The Rose Gardener

by Charlotte Link

  I should go, she thought. I should leave him to his madness alone and see to it that I can get away.

  When the shot rang out, earsplittingly loud, she didn’t know at first what she had even heard or where the sound had come from. But then, a moment later, the second shot came, and then a sharp voice was blaring, calling out through a megaphone in German: “Get out of the water at once! Come to land at once!”

  Lights glared down from the cliffs. Now many voices could be heard, German voices. It had to have been soldiers who had appeared on the cliff path and without a doubt were now making their way down into the bay.

  Beatrice retreated deeper into the rocks. She felt like a rabbit in a trap, caught between sea and cliffs and surrounded by armed foes. There was another shot. The bullet hit the water with a splash but landed far away from Julien. He seemed to be out of range, but that wouldn’t do him any good. He’d still have to swim back.

  Give yourself up, she pleaded silently. Give yourself up, for God’s sake, it’s your only chance!

  When the first shot had fallen, Julien had gone stock still, like he was paralyzed, so surprised it was as if the appearance of German soldiers was the last thing he’d expected. When the second shot came he still didn’t move. He stared at the beach, seemed to be analyzing the situation.

  The third shot got him moving. But instead of obeying the command — which he might not even have understood, as his German was very bad — he set out in the opposite direction, swimming freestyle at a quick clip further out to sea and then turning west. Sitting for so long in his hiding place might have weakened him, but the fear of death let him summon all his old strength. He moved with remarkable speed and determination.

  “He’s trying to get to the next bay!” someone yelled. “Send men there to apprehend him at once!”

  Beatrice backed even deeper into her crack in the rock. It was clear to her that this hiding place would not protect her. They would find her. They might even shoot her.

  Her heart was racing. For seconds she’d been about to walk out willingly, to give herself up before they pulled her out. But something held her back, and suddenly she started to think that she shouldn’t give up so quickly.

  I have to get out before they get down here. Once they’re here I don’t have a chance. I’ve got to get away before then.

  More shots came, but for Julien there was no longer any danger. Already he had almost disappeared behind the cliffs jutting out into the sea.

  The soldiers came down the path slowly; they weren’t familiar with the terrain, and also couldn’t know if an ambush awaited them at the bottom.

  Beatrice, on the other hand, had known this terrain since the earliest days of her childhood. She had been here a thousand times, had learned to move among the cliffs like a cat.

  Her mind worked feverishly. She couldn’t take the western path up, that much was certain. She now heard the sound of motors on the street that led to the bay; they were coming with teams of motorcycles, which meant this way was also blocked. That left the path up the cliffs in the eastern direction, the foot of which she could no longer reach — she would have to leave the bay and run out onto the street, but by now it was probably crawling with Germans up there. She had no choice but to climb straight up the cliffs. The catch was that in order to begin the climb she first had to cross the entire length of the beach. She had to make sure that she moved along the upper half of the beach, close in among the boulders there, as low and small as possible, making use of every stone for protection.

  She was about to dash off, it was getting down to the last second, but then she noticed that Julien’s clothes were still lying there in the sand. If these were identified as belonging to Dr. Wyatt, the doctor and his family would have the Germans at their throats.

  She slid out of her crack, still shielded by the stone roof above her, gathered pants, shirt, socks and shoes together and pulled back, holding her breath. Then she crawled among the stones along the beach, nose as close to the ground as a mole’s, while the Germans still shot from the cliffs, brakes squealed on the street above, and soldiers ran down into the bay.

  The biggest problem was the shoes. All the other pieces of clothing she had managed to tie onto her body somehow, but the shoes she held in her left hand, which meant she only had use of the right. The way she took out of the bay was the hardest, the steepest, and the one with the fewest handholds. It was sheer madness to climb up here, even worse to do so in the dark, with only one free hand, and on top of that at a breakneck pace. Beatrice had no time to look over her steps, to check with her foot to see if the stone she was about to step on would hold. She had to rely on her memory — this way had earlier served as a much-loved test of courage for her and the boys from the village, though in daylight, and without luggage — and she had to hope for luck.

  At least in this perilous moment her body and her nerves were functioning. She moved calmly and surely despite the speed. She neither became lightheaded, nor did panic rise within her. That would probably happen later.

  When everything’s over, she thought at one point, then I can scream.

  The Germans caused an unholy din down in the bay. Shouts and shots echoed through the night. Added to this was the barking of dogs; someone must have brought in search dogs. Beatrice knew that this gave her even less time; in a few seconds the dogs would find the crack in the cliff where she’d hidden herself, and from there they would follow her trail to the eastern cliffs and around the bend. It would be clear then which way she had taken. Her foes would only have to capture her up above.

  She quickened her pace, ignoring the pain in her knuckles from the strain of gripping the shoes. The last few rocks … her free hand took hold of grass, and with one last effort she pulled herself up and collapsed, gasping.

  She was at the top. She had made it.

  She knew that she could not keep lying here. All around her the cliffs were crawling with Germans. She had to keep going, as fast as she could.

  She crawled forward on all fours. She did not dare stand up and run. Her silhouette against the bright moonlight would have been visible from miles away. Only when she had reached a small patch of forest did she stop, leaning against a tree trunk and taking in deep breaths. She let the shoes drop, relaxed her cramping hand. She noticed now how drained and exhausted she was. She had a stitch in her side, her legs were shaking, her head was pounding. Her entire body was covered in sweat.

  She buried her face in her hands and waited until the trembling within her grew calmer.

  What had become of Julien?

  He couldn’t swim around the whole island. He had to have found his way to land somewhere by now. Had they captured him?

  How could he be so crazy? She asked herself in despair. How could he be so horribly stupid!

  She had to get home somehow, and quick. She could only hope that Erich had not already been filled in on the action, that he wasn’t awake and hadn’t discovered her disappearance. Where the hell was she supposed to put Julien’s clothes?

  With an effort, she got to her feet, grabbed the shoes, and set out for home. Everything was quiet in the woods, no one seemed to be here. She took a massive detour, circling the village and approaching her parents’ house from the back. It seemed too risky to go up the drive.

  She darted through the garden, holding her breath as she strained to see the patrols. But everything was quiet. She entered the greenhouse that stood in a corner of the property. It had fallen into a completely dilapidated state by then since Pierre couldn’t get all of his work done alone.

  Sacks of soil and peat were stacked up in a corner. You could see by looking at them that they hadn’t been moved from this spot for years. Beatrice slid some bags to one side, stashed the clothes and shoes behind them, and heaved them back. For now, this place seemed like a good hiding spot; later, she would have to
check back.

  She made it into the house and up to her room without being seen, but only when she had closed the door behind her could she breath a little easier. She peeled off her clothes, which were damp to the touch from sweat, and carelessly laid them over a chair; then she crawled under her sheets and curled up in a fetal position, sick with exhaustion and fear. She felt ill, and her teeth were chattering. Slowly, there crept into her consciousness the realization of what a miracle it was that she was still alive, that she easily could have been shot, that she had escaped death by just a hair.

  Hopefully, I won’t have to throw up. Hopefully, Julien’s still alive. Hopefully, they won’t find him. Hopefully, I’ve hidden his clothes well enough.

  Thoughts raced through her head one after the other. At one point she was just about to get up and hurry to the bathroom, she was so sure that she would have to vomit, but then her stomach settled again and she sank back onto her pillow.

  Eventually, in the early hours of morning, she found a bit of uneasy sleep. She was awakened by voices calling out, by the sound of engines and the step of heavy boots on the stairs. The house seemed to be full of people, and there was an unusual commotion.

  Julien, she thought at once .

  It was eight o’clock and no one had woken her, but it occurred to her that it was Saturday and she didn’t have to go to school. She still felt ill, and when she stood up and looked in the mirror she saw that she looked waxen and miserable and truly sick.

  She put her wrinkled dress in the dresser, found a clean one, and put it on. Her hair was standing up in every direction. Yet again it was impossible to get it under control, and she simply tied it all together with a ribbon.

  She left her room and there was Helene coming towards her.

  “There you are! Big commotion!” she whispered. “Last night they got to within a hair of nabbing a spy in Petit Bôt Bay!”

  “Within a hair?” Beatrice asked immediately.

  “Well, he was able to escape. But now they’re searching the whole island for him. They’ll find him for certain.”

  Erich’s booming voice could be heard coming from the ground floor. “And I want a report on everything that happens! Understood? I want to be kept constantly informed of what’s going on!” He came up the stairs and stared at Beatrice. “Oh my, look at you. Are you sick?” He didn’t wait for an answer but rather went on right away. “It’s a crazy story! The man was in the water. Nobody knows where he came from!”

  “Was it a spy for sure?” asked Beatrice. Her voice sounded hoarse and strange.

  Erich gave her another searching look. “What else is he supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know. Someone from the island. Someone who wanted to go swimming …”

  “Okay really,” said Erich, piqued. “You come up with some very strange ideas! There’s a nightly curfew in effect here. Who’s going to be so crazy as to go out and go swimming in the ocean?”

  You just can’t imagine that someone wouldn’t obey your orders, Beatrice thought aggressively.

  Erich ran back down the stairs — importance personified — and Helene said with concern, “you really do look awful, Beatrice, Erich has a point there. Are you not feeling well?”

  “I just didn’t sleep well,” Beatrice replied. She sent a silent prayer to heaven in gratitude for her having had enough sense and enough nerve to take Julien’s clothes with her. She no longer doubted that they could have been a pivotal clue for the Germans.

  That whole day she shuffled around the house and thought about how she might manage to find out anything about where Julien was. Where was he hiding? Obviously they hadn’t tracked him down, if they had she would have heard. She didn’t dare go to the Wyatt’s, and Helene wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. She was around Beatrice constantly, pulled her into pointless conversation, whined a bit, wanted to be accompanied out to the garden, then found it too chilly out there and wanted to go back in to the house. It seemed Julien had been right with his remark about the last warm night: the air had gotten noticeably cooler, even though the sun was shining. The sky showed an intense autumnal blue. Beatrice noticed that the tips of the leaves were just starting to change color.

  The summer is almost gone, she thought, and she shuddered, because she sensed a second meaning to the thought and knew within her that something in her life was in fact over, something that would never return.

  She spent the day sunk in melancholy thoughts. She worried about Julien and couldn’t resist feeling that the matter wasn’t over yet. She was nervous and uneasy. When she could get clear of Helene for a half hour, she withdrew to the bathroom and washed the dress she had been wearing the night before. She herself didn’t know what kind of problem could have arisen based on the condition of the dress, but it seemed important to her to wipe away any clue imaginable. As she came out of the bathroom, the wet dress over her arm, intending to take it outside and hang it out to dry, she heard Erich’s sharp voice.

  “Where is Beatrice?”

  “I don’t know,” said Helene. “She was just here a second ago.”

  “I must speak with her immediately.”

  Everything stood on alert inside her. Erich wasn’t just speaking in his usual imperious tone. There had been rage, mistrust, and fury in his voice. Something had happened.

  One thought feverishly chased the next in her head. What clue had he come upon? What proof did he hold in his hands? How much should she deny, how much confess?

  There was no use in hiding. She had to put the matter behind her, had to find out what was going on.

  “I’m up here.” Her voice sounded astonishingly clear.

  “Come down here at once!” Erich barked. “Right now!”

  Slowly she went down the stairs. Water from the wet dress dripped on each step. Erich and Helene stood next to each other in the hall below; Helene looked terrified and pale, and Erich made a face like it was the final judgment. He held something in his hand which Beatrice couldn’t recognize at first. She paused at the last step; this way she was almost as tall as Erich, and this gave her a feeling of security.

  “Can you explain to me what this is here?” Erich asked. This time he spoke very softly, and it sounded even more dangerous than his shouting earlier.

  She stared at what he was holding up to her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He took a step closer to her.

  “That’s what I’m asking you.” He still spoke very softly. “That’s exactly what you should be explaining to me.”

  Finally she realized what it was he was holding between his fingers. A piece of paper. A wrapper. There was no mistaking it: it came from the chocolate that he had brought back from France.

  Somehow she still couldn’t piece the details together. Her mind refused to think logically or make connections. But a vague suspicion was churning within her, the hint of a realization that she was sitting in a trap.

  “Have you lost the ability to speak?” Erich asked. “Usually you can talk like a … like a gold-peddling Jew!”

  To his thinking that was one of the worst insults he could summon. Beatrice knew this, and was startled, and the paralysis that had gripped her fell away.

  “It’s a chocolate wrapper,” she said.

  Erich smiled. It was a cruel, malicious smile. “Correct. Correct, indeed. A chocolate wrapper. It isn’t, however, an English chocolate wrapper, right? It isn’t a wrapper that is used or sold anywhere on this island, especially not now, when there practically isn’t any chocolate anymore. Would you agree?”

  “I think so, yes,” Beatrice answered. Fear crept up within her. She pieced things together, and for a few moments she felt sick.

  “But that’s the wrapper from the chocolate that you brought back yesterday from France,” Helene said innocently, stunned that Erich a
pparently seemed to see some problem or peculiarity in the circumstance.

  He turned to her slowly. “Correct, Helene. Obviously you can think more quickly than our dear Beatrice here. This is the wrapper from the chocolate that I brought back yesterday from France. And do you know where this wrapper was found?”

  “Where?” Helene asked, wide-eyed.

  “Down in Petit Bôt Bay, in the sand.”

  Helene was now utterly confused. “Well how’d it get there?”

  “Hmm.” Erich acted as if he were struggling to think. “Actually, there are only three people who could have taken it there. Either it was me, or you were the one, or it was Beatrice. There’s really no question of it being anyone else.”

  “I haven’t been to the beach,” said Helene. “Not for weeks now. And certainly not yesterday or today.”

  “Nor have I,” said Erich. “In fact, I don’t believe that I have ever once been near that bay.”

  “But Beatrice wasn’t there either,” Helene said, baffled. “Not yesterday or today. We were always together.”

  “Well, then,” said Erich, “we really have quite the phenomenon on our hands. How did the wrapper get to the beach? I mean, it can’t fly.” He looked at Beatrice, eyes narrowed. She was still holding her wet dress over her arm. A small puddle had collected at her feet.

  “The spy was in the bay last night,” Helene offered. “Maybe it’s got something to do with him.”

  “You know,” Erich said thoughtfully, “the way things are looking, the only possibility we really have left is that one of us was in fact at the beach last night. Because as far as the daylight hours yesterday and today are concerned, each of us can, practically-speaking, give an alibi for all the others. But as for the night, no one can say anything for certain as to the others’ whereabouts.”

  Beatrice was thinking that a mouse being toyed with by a cat must feel close to how she was feeling. Erich was circling her, waiting on her, relishing the act of forcing her into a corner.