mairie. Five gallows stood there, sinister and forbidding in the sloping drizzle. Auguste wished he had brought his raincoat with him but he braved the cold, wet weather all the same. They stood on the steps and surveyed the scene. Half a dozen men and women stood under umbrellas at the far side of the square. There were no smiles and no one talked. This was no wedding after all.
Auguste glanced at his watch. It was three minutes after three. The prison van should have been here by now. He noticed he was sweating. His mouth felt arid and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. He had to slow his breathing down for he realised it had begun to be noticeable.
Brunner stood next to him. The German was impassive.
Presently, he said, ‘Auguste, I am amazed your men do not take this more seriously. To be late at a hanging is worse than tardiness at a christening. In any case I do not want to waste too much time over this.’
‘No. I would rather be at the Prefecture. Ah, here they are.’
Auguste pointed as a green van turned the corner into the square. The rear compartment had windows with bars. It stopped beneath the steps and the driver emerged. He looked up at Auguste and said, ‘Inspector Ran?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘Would you sign here please,’ the man said, indicating a clipboard. ‘All duly present and correct. They have been gagged and the sacking masks have been applied as you instructed. They won’t give any trouble.’
‘Thank you. As soon as the sentences have been carried out, you can take the bodies away and you can go.’
One by one, Brunner’s men pulled five men out of the van. A sacking mask, tied around the neck, obscured each man’s face. Auguste noticed they stumbled and he realised some kind person had made them drunk or drugged. He felt as if his heart would burst with fear. He hoped with mounting desperation, nothing would go wrong. The unpredictability of the situation had him on the verge of running.
Each of the prisoners had a sign hanging around his neck with a name scrawled upon it. None of them tried to speak. Auguste supposed it was a combination of helplessness and alcohol but then remembered he had ordered them gagged. A soldier to each man, the prisoners staggered up the steps of the gallows. No priest came. Brunner had forbidden it.
Auguste watched as the soldiers slipped the nooses over the men’s heads and pulled them tight. A large knot sat at the side of each man’s neck. One of the prisoners leaned to one side as if the rope was the only thing holding him up. Auguste reflected he must have been on the verge of collapsing. He said a Hail Mary under his breath.
He looked at Brunner. The man still showed no emotion. The pallid, expressionless face remained a mystery to Auguste and he wondered what the German could be thinking.
‘Pity,’ Brunner said.
‘Yes. It is a terrible thing to hang an innocent man.’
‘No. It is a pity I cannot see their faces. The look in the eyes as they tighten the noose is something one never forgets. It is a look of fear or sometimes resignation. Perhaps we should take off the masks? Their people in the square might learn the lesson better. What do you think?’
‘I... I... it would be a mistake. The victims are quiet now. If you take off the masks, it may not be as peaceable as you had wished.’
‘All the same...’
‘Trust me. I have seen many hangings and the less the victim knows, the better. I once saw a man fight so hard, the knot loosened and we had to go through the whole process again.’
‘When were you ever involved in a hanging?’
‘Didn’t you know? I worked at the Regional Prison before I became a policeman. I was on the... how do you say it in German? The ‘Die Todesstrafe’ cells?’
‘Yes, though we don’t call it that. Well, we had better start. One at a time or all together? A difficult choice.’
‘All together would be quickest.’
‘Auguste. You French. You have no sense of occasion. Very well, they are your prisoners after all. Do you want to give the orders?’
‘No,’ Auguste said. ‘It is your privilege.’
Feeling relieved, he looked at Brunner’s face and saw him smile. Brunner stepped forward. He raised his hand. He licked his lips and smiled. Once he had the attention of all five soldiers, he drew his hand down in a chopping motion. The German’s pink, soft tongue still circled his lips. Auguste continued to stare at Brunner who appeared not to notice. He was intent on the prisoners.
The trap doors clicked and Auguste could guess without seeing, what kind of scene must have unfolded in the little square, in the rain. He swallowed. He felt nausea rising from the pit of his stomach and fought hard to control it. No leniency would be offered if he threw up on Brunner; he knew it.
He looked across the square, his gaze avoiding the five swinging corpses. The watchers stared. One of them, perhaps a reporter, paper and a pencil in hand, was alternately scribbling and looking at the dead man. Auguste realised he was noting the name
s and it gave him a glimmer of hope his plan had not been in vain.
The face of a woman he recognised imprinted itself on his mind. She was a salesperson in a shoe shop who had sold him a pair of shoes the previous summer. He had not at the time, ever imagined her as someone who might attend a public hanging. Her face displayed a look of anger, mixed with horror. The expression characterised the emotions stirring in his own mind. He identified with her. He could feel the exact feeling in her head, even without looking at the dead men who hung there, the mark of Brunner’s reprisal. How could she know he felt as she did? No one could know. It was a burden of loneliness and he felt it more and more as the days wore on, particularly now, since he had realised where his true allegiance lay.
What made this war crime even harder for Auguste, was the way Brunner had forbidden a priest to be present. Of course, Auguste did not know if any of the dead men were Catholics but to deny a man extreme unction when close to death was tantamount to wishing him to Hell. He had not been to confession in two weeks and he made up his mind to do so soon. He endured such a weight of sin upon his shoulders now, he wondered if the priest could ever offer him absolution.
Yet, love and forgiveness went hand in hand in his beliefs. He believed implicitly that God forgave. The concept of forgiveness was the one thing making him dubious of the existence of Hell. Perhaps Hell was here. Here in France, in Aquitaine where innocent men were supposed to be arrested and killed for German spite and vengeance.
He closed his eyes. If only he could wish himself away from here. He knew however, he could not run, at least not yet. He steeled himself to stay long enough to avoid suspicion, for it would have seemed strange if he had disappeared immediately after the hangings were completed.
Brunner slapped him on the back. The man was a beast.
‘So. All is well then. Linz is avenged, the Maquis are discouraged and the townspeople will learn to hate them. A good day’s work. Come, let us open a bottle of wine and celebrate.’
Auguste went inside with him. He climbed the steps with a mechanical tread. Following Brunner to his office he stood, numbed by what they had forced him to witness. All his wishes to leave, to run and to escape, hung by a thread, and the name of that thread was Bernadette.
2
There was a chill in Bruner’s office. It was as if the warmth of humanity had escaped through the door when they entered. Auguste shivered. It was involuntary but he understood what he felt and equated it with the presence of the Devil himself. He wondered if he had come into a nightmare world, presided over by Satan, and Brunner was the embodiment of that very evil.
Brunner said, ‘Come, sit my friend. We must have wine. Beautiful French wine. It is the one thing you French do well, compared to us. Of course, it is the climate; what do you call it? Terroir; isn’t it so? If Germans lived here of course the quality would no doubt be even better, but your wines are of course, entirely acceptable.’
Brunner buzzed through to the outer office. It was such a familiar sound, Auguste almost expected Édith to appear with a file. Instead, the tall fair-haired SS officer appeared.
‘Ah, Schultz, there you are. Go down to the basement and fetch a bottle of the ’23 Malartic Lagraviére, would you? And bring two glasses. My friend and I are celebrating the demise of the Maquis. Isn’t it so Auguste?’
‘If you say so Helmut,’ Auguste said.
Animated, Brunner seemed to be even more disgusting than before. He was cheerful and almost expansive. Auguste still had homicidal thoughts but the impossibility of those thoughts brought a kind of apathy and hopelessness. How could he ever engineer a situation where he could trap this evil man?
And then it came to him. Wine. It loosened tongues; in vino veritas; it made men tell the truth. Yes, it could perhaps be a godsend if they drank enough.
He said, ‘Helmut, only one bottle? Are you becoming selfish? I never normally get such wine. We are celebrating.’
‘Of course, there is nothing else on the agenda today. Schultz. Oi. Schultz.’
Schultz returned and Brunner asked for two bottles.
Auguste said, ‘Oh by the way. The night Linz was so cruelly murdered; I think we got off on the wrong foot entirely. I hope you didn’t think I have a problem with anything you do. I am, as you pointed out, at your disposal Helmut. We work well together.’
Brunner looked at Auguste. A flicker of doubt appeared in his eyes. In moments however, as far as Auguste could tell—and he was sharp, the look faded and Brunner smiled.
‘Of course not, my dear friend. We do work well together. I must admit though, I had doubted whether you had the Arian strength of will. I wondered if you would disobey me over the reprisals. You have proven yourself to me this afternoon.’
‘It should not have been necessary. You know I am a loyal servant of the Government. There is no other role for the Vichy Police but to facilitate the smooth running of the country.’
‘Of course. I just had the impression you disapproved, if you take my meaning.’
‘No. Disapproved of what?’
‘Well, the difficulties we have in gaining information from your stubborn countrymen. They don’t like to part with their secrets, do they?’
‘No I suppose not. Whatever is needed for the state security, as you say, must be the most important factor to us all.’
‘You are a Catholic aren’t you?’
‘What?’
‘A Catholic.’
‘Yes. I was brought up as one, but I hardly practise any religion now. I have lost my faith long ago. I only go to church because it is expected.’
As he spoke, he could almost hear the words, ‘you will deny me three times before the cock crows.’
‘Well, sometimes a little religion does no harm. Ah here you are, Schultz.’
The arrival of the wine interrupted them. Auguste noticed Schultz had only opened one of them to breathe.
‘Perhaps open both. It will be interesting to see if the difference in timing will affect them in different ways.’
‘You think half an hour would make a difference?’
‘Naturally. The wine is a living thing. It needs to breathe whether the drinkers are thirsty or not.’
‘Schultz, open the other bottle.’
Brunner poured some and they drank. Presently, Auguste sniffed his glass, he set it down on the desk and swirled it around, then again savoured the aroma.
He said, ‘This is beautiful and subtle. There is a little cedar and tobacco box on the nose.’
Brunner sniffed his wine with an air of desperation, ‘Really?’ he said.
‘Yes, peppery in the mouth and a clean fruity finish. You have wonderful taste.’
‘Er... thank you. I know what I like, though I don’t bother with the snobbery of terms.’
‘No, of course not,’ Auguste said and he poured them both more wine.
‘My mother likes wine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes Mutti consumes great quantities of German wine. She prefers the Auslese, they are sweeter because the grapes are picked late.’
Brunner smiled as he spoke. Auguste wondered whether he had been wrong about him and the man had a heart after all.
‘Really?’ he said.
‘Yes, she is a wonderful woman. When my father died, she was strong too. I miss her.’
‘My mother died...’
‘She always wanted me to be a train driver. I was out of work a long time in the early thirties. Happily I have found my calling.’
‘It is nice to see a man who enjoys his work. It is rare these days.’
‘Rare? You must enjoy your work too, do you not?’
‘Of course. What can be better than serving one’s country?’
‘Yes, you are right. Here’s to serving one’s country,’ Brunner said, raising his glass. Auguste clinked his glass against Brunner’s and he realised an outsider would have thought they were friends. It filled him with revulsion after the scene he witnessed outside hal
f-an-hour before.
Auguste made small-talk for the next hour. They discussed the forthcoming internments and the logistics of transport and personnel. Brunner poured the last of the second bottle. His hand was a little unsteady, Auguste noted.
‘Such a shame to finish now, so early,’ Auguste said.
He raised his eyebrows at Brunner across his almost empty glass and the implication was obvious even to an inebriate. Brunner banged on the desk and shouted for the long-suffering Schultz, who came with no apparent reluctance or irritation.
‘More wine waiter,’ Brunner said and he laughed.
Schultz said, ‘Yes sir.’
Auguste looked at Schultz. A trace of intolerance crept into the eyes this time and he wondered if it was something to work on. The thought of having the power to cause dissent among the Germans seemed attractive.
Brunner seemed drunk. His head wagged from side to side when he spoke and a trace of spittle appeared in the corner of his mouth from time to time.
‘Your mother, Auguste, what was she like?’
‘My mother? She was plump, feminine and she loved me. Like my father, she struggled in their early life bringing up two children on a farmer’s income, but I have no doubt she loved us, me and my sister.’
‘I did not have that kind of life as a child. My parents struggled too in the years after the last war. My father had no job and he was always away seeking work. I think it killed him in the end.’
‘That is very sad, Helmut. But your mother was there for you?’
‘Well yes. She is not a—how do you say it—a demonstrative woman. No hugs, no kisses but times were hard for her in those days.’
‘Of course they were,’ Auguste said. His responses became mechanical. He felt only anger.
‘Do you think a man’s parents shape his adult life?’
‘I suppose it is so in many ways. Why?’
‘I often thought as I grew up how I wanted the normal expressions of affection from my mother. Longed for it in fact. She was not emotional, more formal than most I suppose. It caused a kind of pain at first you know? No, maybe you don’t. You had a very different life, after all.’