by Fredrik Nath
‘Auguste, tell me the truth. What happened?
‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Please, tell me the truth.’
She reached across the table and took his hands in hers.
‘You know maybe?’ he said.
‘I know there were shots and then you came.’
‘Is it not enough?’
‘Please Auguste. I have to know how far we have sunk in this mire, this swamp of danger and war.’
‘Well, there were two soldiers. Young men. Germans. I gave them a chance. I didn’t shoot either of them in the back. I hailed them and told them to drop their weapons but they didn’t.’
‘You killed them?’
‘Odette, you heard two shots. There were two soldiers, what do you think—we played card games?’
‘What is happening to you? You killed two young men and you don’t care?’
‘To be honest. I killed Brunner because I knew it was justice. I have believed in justice all my life, but the system failed me, failed Bernadette. I planned his death but in the end, it was an accident. We are at war with Nazi Germany. Père Bernard told me the Church would condemn me for taking the man’s life. He would believe I had lost my soul now. What difference does killing two soldiers make? They would have killed me, but I was quick. If I am damned, then I have leeway in the remnants of this life. Leeway to protect my family.’
They looked at each other. He realised she knew behind the expression on his face, behind the words, her Auguste was suffering. He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders rose and fell and the sobs came too.
Odette came around to sit beside him. Her arm a soft, gentle, weight encircling his shoulders, she said, ‘Perhaps the Abbott can help. Perhaps if you give confession to him, he will absolve you.’
‘He can’t absolve me of mortal sin, can he? I have murdered. I knew what I was doing. I can hide behind the mechanism of it but the intent was there and it sits like a storm crow on a wall, ready to take me to hell.’
‘Auguste. All the things we do on earth for the love of God and for those who love us, is seen and judged. The Lord is omnipresent, he knows what you are suffering and he will understand. It is true you took on His role and meted out justice to an evil man but I cannot believe you would face the same punishment as Brunner will. Our God is forgiving and kind. Go and ask the Abbott if he can take your confession.’
‘No. I know you are right, but it makes us heretics does it not? To believe there is no Hell and sins are forgiven, when the Church teaches there can only be eternal suffering. So, I felt no pain when I shot those young soldiers. I did it without any feeling at all at the time. Only now, I think they were only boys. They had mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters who will mourn and suffer because of me. I have to live with those thoughts. I don’t even know if it is a sin anymore.’
‘Auguste, when we get to Switzerland, we have to repair. We will have to find the right road in our faith. Promise me?’
Auguste looked up. Her face shone in his eyes. He knew it was his mind wanting to see her this way, but he felt she radiated faith. It was not her faith, it was his. He believed in her more than he believed in the Church or its doctrines or any of the pressures they had faced or would in the future.
He reached for her hand and turning, he kissed her mouth. It was not erotic, but passionate all the same. She pushed him away.
‘Not here. We are in a monastery.’
Auguste smiled. He said, ‘I’m sure they would understand.’
‘Auguste we were having a serious conversation.’
‘Too serious. Come, let us find the children. My mind is so weary. I cannot think about these serious things all the time. We can ask the brothers for some wine. They love a drink.’
‘A drink?’
‘Yes, if there is one thing I learned last time I was here, it was the holy brothers have a capacity for wine only the Ancient Romans could have matched.’
3
They left the dining room hand in hand, as they walked out into the morning sunshine. Brother Dominic greeted them and smiled with unexpected warmth.
‘Monsieur Ran, I have begun to realise what children have to offer, even in this serious place. Do you know what your daughters have done?’
‘No.’
‘They have begun to create a home over there.’
‘A home?’
‘They called it a “den”. They are using last year’s prunings from the trees to build a shelter.’
‘Indeed,’ Auguste said.
Auguste took his wife’s hand and they walked down the hill towards where Brother Dominic indicated. Across a small lawn, they came to a privet hedge, a dubious guardian between the vegetable garden and the cultivated area in front of the abbey. He peered around the hedge.
Branches framed them and he could see Monique and Zara. They had built a lean-to shelter against the hedge. A long straight branch flew from the shelter.
‘Got him, filthy German.’
‘I’ll shoot the other one.’
‘Yes,’ Zara said, ‘kill them all.’
Auguste stepped out.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re killing Germans,’ Monique said.
‘It isn’t a nice thing for little girls to do,’ Auguste said.
‘Well you do it,’ Zara said.
‘What?’
‘You do it. You killed Germans at the farm.’
‘I... I...’
‘Never you mind what happened at the farm. You should not have been listening in the car,’ Odette said.
‘Well it’s true isn’t it?’ Zara said, looking at her father.
‘We are at war, ma fleur. Not all Germans are bad. Even some of their soldiers are good men who do what their officers tell them even when they don’t want to.’
‘Then they are wicked all the same. It’s no excuse.’ she said.
Auguste stood and looked at his daughter. He wondered how one could argue with a child who spoke adult truths from a child’s mind. A deep gloom began to descend upon him again because he had no answers. He looked away and then turned and walked back to the dining hall. His feet felt like leaden weights and he stared at the ground. It felt as if his whole world was rotten. He had been one of those people his own daughter had accused and he could not resolve the feeling she was speaking with a perspicacity to which no child was entitled.
Auguste felt like a man who has laboured long, digging in the dark, and when the light comes, he discovers he has dug a pit in the wrong place. If it was so, he felt he might as well jump into it. No absolution would be coming his way.
Chapter 27
1
The monks, true to their word, fed them and hid them until sundown. Auguste repacked the Citroën and as a red sun descended behind the dark green pines, they set off.
The monks offered no lengthy farewells or tearful adieus and Auguste knew, because of the palpable reality of the danger they brought with them, they had outstayed their welcome. The little girls knelt on the back seat and waved and the absence of similar gestures from their late hosts did nothing to prevent them from continuing until the monastery gates disappeared from view.
Dark descended and large errant snowflakes began to fall, challenging the windscreen wipers to disperse them. Even the heater betrayed an audible struggle and Auguste wished he had a different car in which everything functioned. He knew he would be parting with the vehicle anyway and he had no regrets over it; no sentimental attachment for this lump of metal betrayed him. It had served its purpose and measured against all he left behind, losing his car was a bagatelle.
Twenty miles along the road, they came to the main Sarlat road. The Beynac Chateau glared down at them, an ancient silhouette, a ruined piece of history like his own life, yet he knew it was not the same. He was leaving, rebuilding, reclaiming his life. He had not stayed to become ruined and broken, a relic for visitors to gawk at. He had a nascent future now; one w
ith a meaning for him, and one, which was born of the evil he had escaped.
They turned right once they reached the Sarlat road and within two hundred metres turned right again, heading up through the darkened farmland towards Cazenac. The last time he was here came to mind and he shuddered at the thought of Linz’s demise. The climb was steep in places and the car’s wheels spun as he took the bends, though he was a confident driver and well versed in winter driving. A mile up the road, he saw the torch. The owner swung it from side to side and stood in a side turning on the left. To the right there were empty, open fields, created by the amputation of trees hundreds of years before.
He slowed at the turning. A tall figure approached. Auguste had his hand on his pistol and he drew it as the man came near. The torchbearer knocked on Odette’s window with the torch. She wound it down a fraction, enough for her voice to be heard , but no more.
‘Odette, don’t you recognise me?’
‘Pierre,’ she said.
Auguste said, ‘Pierre, is it really you?’
‘Of course it’s me. Are you going to leave me here in the snow?’
‘Papa,’ Monique said, She opened her door and ran to her father.
‘Bubeleh, how I’ve missed you,’ Pierre said. He laughed and Auguste found the sound was as welcome to him as a blazing fire on a winter’s night.
Pierre hugged his child and Auguste felt emotions stirring. He knew this meant a lifting of his responsibilities and he relaxed into his car seat. If Pierre was here, he had no need to worry about Monique. He had discharged his duty and his obligations. Pierre knew how they could cross the border. Relief swept over him.
Greetings over, Odette sat in the back with the girls. Pierre occupied the front seat with a sten-gun across his knee.
Auguste drove on, ready to turn towards Sarlat and then Pèrigueux.
‘What is the weapon?’
‘A British sub-machine gun. They drop them to us with parachutes. Good for killing close up, but no accuracy.’
‘I have two German rifles in the back.’
‘Not much use to you in the back, my friend.’
‘Pierre, how come you are here? I thought it would be someone else.’
‘Well, it isn’t. Not pleased to see me?’
‘There is no one in the world I would rather have with us,’ Auguste said and he meant it. ‘I just got the impression you would send someone.’
‘No. They refused, my friend. When I told them who you were, they refused to risk their lives for you. They know about the Vichy police and they felt there was no reason to risk themselves for you.’
‘But I...’
‘Yes, I know. They wouldn’t help anyway.’
‘How can we cross the border without their help?’
‘They wouldn’t help you, I said. They will help me. There is a boat moored already. We just have to be in the right place at the right time.’
‘I have those papers with me. I would give them to you and take my chance with Odette and Zara, but we would not find the boat without you.’
‘No, that’s true. So how shall we do this?’
‘I planned to drive to Lyon. From the hills south of Lyon, we can travel on foot. Two or three weeks,’ Auguste said.
‘If we can get closer in the car it will cut the time down.’
‘I know, can we risk it?’
‘We will have to see. North of Lyon would be better. What did you do with Brunner? I heard he had an accident?’
‘Not exactly. We fought over a gun. I killed him.’
‘We Jews have a saying: “Don’t be wise in words, be wise in deeds”. You were wise this time, despite all the things you said about why you wanted him dead.’
‘You will never understand. I think I have lost my soul for the sake of justice. I am a murderer.’
‘We are all murderers. Joshua was the biggest murderer of all. Men, women, children, whole cities. I don’t think he went to hell.’
‘He was doing God’s work.’
‘And you weren’t? God had a choice. He could have brought down thunder and lightning to save his poor sinner, Brunner. He didn’t. You killed a sadistic German murderer. From the bloody cross on Calvary to the hell-camps in Poland, there is a lot of blood spilled. Hell will be overcrowded if He sends people with your qualifications to that place. Don’t worry, my Catholic friend, I’ll vouch for you to Saint Michael.’
‘Saint Peter, Pierre. Saint Peter.’
‘Whoever. You Catholics! You make anyone famous into saints. The Romans did the same. They made their Emperors into Gods. You make your heroes into demigods. What’s the difference?’
‘Pierre, we are driving into danger, do you want to have one of your religious discussions as we drive?’
‘No. It’s fine. Let’s head towards Lyon and then see if we can get any further. We can have no defined routes without my brothers-in-arms on our side. If we make the border, their boat will get us to Switzerland and then it is all good.’
‘Good? I don’t know what I will do when I get there. I have no references and no backing for any policing jobs.’
‘Auguste, we have another saying: “Make sure to be in with your equals if you’re going to fall out with your superiors”.’
Pierre’s booming laughter came as a pleasant relief. Auguste wondered when he had last heard that sound. He realised it was a sound accompanying his transition from childhood to adolescence and then into adulthood. He knew he loved this man. He felt complete in his company and he believed they could make it now. They drove on in silence and the children slept.
2
They drove north towards Periguex. Snowdrifts hampered them because the tiny unmade roads undulated with deep dips in places. They had to get out at times to push the car. The overriding thought in Auguste’s mind was, when would they have to walk? He had brought good warm clothing for all of them and Pierre was used to living in the cold outdoors. Some of the time he questioned whether the entire episode, from Claude’s death onwards had gone awry. He had killed four men. Two inadvertent deaths and two shots fired in self-defence, but it ate away at him all the same, as he pushed the car, as he munched his bread, as he cuddled his family.
Using small roads, they drove through Tulle. It was a large market town reminiscent of Bergerac. The town square, submerged by snow now, but tree-lined and no doubt cobbled, Auguste imagined, like home. Balconies peered out at them from grey and yellow houses, with peeling render and missing slates. Pierre guided them. He seemed to know where the roadblocks were and at first they made good time, but a military checkpoint at Ussel drove them north on more small winding roads in the direction of Thiers. Auguste wanted to head south of Lyon but Pierre insisted they head north first; he indicated the roads Auguste wanted to use would be impenetrable and swarming with Germans. By dawn, they were still driving and still undetected. The border became a distant mirage to Auguste. Even if they arrived there, he had no idea what they might find. It could be swarming with German troops, SS soldiers, or SD.
‘Here, see the farm?’ Pierre said.
He pointed to a light in the distance, shining like a far off beacon.
‘The last farm I stopped at, the farmer telephoned the Germans. He betrayed me.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes, it was the barn where you killed Linz.’
‘You went there?’
Pierre laughed. ‘It was the only place I could think of.’
‘You are such a novice, Auguste. I’m surprised you survived to get that far.
‘Oh, stop it. I do well enough.’
‘The farmer, Gaillarde, is a collaborator. We picked his barn because we knew it was isolated and we knew he would have informed on us if we gave him the chance. We tied him and his wife up first before the attack. It was Josephine’s idea. She thought there was a chance the Germans would suspect them of complicity. And you went back there. It’s a mad world and someone up there must be looking after you.’
‘W
ell, he sent for the Germans. I hit him.’
‘I would have killed him.’
‘Perhaps, I’m sick of killing. Sick of death.’
‘Hah. You should run with the Maquis. Then you would see killing, my friend.’
The car drew to a halt outside the farmhouse. It was at the apex of a triangle of buildings and outhouses. The tiled roof had moss growing on it and the whitewashed walls looked like any other farmhouse in Saone-et-Loire. Auguste realised all his plans had changed since they picked up Pierre. They’d skirted Lyon to the north and headed so far in that direction according to his map they were near Digoin.
Pierre got out and walked to the door. Moments later a rugged looking man wearing a beret and leather jacket opened it. Auguste heard muffled conversation and Pierre signalled for the others to enter.
He had just emerged from the car when Pierre said, ‘The farmer is a sympathiser. He said to put the car in the shed over there.’ He indicated a dishevelled outhouse, with a gate hanging at an angle and looking as if it would fall off at the slightest touch.
He left Auguste to hide the car and entered the farmhouse.
Auguste did as his friend indicated and rejoined his family. The farmer was friendly and hospitable. He would not allow them to sleep in the barn and his wife arranged bedding for them all upstairs. This was a different welcome from the last one. Auguste remained distrustful but he wanted to believe in these people.
By late morning, Auguste and Odette found themselves alone in a darkened bedroom, the shutters closed and a sense of quiet content pervading the room.
‘Did you sleep?’ Auguste said.
‘Yes, did you?’
‘I slept better than for a long time. No nightmares about Brunner or the SD. Do you think we are safe here until nightfall?’
‘Pierre said they have passwords used by the Maquis. He identified the farmer using a coded phrase. He thinks we are safe.’
They washed, using the basin and jug standing on the table in the corner of the room and together they descended the stairs. The farmhouse kitchen reminded Auguste of home but the memory caused pain, he knew, after all, he could not return until the war ended, if at all. Upstairs the children slept still and neither Odette nor Auguste had the heart to wake them.