The Cyclist

by Fredrik Nath

  ‘We have to go. We have Monique to think about and now I have pursued Brunner, our lives will be in danger. We can’t stay.’

  ‘Are you sure about this? Is there no other way?’

  ‘No. As long as we are alive and together it will be alright.’

  She crossed the kitchen. She stood over him until he had laced his boots. He stood and took her into his arms. He kissed her on the cheek and she hugged him as if they were parting for a long time.

  ‘You think Pierre will be there?’

  ‘If the old poacher got the message to him then he will come. Did you know Dufy was a teacher once?’

  ‘A teacher?’

  ‘Yes, but he likes to drink and he lost his job.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I mention it only because it shows what kind of small-minded place we live in. It may be good for us all to get out. Get away from the Germans anyway.’

  Odette stared at the floor. She said nothing. Auguste had no need of imagination to understand what she must have felt. He knew. A grain of sorrow persisted in his mind but he valued his principles too much to abandon them. It was not at any cost, he reassured himself as he shut the backdoor. It was perhaps at the cost of leaving his home behind, but staying was becoming impossible.

  2

  He felt for his gun in his pocket. He gripped it as he walked. It gave a firm metallic reassurance. He was a good shot but he knew he would hesitate to shoot anyone, even a German soldier. He walked the path through the first section of forest and turned left at a tall pine tree. He knew the tree well. It was older than he was and he recalled how he had carved that girl’s name there too. Foolishness of youth.

  For a second he thought he heard a twig snap behind him. He stopped. He strained his ears to listen. Light descended from a half-moon high above but the trees grew close together and little light illuminated where he stood. An eerie silence enclosed him. He waited, wondering if perhaps Pierre was following him. No more sound. He wondered if he had imagined the sound. He continued his walk. He missed his dog, but he knew even if she had been here, she could not come with them to Switzerland. A dog would have been a liability.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reached a moss-covered tree stump. It stood at the side of a small clearing, a dark coffin shape in the moonlight. The long shadows of the pine trees drew a spider’s web pattern on the grass and he looked up at the moon. He wondered why the moonlit sky betrayed a red tinge behind the screen of black, waving boughs whispering together above him in the breeze.

  Auguste stamped his feet. He looked at this watch and the luminous dial showed it was five minutes to ten. He waited. Sitting on the tree stump, he searched in his pocket for his cigarettes. He refused to admit to himself he was back in the habit of smoking, but had bought another pack on the way home in any case.

  He tapped the end of a cigarette on the box to remove the loose tobacco and placed it in his mouth. He lit the Gitanes and inhaled. The smoke was thicker in this cold and he saw it rise like a plume of dense white as he sat on the tree stump. The damp of the moss seemed to penetrate and he felt his backside to see if it was wet.

  A sound. It struck his ears like a drum in the silence surrounding him. Another sound; this time unmistakeable. A loud whisper. He looked over his shoulder in the direction from which the sound had come. More silence. He stood, facing the sound.

  ‘Pierre?’ Auguste said in a whisper loud enough to be heard.

  ‘Keep still,’ the voice came.

  ‘Pierre, it’s me. Where are you?’

  ‘Here.’

  Auguste spun around and heaved a loud sigh.

  ‘Pierre, why did you sneak up like that?’

  ‘I needed to circle you to make sure no one followed you.’

  ‘No I wasn’t followed. I did hear a single twig snap behind but it was fifteen minutes away and there was nothing more.’

  ‘What have you made me risk my life to hear Auguste?

  ‘Are you not relieved to see me unscathed after the bombing?’

  ‘Of course I am. I knew you were unharmed. Come old friend, what am I doing here?’

  ‘I have to get the girls and Odette out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I plan to get to the Swiss border. I have those letters of transit. I can get Odette and Zara across and I plan to take Monique overland south of Geneve. They can’t police the entire border and there will be places to cross over.’

  ‘It is possible, but how will you get there?’

  ‘We will walk.’

  ‘It is over five hundred kilometres. With two children, how do you propose to do that? Even twenty kilometres a day, it will take a month. You will never get past the road blocks and the German patrols near the border without help.’

  ‘Can you get us out then?’

  ‘Impossible now. Since we killed that German bastard a lot of people will not support us. The escape lines are stalled for the time being. Why don’t you wait? In a month or two...’

  ‘I can’t wait. I have to settle a score with Brunner.’

  ‘The SD Major?’

  ‘Yes. He tortured and raped Bernadette Leclerc, I told you.’

  ‘Yes you say so endlessly. I thought you were going to arrest him.’

  ‘Judge Dubois is protecting him.’

  ‘Dubois? That is news. I will pass it on. So he is a collaborator. But Brunner goes free?’

  ‘No. I will kill him.’

  ‘You? Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Yes. I cannot leave unless I do it. Bernadette must have justice.’

  ‘Don’t bother. My people can do it and we won’t even charge you a fee.’

  ‘No. it is something I have to do. I started the investigation. He boasted about it to me and I must do it.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, man. You would risk everyone you love to get vengeance?’

  ‘No. It is a matter of honour and justice. He has to know why he is to die. You think I would endanger my very soul if I did not feel strongly?’

  ‘How will you do it?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. I will do it.’

  ‘Sounds half-baked to me. I will try to persuade my men to look out for you. When do you leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow night or maybe the night after, it depends on whether I can get Brunner on his own.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘We will need some route maps and some idea of where the patrols are. It is not information I can get without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘You leave tomorrow night?

  ‘Yes, we will drive to St Andre and bypass the Sarlat road and then head towards Lyon. There are no roadblocks on that road. After Lyon, we head for the mountains until we turn north. I don’t know the way after that.’

  ‘I will send someone to guide you. We will watch to see when you go. As you drive up the Cazenac road, look out for a man with a torch. If you are lucky and you have the support of my friends, you might be able to drive all the way. We’ll see what they say.’

  ‘Pierre, Monique will be safe. I swear it.’

  ‘You cannot swear to something out of your control. But I hear you.’

  Auguste stepped forward and embraced his friend. Uncertain for a moment, Pierre kept his hands at his sides but seemed to change his mind. They embraced like brothers and when they broke, Auguste said, ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘You don’t need luck you need divine intervention.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Good hunting my friend. I will see you again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pierre looked over his shoulder and strode into the darkness around the clearing. Auguste lost sight of him in seconds. Standing alone, he lit his last cigarette and walked towards the tiny path where he had emerged into the clearing. He wondered whether his communication with Pierre had been worth the risk. He might have written it down and sent it via Dufy, had it not been for the danger of any writing these days. If a written message fell into the wrong hands, all would have en
ded. Ended with pain and death.

  3

  He reached the tall pine tree. He heard the sound of a soft footfall behind. He stopped. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Waiting, he placed his hand inside his coat pocket, gripping his pistol. His thumb slid the safety catch to ‘off’. When it happened, it made him jump.

  ‘Stop. Put your hands up or you’re a dead man.’

  He let go of his pistol. He put up his hands. Listening, the night was dead and nothing moved.

  A faint lunar radiance surrounded him and all around was bible-black. He wondered whether, if he leapt to one side out of the patch of moonlight, he would be invisible to his assailant, but he hesitated. He did not know how many he faced. They could encircle him for all he knew. Silence surrounded him. The absence of sound convinced Auguste he had to get away. He wondered later whether Pierre’s “divine intervention” played a part in the events that stimulated his actions.

  An owl screeched close by. The sound, like a baby crying made him jump. It was a split second decision, but he made it. He risked much then. He threw himself headlong. He rolled. His body did not stop until it came to rest against a log. Lifting his head, bushes scratched him and he realised he lay hidden, by luck or by design, he had no inclination to decide. Auguste knew he had no time to reflect either.

  A shot rang out in the wood. Like an icon lit by candle’s light, he saw a figure illuminated for the fraction of a second by the flame from the barrel of a gun. In silence, he drew his weapon from his pocket. Arms up in front, leaning on his elbows he pointed his weapon. Silence. Black, dark silence.

  Auguste felt the ground around him. A deadwood branch lay close. He gripped it with his left hand, keeping his weapon pointed in the direction of the gunman. In silence, he launched the stick. He heard it fall into a bush to his right.

  Another shot rang out, but he saw it before he heard it. He fired at the ghostly figure. It was a split second reaction, a reflex and he heard a cry. It was a cry of pain.

  Had he killed or disabled his attacker? Uncertain what to do next he knelt in the underbrush. All was quiet. Listening, no sound broke the palpable, solid silence around him.

  Minutes passed, he realised he was shivering, not with cold but a more basic emotion. He was scared. Then he heard it. It was a whimper. A cry of pain but low in volume, short of strength. Auguste stood then and made his way towards the sound. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and scarcely visible, he saw a shadow on the ground, beside the old pine. It looked as if someone had dumped a sack of waste. He knew what it was.

  He approached the body with caution. His eyes, used to the gloom, sought his assailant’s hands. The man lay face down. He began to stir. Auguste groped in the dark around the injured man. His heart leapt when he found the gun. It was a Luger. German SD issue.

  Reaching for the man, he turned him over.

  The pale face, almost indistinguishable, seemed familiar. It puzzled Auguste.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  The man groaned.

  ‘Who are you? Auguste said, but louder this time and he shook the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Where am I?’ the man said.

  ‘Claude? What in Heaven and Hell, are you doing here? You fired at me.’

  ‘I... I remember now. My head...’

  ‘Here let me look.’

  Auguste lit a match. Claude’s head was drenched in blood. The bullet, by luck not design, had creased his skull, leaving a long gash at the side above his ear.

  ‘Can you sit up?’

  He propped Claude against the tree. He wondered what the boy knew.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He had to lean close to hear.

  ‘I... I followed you. Watching your house for days. I saw you with the partisan.’

  ‘Why follow me?’

  ‘Orders.’

  ‘I give you your orders. Who ordered you?’

  Silence.

  Auguste shook his injured colleague.

  ‘Who ordered you?

  ‘Brunner.’

  ‘Brunner? But why?’

  ‘He knows you are linked to the Maquis.’

  ‘He’s wrong.’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘It was an old friend, nothing more.’

  ‘You can tell it to Brunner soon enough. He’s coming for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s... coming...’

  Auguste tapped Claude’s face with impatience.

  ‘When? When is he coming?’

  Claude said nothing.

  ‘We had better get you out of here,’ Auguste said.

  Claude made no response. He realised he could neither leave Claude where he was, for fear of his freezing to death, nor could he easily take him to his home. He opted for the latter, determined to keep him prisoner until the family and he were safe and away.

  He lifted Claude’s left arm onto his shoulder and stood up. Claude stumbled to his feet. His right arm hung limp at his side.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  Claude said, ‘I know, I know, I know.’

  He stopped then, seemed to swallow and began again, ‘I... I... know.’

  ‘Make sense man,’ Auguste said, supporting him and half dragging him along the path. Claude became heavier.

  ‘Come on. You have to help me.’

  ‘I... I...’

  ‘Damn it man. Talk sense.’

  Auguste stopped after ten minutes. It was as if he was carrying his lieutenant. He eased his burden to the ground by the thick trunk of an oak tree and propped him, head hanging, against it.

  ‘Claude.’

  The man seemed unresponsive.

  ‘Claude.’

  This time he slapped Claude’s face.

  ‘Wake up.’

  Claude, despite the stimulation, remained with his head lolling to the right. He made an odd movement with his left arm and leg. They went out straight, the hand twisted outwards at his side. Auguste lit a match and held it to the young man’s face. His eyes remained closed. He opened the lids and the pupils were widely dilated, like cat’s eyes on a dark night.

  In desperation, he shook him. Nothing. He shook him again, calling his name and Claude lay still. The moon came out again, its baleful light illuminating the scene to Auguste.

  He felt Claude’s pulse. Nothing. He felt again at the man’s throat. No neck pulse. It dawned upon Auguste this was a corpse. He had killed him.

  He stepped away. He stared as the fact of it stabbed his mind. He had killed Claude. Auguste knelt again. Desperate, he tried to find some sign of life, but there was none, not even detectable breathing. No pulse in the neck revealed even a faint spark of life. He had been right first time. What to do now?

  He had killed his subordinate; it was a fact. He stumbled backwards and tripped, ending sitting on a pile of leaves. He stared at the moonlit form before him. Emotion stirred. He felt a tightness in his throat. Here was a man. A man he had known. Claude had done nothing wrong as far as Auguste could see. Yes, he was a little ambitious but all young men are like that. He would no more have wished him dead than he would have informed on him to Brunner.

  Yet, Claude had reported to Brunner. He had betrayed Auguste and he had followed him tonight and tried to arrest him. Monique said she saw a black car. Perhaps it was Claude in an SD vehicle. Perhaps the SD picked him up on the day when Auguste had left him to get statements in Bernadette’s street. No wonder he got back so fast. Brunner himself might have picked him up and ordered him to keep the witnesses quiet.

  He felt as if he was beginning to understand the depths of what had happened. His folly and the machinations of the SD Major. Pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. If Claude worked for the SD behind Auguste’s back then Édith was right. Auguste should never have trusted him. He felt foolish then. It was because he wanted to trust someone, anyone and he had fooled himself into doing it. As a police officer who had seen the worst of humanity, he should have known better.

 
He felt stupid then.

  What had Claude said? Was Brunner coming for him? Was he going to arrest him? When would he come? Was it true or just a dying man’s spite? If Claude had tried to unnerve him he would have been delighted at the effect it of it.

  Auguste began to panic. Would he find the SD vehicles parked outside the house when he returned? Was Brunner really coming for him?

  He knew he had to hide the body. He checked a third time for signs of life but of course, there were none. He puzzled over how Claude could have woken and then died. Perhaps the Judges’ brother could have told him but it did not matter now.

  He dragged Claude’s body to a hollow fallen tree trunk. Memory thrust a picture in his mind of Pierre crawling out of it, shouting, ‘I win, I win.’

  It was like living a nightmare. Good things mixed with horror. The memory made him shudder. His nerves were on edge and he knew it. He shoved Claude’s body into the hollow trunk. It was an impossible task, because the feet stuck out and he had to gather fallen branches and armfuls of leaves to hide them. Anyone walking the path in daylight might have spotted the corpse otherwise.

  Within ten minutes, he had buried the evidence. Gone but not forgotten, he said to himself and he laughed a small laugh then realised he was becoming hysterical. He shut himself up with difficulty. The nightmare of Claude’s death seemed to follow him somehow and he tried to focus on what to do next. It became a struggle with his sanity. He felt alternately like laughing and crying all the way to his back door.

  Standing at the door, he took a deep breath and opened it. He stopped in his tracks. Uncomprehending, he said, ‘What for the love of Christ, are you doing here?’

  Chapter 23

  1

  It was Juliette; she sat, nursing a cup of some hot beverage in her hands. She stared at her brother. Auguste could see a look of horror on her face.

  ‘Juliette? Why have you come?’

  ‘I...’

  Juliette’s mouth worked as she regarded her brother.

  Odette said, ‘Auguste. Are you hurt? Your shoulder.’

  He thought she looked frightened. She stepped towards him, the speed of her steps betraying her urgency, as he looked where the two women stared.