by S C Brown
The villagers never came to a funeral if the Resistance had somehow been involved. It was best to stay well away. The rain began to seep in around the edges of the pressed cardboard soles of her shoes.
The priest noticed just how cold Yvette’s hands were as he shook her hand. ‘Mrs Lavier, the funeral is complete. I am so sorry for your loss. You are in my prayers and I will lead the congregation in prayers for you of course. It would be good if you could be there, to start coming to church once again…’
He left the rest of the sentence hanging, he didn’t want to come across as insensitive. The priest’s words jolted Yvette out of the trance she was in, staring at the wooden plate on the lid of Luc’s casket with his name on it.
‘He’s in there, isn’t he? I still can’t believe it.’ Yvette slowly came to her senses. ‘Thank you for your prayers and thank you for today, Father.’ She paused before saying quietly, ‘What should I do now?’
Not really knowing the answer, the priest shrugged. ‘Well, Gregoire will not fill in the grave until you have left, he’s over in the shelter there. But otherwise, Madame, you should probably go home and get warm.’ He clasped his hands in front of himself, holding the edges of his black cloak together against the driving rain.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She looked the Priest in the eye and he was quick to look away, over her shoulder.
‘You have been busy this week, Father,’ she said looking from Luc’s grave to the Germans. ‘I suppose at least I was able to see my husband buried and he’s buried somewhere I can visit him. But those poor souls, their wives won’t know where they’re buried. I doubt they will ever come to visit.’
‘They received full military honours, believe it or not, Yvette. When the firing party shot into the air I nearly dropped my order of service into one of the graves. It was embarrassing for me.’ He smiled, trying to raise Yvette’s mood. ‘But they received as Christian a burial as your Luc. There will be many more to bury before this is all over. Quite soon as well if the Germans don’t find out who blew up the train.’
‘Reprisals?’
‘Reprisals. One bad deed deserves another in this war. There will be few of us left at this rate. After what they did in Rouen a few weeks ago. Terrible. What’s the point of winning a war that no one lives to enjoy?’
‘Was it bad in Rouen?’
‘Awful. They had to dig a long trench so they could bury all the dead. Over a hundred people lined up and shot to pay for the death of ten Germans killed by the Resistance.’
‘You really think that they would do that here? We don’t have ninety people, do we?’
‘Just. In truth, I have no idea - but something bad is bound to happen.’ The priest glanced to the empty plots in his yard.
‘I know who killed Luc and these Germans,’ she said directly.
The Priest sighed loudly. This was getting uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he reached out and placed a wet hand on hers. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What should I do?’ Yvette watched a raindrop run down the Priests glasses.
‘Spend some time in prayer, my child. God will guide you.’ And with that, he scurried quickly down the path.
‘Coward,’ said Yvette, just loud enough for the Priest to hear. He heard. His pace quickened further.
Standing at the edge of the empty grave, Yvette wished dearly that she was in that casket with Luc right now. Yvette turned to look down the hill into the village square. The railway station was in the distance and empty, except for the stationmaster who, sat on a crate, swing his legs in boredom. No trains to attend to. She turned back to Luc’s grave to let the image sink in to her memory. She then turned away, walked along the footpath and with purpose through the church gate. Turning right, she walked the short distance to the Mairie and without hesitating, walked straight in.
Across the square, the stationmaster’s legs stopped swinging.
* * *
‘Do come in and make yourself comfortable. Coffee?’ The gangly French policeman was doing his best to put a clearly nervous Yvette as much at ease as he could. The two had known each other since school and Vincent was surprised, to say the least, to see her wanting to speak to him so soon after Luc’s death.
Vincent led Yvette into a small room away from the prying eyes of the stream of frequent visitors to the Mairie. She hadn’t been in the building since she had been married and the old place was looking more jaded than she remembered it. The room was painted a stale white, the old window had been bricked up clumsily and what little light there was crept in through a new, rectangular window, right up by the high ceiling. Vincent flicked a switch in the corridor, leaving Yvette to blink against the harsh light of the single, powerful bulb hanging down by a straggly cord.
Yvette turned to see Vincent shut the scratched and chipped wooden door behind him. The scratch marks came in straight fours – fingernails.
‘Is this a cell, Vincent?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Vincent, is this a cell that you have brought me to?’
‘Oh, pardon me but it’s all I have that is discreet. There are many prying eyes in this neighbourhood and not everyone wants to be seen talking to me here.’ He fidgeted nervously with his hair, his ankles showing from trousers that were too short.
Yvette made a snap decision.
‘I cannot talk to you Vincent. I need to talk to a German.’
‘A German?’ There was no hiding Vincent’s genuine surprise. ‘A German? Any particular kind? This isn’t like you.’
‘A German policeman. A proper one. The sort who are looking into the attack on the railway this week.’ Yvette was getting irritable. Vincent’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Ah, yes, of course. Well, er, please take a seat. You must understand that they rarely share their information on attacks. They won’t even tell me. So I doubt that they will tell you much about it all, even if you are Luc’s, well, widow.’
Vincent winced, wary that he may have just touched a nerve. He had but not the one he was expecting.
‘My God, Vincent, shut up and listen. I want to speak to a German policeman, I want to speak to one now because I want to tell him something about the attack.’ Yvette then lowered her voice. ‘I know who did it.’
* * *
Three cups of weak coffee later, Yvette heard a car pull up outside, followed by boots with a steady, confident stride. They thudded louder into the building, halting briefly at the front desk before coming down the corridor towards her. Her mouth dried up as she wiped her clammy hands against her skirt.
Vincent opened the door from the other side, poked his head around the door, smiling clumsily as if to check that Yvette was still there before nodding backwards over his shoulder. Vincent, with a slight and reverential bow, stepped aside pushing the door fully open.
The doorframe filled with a tall, broad and brooding man, his cap at a jaunty angle, with some raindrops on his shoulders. The German clicked his heels together and gave a short bow of formal greeting before raising his head to stare straight at Yvette. Yvette, feeling the look go right through her, averted her eyes quickly downwards to rest on his jagged SS collar badges: this man must be the Gestapo. Yvette felt the room turn colder.
‘Madame Lavier?’ He smiled as he stepped forward. ‘I am Hauptsturmführer Ritter of the local German police.’ All the locals thought Hauptsturmführer Maximillian Ritter was Gestapo but maybe he wasn’t.
He went on: ‘May I first of all apologise for taking so long to get here and for taking up so much of your time. I thank you for your forbearance.’
Ritter’s French was soft and immaculate. He was actually quite charming, she thought. Yvette wasn’t expecting him to be softly spoken at all. Ritter pulled back a chair to sit down bolt upright, his broad shoulders back. He removed his cap and laid it on the table, the harsh light reflected off his blonde, trimmed hair. Ritter laid his left arm onto the desk to proudly display the small black diamond badge on his forearm, edged in white cord, emblazo
ned with the letters ‘SD’. Yvette, not understanding what SD stood for, noticed instead his neatly manicured fingernails. Ritter stared back, like a cat studying a mouse. Both Ritter and Yvette sensed the silence. Vincent shuffled on his feet, unsure what to do next.
‘Do you smoke, Madame?’ Ritter enquired.
‘No thank you, Monsieur.’ Yvette struggled to make or maintain eye contact.
‘In that case, would you object if I did whilst we talk?’
‘Feel free,’ she said with a weak grin.
‘Thank you.’
As he reached into a pocket for his cigarette case, Ritter glanced back over his shoulder at Vincent. Vincent took a little while to get the hint and then began to fumble clumsily for a match. Ritter quickly lost patience, turned back to give Yvette a weary look before reaching into one of the lower pockets of his tunic.
‘Thank you, Vincent, you may now go,’ said Ritter slowly at Vincent as a match flared into life.
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’ Vincent bobbed his head like a house servant and left, shutting the door behind him.
‘And there is no need to stand listening at the door either,’ said Ritter loudly. Vincent’s footsteps began stomping away down the corridor.
Yvette felts Ritter’s eyes, like an owl, focus fully on her. ‘Now I understand that you want to tell me something about the attack on the railway the other day. I believe that your husband was killed in this attack, is that right?’
‘Yes. My husband, Luc. The funeral was this afternoon.’
‘Filthy weather for it.’
‘Yes and many Germans were buried in our cemetery yesterday as well.’
‘That is also true. A sad business, Madame. A sad business indeed.’ He sat waiting for Yvette to start talking. Yvette dropped her eyes to the desk, preparing her words.
‘Take your time, Madame.’ Ritter reached into another pocket to pull out a small notebook. He turned to a new page, laid a short pencil next to it and sat waiting for Yvette to speak.
Yvette began: ‘You must first understand, Mister Ritter, that I come here to stop any further killing. All us villagers here know that if you do not catch the people who blew up the train, you will start killing us as you did the people of Rouen not long ago.’
Ritter replied, ‘These … terrorists must be brought to justice Madame. They must learn that we will have law and order in this country. That is the only way to peace. They must face the consequences of their actions.’
‘I know that but –’
‘- and they know only too well, Madame, that if they attack German soldiers or German property, then they put the lives of the local population at risk. And yet they still attack. Madame, these terrorists care nothing about you or your husband.’ Ritter changed tone to return to a temporary relaxed and encouraging tone. ‘Was he – your husband that is - as young as you, Madame, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Luc was a little older than me but not much; he was only a year ahead of me at school.’
‘Ah, childhood sweethearts, eh?’ He smiled as he wrote down the word Luc.
‘Yes.’ She choked back a sob, looking at her husband’s name in a German notebook.
‘You want to see the swines that killed Luc brought to justice, no?’
‘I do. But that is not all I want.’
Ritter froze rigid. ‘Go on.’
‘I know who killed my husband but I will only tell you their names if you guarantee to me that the people of this village will not be harmed in any reprisals. You can do what you like to the men who did the attack but I want your word the villagers will remain safe.’
Yvette saw something in Ritter’s eyes that lasted for only a moment before vanishing again. Whatever it was, it sent a bolt of sheer cold terror straight through her. It was a fleeting glimpse of pure menace. Yvette remained fixed, the mouse had squeaked.
‘My word?’ Ritter appeared to be struggling to maintain his composure.
‘Yes, Mr Ritter, your word that you will not harm us villagers.’
‘Fine.’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly. Madame. You have my word.’
Ritter’s voice was like light velvet. ‘
When I say things are fine, they are fine. What I say goes around here.’ Ritter shifted his eyes around the room contentedly. ‘Even Army Colonels are at my beck and call, Yvette. You give me the names of the men who killed your husband, I will see that they get the justice they deserve. Then there’s no need to lay a finger on the head of any of your people, is there?’
‘However,’ he continued, ‘if what you tell me today turns out to be false, you will be held accountable. You … understand what I am saying, yes?’ He was threatening but warm.
Yvette opened her mouth but nothing came out. Ritter had made the impact he wanted. Back in charge, Ritter continued: ‘But let us not dwell on the bad things, Madame. You have had a bad enough time as it is have you not? As I said, I am a policeman and all I want is peace and order, it is the only way, do you not agree?’
‘Why … yes.’
‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, how come you know the names of your husband’s murderers? Did you see the attack?’
‘They came to see me.’
Ritter looked at her with fake incredulity. ‘They came to see you?’
‘That’s right, after Luc was killed, two of them came to tell me that he was dead and that it was they who had committed the attack.’
Ritter leaned back in his chair, his head to one side, looking amused. ‘They came to tell you they killed your husband and then, don’t tell me, they told you not to tell anyone?’
‘Yes. They said that I should see the attack as part of the war effort to get rid of you lot, almost as if I should be thankful they killed him.’
‘They underestimated you?’
‘Please understand, Mr Ritter, I am not here because I sympathise with Germany. I don’t really care about you or the war.’ She paused, wondering whether to apologise for looking anti-German to someone like Ritter was a wise thing to do. She decided quickly to press on. ‘What I do care about is those who live here, have nothing to do with the war and do not deserve to get caught up in it.’
‘So you are here to stop the killing.’ Try as hard as he might, Ritter still looked amused.
‘Of course.’
‘This isn’t revenge, then?’
‘I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’ Yvette paused for a moment. ‘In fact, no, this is not about revenge. I have lost my husband and I don’t want anyone else to lose theirs either.’
‘Really?’ he enquired, ‘Are the men who perpetrated the murder of your husband not husbands also? More importantly, are you sure that you are not using me to get even on them for you or pick off some irritating neighbours?’
‘No!’ Yvette was shocked. ‘No. I do not have that in mind.’ She was flustered now. ‘No, I had never thought of it that way, I am a respectable woman, Mister Ritter, let me assure you. Anyway the two men who visited me the other day are not married.’
Ritter allowed a silence to hang for a little while before ripping a sheet of paper from his notebook and placing it in front of Yvette, then placing his pencil down next to it, allowing the pencil to snap down onto the table loudly.
Yvette began to speak very quickly. ‘He was a good man, my husband. No Nazi, no traitor, just an honest man doing his job. I last saw him when he left as usual for work. I knew that he would be going to Paris and back and that his final journey would end in Rouen. So I was expecting him home early that day. I heard the explosion. I thought nothing more of it until men I know to be in the Resistance came to call to tell me that Luc was dead.’
‘Be calm, Madame. Their names, please. Just write their names on the paper and leave the rest to me.’
‘Are you not interested in what they said to me?’
‘I have probably heard it all before. Anyhow, I will have plenty of time to ask them once they are in my custody.’ Ri
tter smiled, briefly resembling his white, grinning skull cap-badge.
Yvette looked down. The pencil, like an executioner’s axe, lay before her.
Ritter sat perfectly still and waited.
He nudged her gently one last time. ‘As you said, Madame, it is all about stopping any more killing. You have my word. Now please, their names.’
Yvette picked up the pencil and, suddenly sickened with herself, started writing.
Ritter wasted no time. The names were in his pocket and with nothing more than a brief thank you, he was gone. Before long, she heard his car speed away.
Yvette rose slowly to her feet and walked to the door and down the corridor. Vincent, sat at the front desk, avoiding eye contact and shuffling paper. The Stationmaster was there, reading the notices on the board. He turned to give Yvette an outraged glance before returning to the notices although she noticed him glancing at the telephone.
Yvette walked out, turned right and hurried home, sobbing silently.
* * *
What was certain was that this was no temperature to be flying in a skirt, no matter how good Eve’s French stockings were.
Eve put all thought of home behind her, as the thrill of her first time in an aircraft took hold. The Lysander climbed high and flew above the cloud at first. As she flew south, to her right the fierce red of the horizon faded to an elegant white and then to the purest blue she had ever seen. The sky was immense, dwarfing her tiny aeroplane.
Her sense of wonderment came to a quick halt when the pilot pushed the nose of the aircraft forwards, down towards France. They bounced through the cloud, the pilot making continual changes to their course as he picked out landmarks in the moonlight.
Helpless in the back, Eve watched France race by. After over an hour of bumping along, the pilot announced that he knew where they were and they would be landing very soon. Eve held her breath as the engine cut out. Purple flames from the exhaust faded, and Eve knew her time had come. They circled once more and then bumped heavily onto French soil and rolled to a halt.