Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  Billy shook his head.

  ‘He’s Stendahl’s hero. He’s a young man. He comes from a poor family. Madame and I liked him very much. He’s intelligent. He has the best of intentions. But he falls between the church and aristocracy because he’s so…’ he shrugged, ‘… innocent. These people have power. They grind him down, like mill wheels….’ he mimed the motion with his fists, ‘… and he ends up under the guillotine.’

  ‘He dies?’

  ‘Yes. And then his lover gives him a final kiss.’

  ‘On the lips?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of his severed head?’

  Malin nodded. Then he looked up at Billy and at last raised his glass.

  ‘So here’s to Julien Sorel, my friend. Madame sees a lot of him in you.’

  30

  The curfew ended at dawn. They left within the hour. The last item Hélène fetched from her bedroom was a red beret she’d always treasured. It had been a playful gift from Nathan. It was a little rumpled and could maybe have done with a wash but it was still stylish, a token of the good times. She put on the beret, studied herself briefly in the mirror and then came downstairs. She took a last look around, shut and locked the kitchen door, and then hid the key in case, as she put it to Malin, she ever had the good fortune to return. Malin, who’d already done the same to Valmy’s stable, put his thin arms round her.

  ‘Courage, madame,’ he muttered. ‘Allons-y.’

  They drove south as Hélène had suggested, taking the country roads, avoiding the villages. Hélène was alone in the cab. If they hit a road block, she’d try and bluff her way through. To warn of trouble ahead, she’d bang on the panel behind her.

  From the cab, there was no access to the rear of the ambulance. Malin had left space for all five of them to sit on the floor, their backs against the bodywork, their legs outstretched between the stocks of food and rolls of bedding. A single rectangle of dirty glass shed a thin light over the box-like interior and Billy swayed with the motion of the vehicle as Hélène dropped a gear for yet another bend. Agnès appeared to be asleep. Maria, too, had her eyes closed but her lips were moving very softly, her hand in her husband’s lap. Billy watched her for a while, then caught Malin’s eye.

  ‘I think she’s saying her prayers,’ Malin murmured.

  Billy nodded and then he, too, shut his eyes. Malin, he was sure, was right. This was exactly what you’d do if events suddenly took charge of your life, if you found yourself in the back of a windowless cell, bumping down roads you couldn’t see, past landscapes you could only imagine, your fate mysteriously in the hands of whatever might happen next.

  Billy pondered the thought for a while, turning it over and over, and then – quite suddenly – he knew that this was the way it must have been for his dead father, a young man here in France, at the mercy of an incoming mortar shell, or clouds of choking gas, or a close-quarter encounter with an enemy probably as terrified and as lost as he’d been.

  Days earlier, Billy told himself, my dad would have been on a train or in the back of a lorry, making his way inexorably towards the line of trenches where the slaughter began. There’d have been no way out. You enlisted. You did your training. You crossed the Channel. And, days later, there you were.

  Because you were young, you naturally assumed you were immortal. Of course people died. Everyone knew that. But they were other people, unlucky people, careless people, not you. And then came the moment, that brief vivid splinter of time when everything turned upside down and – if you were lucky – it was over.

  Was that the way it had happened to his dad? A whizz and a bang and another torn body in the mud at the bottom of the trench? Or had he been stretchered back to some casualty station behind the lines to take his chances with the rest of the nearly dead? In truth Billy would never know, but when he opened his eyes again Maria had finished with her prayers and appeared to have fallen asleep.

  *

  A couple of hours took them down towards Angoulême. It was a fine day, bright sunshine. A brisk wind tugged cloud shadows across the neglected fields of wheat and barley and from the driving cab Hélène was struck by the emptiness of this vast landscape. The last war, she thought, had thinned out an entire generation of Frenchmen. This one had shipped them all off to Germany.

  She concentrated on her driving, nursing the old van along the maze of country roads, steering by the sun. A couple of times she risked thinking about Spain, and about the Portuguese border beyond. Maybe there was a way of keeping the ambulance, of finding an unguarded road over the mountains. In that case she could trade in her Reichsmarks for real money and keep going until they reached Lisbon. Lisbon was where Nathan had been headed as the Germans plunged into France. Lisbon was where you could buy yourself a ticket for anywhere in the world. Lisbon might take her back to a time she could barely remember.

  She thought a little more about Nathan and about the ways a life abroad might have changed him but she knew that, in essence, when it came to the things that really mattered, there’d be no changing him. Like Malin, he’d always been very sure of himself. That confidence was something that had always attracted her and she was honest enough to acknowledge that Klimt had it, too. These were people who had no trouble looking at themselves in the mirror. They had a sense of purpose, a sense of direction that seldom let them down. It governed everything they did, every step they took, and to be in company like that had always been a special pleasure.

  She smiled at some of the memories. Nathan in the box he always hired at the Paris opera, tossing flowers onto the stage below. Nathan on his feet in front of an audience of hundreds, welcoming Picasso to Paris. Nathan in bed. They’d made love in the afternoon in the slow winter months when Nathan could get back from the gallery and he’d never tired of her body. He was gifted in ways that had frankly surprised her and she was recalling an occasion in late January, with snow blowing softly against the bedroom window, when she saw the uniformed figures in the road ahead.

  There were three of them. The uniforms were black. They were heavily armed. And when the tallest stepped forward, motioning her to slow down, her foot found the brake. At the same time she reached back, and banged the metal partition with the flat of her hand.

  Boches, mes amis. Prenez garde.

  The ambulance came to a halt. The soldier was approaching her side of the cab. Already she could see the silver flashes on his collar. SS. Merde.

  She wound the window down. The soldier motioned her out of the cab. He wore an officer’s cap and he was clearly in charge. The other soldiers had unslung their rifles and were taking a lively interest in the ambulance.

  The officer asked for her papers. He had good French. Hélène fetched them from the cab. He unfolded her ID papers and matched the photo to her face.

  ‘You’ve come far?’ He was eyeing her beret.

  ‘Far enough.’

  ‘How far’s that, Madame Lafosse?’

  ‘Maybe eighty kilometres? I don’t know. A nice day like today I haven’t been counting.’

  ‘And where are you going?’

  ‘Angoulême.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have friends there. They need help in the fields.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Anything. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Show me your hands, Madame Lafosse.’

  Hélène extended both hands. The officer peeled off a glove.

  ‘May I?’ He took her hand and held it for a moment before turning it over, palm-side up. Looking at his face – quizzical, amused – Hélène realised he was toying with her. This isn’t about my hands at all, she thought. He’s not interested in whether or not I’m used to manual labour. He wants to touch me, before whatever happens next.

  She enquired whether she was permitted to drive on. She might not have the hands of a navvy but her friends still needed help.

  With the barest hint of regret he shook his head, then turned on his heel and signalled to someone
further down the road. For the first time, Hélène recognised the wings and radiator of a car parked in the entrance to a field. It was a Mercedes, like Klimt’s, but dark green. It began to nose into the road. Moments later it came to a halt in front of the ambulance. The driver’s door opened and a tall figure alighted. She stared at him. The pale eyes. The thin mouth. The carefully pressed uniform.

  Huber.

  He barely spared her a glance. Instead, he was looking at the ambulance. She had taken care to lock the doors at the back.

  ‘You have a key, Madame Lafosse?’

  She nodded, said nothing. She felt physically sick. All her careful plans. All her fantasies about Lisbon. About Nathan. Now this.

  At a word from Huber, the officer got into the cab. The key to the rear door was with the ignition key. The officer extracted the keys and got out of the cab. Huber took Hélène by the arm and she accompanied him to the back of the vehicle.

  ‘What may we expect to find, Madame Lafosse? Would you care to tell us? More friends perhaps?’

  Hélène didn’t react. She could think of nothing to say. She wished Nathan was here. He’d know what to do, how to charm these people, how to recognise the traps they were setting and turn disaster on its head. Instead, she was rooted to the spot. They know, she told herself. These people are God. They know everything. About everyone. And by the time you recognise that simple truth it’s far, far too late.

  Inside the ambulance, Billy could smell the fear. It was a distinctive smell, not loose bowels as you might expect, but something even earthier, a mix of sweat and despair. Maria’s knuckles were white. She was clutching her husband’s arm and tears were pouring down her face. Her husband’s eyes were shut, his head tipped back against the thin metal side of the van, the image of resignation. Even Agnès appeared to accept that her war was over. Only Malin seemed still engaged, his eyes flicking left and right.

  Earlier, before they’d left, he’d had a brief exchange with Hélène. He’d wanted to bring Nathan’s shotgun, claiming that it might be good for the odd rabbit, but she’d said no. Now he was softly cursing the lack of a weapon. Anything. Anything to avoid arrest.

  The murmured conversation in the road had come to an end. Billy heard the scrape of a key in the lock. Then, abruptly, both doors swung open and he found himself staring at the barrel of a rifle. Another soldier stepped into view, his rifle readied. Then came a third face, his face pale beneath the peaked cap.

  ‘Papiers?’ The officer had a hand extended.

  No one had any papers. The officer ordered them out onto the road, and then looked to Hélène for introductions.

  Hélène shook her head.

  ‘I’ve never seen them before,’ she said. ‘I picked them up back there,’ she gestured vaguely behind her.

  ‘More labour, perhaps? For your friends in Angoulême?’

  ‘Of course. They might even get paid.’

  ‘Nice story, madame,’ the officer’s smile was icy. ‘Fine effort.’

  A word to a third man, also an officer, and the little party in the middle of the road was pushed roughly towards the field entrance where the Mercedes had been parked. Billy was at the back. From time to time he could feel the barrel of the gun between his shoulder blades. His mouth was dry. He felt the first prickles of sweat on his face. Behind him, he could hear one of the Germans talking to Hélène.

  The gap in the hedge led to a meadow. The grass was knee-high, lush after the recent rain. An Army truck was parked beside the hedge, more soldiers smoking in the back, and in the next field Billy caught sight of a herd of cows. Somerset, he suddenly thought. An afternoon’s ramble with Mum.

  The sun was hot now. Butterflies darted along the hedge line and there was a murmur of bees. The little group had come to a halt. The officer shouted at the soldiers in the back of the lorry. Two of them jumped out. One collected what looked like a wooden stake and slung it on his shoulder. The other had a big lump hammer and a spade.

  The officer led them deeper into the field and then marked a spot with the heel of his boot. The soldier with the spade began to dig while the other one unshouldered the stake and watched. From down the lane came the cough of an engine and the grinding of gears. Seconds later, the ambulance bumped into the field and came to a halt. The soldiers gaped at it. Then one of them began to laugh.

  The older of the two officers silenced the soldier with a look. Then he beckoned Billy towards him. Hélène was to serve as translator.

  ‘I need to ask you some questions,’ he said. ‘Before we start.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You, Herr Angell.’

  Billy stared at him. The realisation that this man knew his name also sparked an exchange of looks between Agnès and Malin. She’d been right all along. A spy. They should have shot him last night while they still had the chance.

  ‘This brother of yours, Herr Angell. What’s his name again?’

  ‘Douglas.’

  ‘And he really exists?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d be prepared to swear that? At the price of someone else’s life?’

  Billy said he didn’t understand the question. Hélène translated. The officer shrugged, then nodded at the nearest soldier. The soldier took Pablo by the arm and forced him to his knees. Pablo was looking at his wife. Then he crossed himself, his lips moving wordlessly as he stared at the boots of the officer.

  The officer unholstered a pistol and circled Pablo.

  The same question. The same translation. Do you have a brother, Herr Angell?

  ‘Yes.’

  The single shot raised a flock of pigeons from the nearby trees. Pablo slumped to the ground. Blood gushed from his mouth and began to puddle in the moistness of the grass.

  Maria had fainted. At a word from the officer, a soldier ran to the back of the ambulance, returning with one of the jars of water. He tipped the water over the woman’s face. She shook herself like a dog and began to whimper, pawing at her husband’s corpse.

  ‘Another question, Herr Angell. Your brother did what in the war?’

  ‘He was in the Navy.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘He became a diver.’

  Maria was on her knees now, still staring at her dead husband. Another prayer. This time the officer shot down through the crown of her head. She rocked sideways at the force of the blast, collapsing beside Pablo, her knees drawn up to her chest. Billy could smell the sourness of the cordite. It caught in the back of his throat, a horrible taste. He was aware of the soldiers watching him, of the officer’s eyes on his face. He couldn’t stop looking at the two bodies in the grass. I did that, he told himself. Me.

  The wooden stake was ready. One of the soldiers went to Agnès and tried to escort her across. He had a loop of rope in his other hand. She shook her head, refused to move. When he went to push her, she spat in his face. Two more soldiers leapt from the back of the lorry and helped drag her across. She was screaming at them now, lashing out. A wild kick caught one of them on the side of his knee. He broke off to rub it then drove his fist into her face. She screamed again, pain salted with fear. Blood was pouring from her nose. The officer yelled for more men. It took five of them to lash her wrists and secure them to the stake.

  Hélène was watching her every move. Her face was pale. Then she glanced at Billy and shook her head.

  ‘Untermensch,’ she said.

  Agnès made another attempt to break free but the fight had gone out of her. Alone at the stake, her whole body seemed to have slumped. The soldiers had formed a firing line ten paces away. The officer motioned Billy and Hélène towards them.

  ‘Herr Angell. Your brother again. He’s in the Navy. He’s a diver. He swims onto a beach. Tell me why.’

  ‘To take samples.’

  ‘And why would he do that? The truth please. Only the truth will save this young woman’s life.’

  Billy stared at her. She returned his gaze, unblinking. Blood was still dripping from her
chin but her head was up, her eyes blazing, her legs braced.

  ‘Espion,’ she hissed.

  The officer was smiling.

  ‘Is she right, Herr Angell? Is she right that you’re a spy?’

  Billy closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look anymore. This was more terrible than anything he’d ever seen in his life. More terrible than Hamburg. More terrible than the Rear Gunner. More terrible than trying to nurse Les Hammond back through the freezing night. Because he was suddenly God. Because he’d suddenly acquired the power of life and death.

  ‘Herr Angell? Your answer please. Are you what this young woman says you are? Are you a spy? And, if so, what does that tell us about this brother of yours?’

  Billy swallowed hard. He was on the edge of an enormous pit. Below him was a cauldron of fire. One misstep, one false move, and it would all be over.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not a spy.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The bark of the rifles rippled out across the fields. Agnès hung on the post for an instant or two before the weight of her body, riddled with bullets, dragged her slowly earthwards.

  Billy turned away, sickened. Me next, he thought. And not before time.