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Aurore

Page 26

by Graham Hurley

31

  An hour later, Hélène and Billy were in the back of the Mercedes, heading north again. Huber occupied the passenger seat in the front beside the driver. Malin had been spared a bullet. Arrested for being a Jew without either papers or proper registration, he would be taken separately to the holding camp at Pithiviers. From there, Huber promised, he could expect a railway journey east with lots of company and plenty of time to think. The soldiers, meanwhile, had retrieved the dead bodies and carried them back to the ambulance. Once they were all inside, they emptied half a jerrycan of petrol over the interior and tossed in a grenade. As the van erupted, Malin watched his precious clock being consumed by the flames. He didn’t appear to hear Hélène’s shouted farewell.

  There was no conversation in the car. Twice Hélène asked where they were going; both times Huber ignored her. The destination turned out to be Tours. In the middle of the old town, close to the cathedral, the Mercedes turned in at an impressive pair of wrought-iron gates. Billy was in limbo, a place where neither space nor time mattered. The Mercedes? The passing landscape? The occasional touch of Hélène’s hand on his arm? The unspeakable image of Agnès’ slow death slide? None of this made sense any longer. This was the darkness of deepest space. If he felt anything at all, he felt dead.

  Two sentries saluted their arrival. Huber emerged from the car first, gesturing to his passengers in the back. Moments later, Hélène and Billy were escorted into the building. Steps led down into a basement. There was a sudden chill in the air and it felt damp. Doors opened left and right onto miles of shelving. The shelves were full of files, each one carefully labelled.

  At the end of the corridor was a bigger room. It was empty. No files. A thin beam of sunshine through a window high in the opposite wall brought a sparkle of light from the tiled floor. Billy realised that the floor was wet. The walls were tiled, too. In white.

  Hélène was staring at an iron bedstead in the very centre of the room. The legs appeared to be anchored to the floor. In the far corner a length of hosepipe was neatly coiled beside a tap and a pile of carefully folded towels. There was a heavy smell of bleach.

  He exchanged looks with Hélène and nodded at the bedstead. The metal door had clanged shut behind them. Hélène put her finger to her lips and gestured upwards.

  ‘Mikro,’ she mouthed.

  Billy thought he understood. He wanted to talk. He wanted comfort. He wanted the touch of another human being. He wanted some small hint that he might have imagined this nightmare, that the action might come to an end, and the house lights might go up, and that the audience would be on their feet the moment the curtains parted again.

  Nothing. Just the slow drip of water from the tap.

  After a while the door opened to admit an orderly in a white coat and a pair of rubber boots. He didn’t look French. He might have been German, or even Polish. He was late middle-aged. He had a big mournful face and a luxuriant moustache that nearly hid a hare lip. Billy watched him uncoiling the hose pipe until it reached the bedstead. He might have been working in a hospital: careful, meticulous, painstaking.

  His work done, the man fetched three chairs from a neighbouring room. He arranged them in a shallow semicircle three paces from the bedstead. Then he turned to Hélène and gestured to the pair of them: who’s first?

  Hélène shrugged. The orderly shot her a look. Then he was gone.

  Hélène and Billy sat in silence. After a while, Hélène took Billy’s hand and gave it a squeeze. He looked at her but she didn’t say anything. The hose was hanging over the bedstead and there came the slow drip of water from the end. Billy stared at it. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was mesmeric. It penetrated his skull. It seemed to sum up everything that had happened. It was implacable. There was no turning it off. It would continue until the end of time. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  The door opened again. It was Huber, the officer. With him was the orderly in the white coat.

  Huber told Billy to take his clothes off. Hélène interrupted. She said that wouldn’t be necessary.

  ‘Why is that, madame?’

  ‘Because I know the truth about this man’s brother. And whatever you do to him you can never be sure whether he’s lying or not.’

  ‘So what do you suggest, madame? That I listen to you? What if you’re lying, too?’

  ‘I have no reason to lie.’

  ‘Do you want me to test you on that?’ He glanced across at the orderly. ‘Our friend here can perform some interesting tricks. Put the pipe in one end, collect the truth from the other. Eh, Günther?’

  Günther permitted himself a gloomy nod of agreement. It seemed to suggest that with time and patience anything would be possible.

  ‘Then start with me, Herr Huber.’ Hélène was already unbuttoning her dress.

  Huber hadn’t expected this development and it showed in his face. Billy was horrified.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘Start with me.’

  He was wearing a baggy shirt with only one button. He slipped it off and let it fall to the floor. Günther, confused, was awaiting a decision. Huber hesitated. Then, from nowhere, another figure appeared in the room. He was medium height, neatly dressed. He looked like a successful businessman or a solicitor with a reputation to protect. Billy, naked from the waist up, stared at him. Polished shoes. Carefully manicured hands. Oiled side parting. What possible connection did a man like this have with what was about to take place?

  ‘Oberführer Schellenberg,’ Huber offered a reluctant salute. This man was the last person he wanted to see.

  Schellenberg was looking at the bedstead. He didn’t bother to hide his distaste. He asked Billy to pick up his shirt. His English was good.

  ‘Put it on,’ he turned to Hélène. ‘Your dress is undone, madame. We have to get you back to Paris.’

  Huber raised a voice in protest. Billy hadn’t any idea what he was saying but Schellenberg took absolutely no notice. He had the manners of a born hotelier. He shepherded Hélène and Billy out of the door and back along the corridor to the stairs. His driver, thankfully, had mustered the good sense to stock the car with a snack or two. He was a gentleman in most respects, murmured Schellenberg, but he sincerely hoped nothing untoward would test the man’s martial skills.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. He was looking at Billy.

  ‘May I take it that we understand each other?’

  *

  Yet another Mercedes. Billy sat in the back, his hand in Hélène’s as they drove out of Tours. He could feel the tension in her body. She sat stiffly upright, her gaze fixed, her eyes unseeing, and from time to time a deep shudder seemed to ripple through her body. There was a glass partition between the front and the rear of the car. Billy could see Schellenberg and his driver chatting together, the way good friends might, and after a while Schellenberg lit a small cigar. Hélène blinked. She reached forward and tapped on the glass. There was a panel in the partition. Schellenberg reached back and slid it open.

  ‘Madame?’

  Hélène asked him to leave the panel open.

  ‘You like the smell of cigar smoke?’

  She nodded.

  ‘May I offer you one?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Mr Angell?’

  Billy shook his head. He’d never smoked in his life and didn’t intend to start now. The smoke curled back into the passenger compartment. Hélène slumped a little deeper into the seat, her head resting on the leather squab. Her eyes were closed and she seemed more relaxed. Within minutes, she was asleep.

  She jerked awake an hour later. They were trapped in a queue of traffic behind a tractor in a small village three kilometres short of Chartres. Despite a chorus of horns, the farmer was refusing to pull over. Billy had a sudden image of the bedstead and the hose pipe and the gloomy attendant in the white coat. He was still looking at the man on the tractor. Brave, he thought. Or maybe just foolish.

  Schellenberg was at the partition again. He wanted to direct Billy’s attention to a package
of sandwiches stored in the back.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

  Billy declined. Hélène was staring out of the window. She appeared to recognise this place.

  ‘A favour, Herr Schellenberg?’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Can we make time to visit the cathedral?’

  Schellenberg asked her whether she meant Chartres. She nodded.

  ‘You wish to go inside?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘You think it will be open?’

  ‘It always used to be. Unless you’ve put a lock on it.’

  Schellenberg smiled, and said nothing. Then he softly closed the partition.

  They were in Chartres within minutes. The bulk of the cathedral with its twin spires rode above the city, dominating everything below. They parked in the old town and the driver unlocked the rear doors. When Hélène appeared to have difficulty getting out, the driver extended a gloved hand. Billy slipped into step beside her as they crossed the empty cobbles and made for the main doors. There was nobody about.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘I was at school here. In a convent. We sang in the cathedral every Sunday, morning and evening.’

  She’d stopped. She was looking up at the stonework and the tracery, soft whites and greys in the late afternoon sun. Billy asked whether she’d enjoyed the convent.

  ‘I hated it.’

  ‘And the cathedral?’

  ‘That, too.’ She spared him a glance. ‘How wrong can you be?’

  The doors of the cathedral were indeed locked. Schellenberg peered at a notice in German pinned to the woodwork. Then he checked his watch and muttered something to the driver. The driver disappeared.

  ‘God in his pomp, madame,’ he gestured upwards. ‘I’m afraid it might be necessary to wait.’

  The driver was back within minutes. The iron key was huge. Schellenberg weighed it in his hand for a moment and then slipped it into the lock. The big oak door swung open without difficulty.

  It took several seconds for Billy’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. The space seemed – was – cavernous, huge. Stone pillars soared towards the vaulted ceiling and when he looked up he caught a flicker of movement.

  ‘Bats.’ It was Schellenberg. Like Billy, he was gazing up towards the roof.

  Billy felt the touch of Hélène’s hand on his arm.

  ‘See?’ she said.

  Billy followed her raised finger. The last of the afternoon sun was bursting through the central stained glass window above the west door. Christ was enthroned at the top, where the sides of the window met in an arch, and the countless panels below splashed a multitude of colours on the cathedral floor. Billy took a step backwards. The pattern on the stone flagged floor fascinated him, concentric circles whorling inwards, tighter and tighter.

  ‘It’s a labyrinth, Billy. We’re lucky they’ve taken the chairs away.’

  ‘Labyrinth?’

  ‘Pilgrims came here from all over Europe. The last thing you walked was this. Round and round until you got to the middle.’

  ‘And what did you find?’ He was peering at the labyrinth.

  ‘There used to be a plaque. They melted it down for cannons during the Revolution.’

  ‘And underneath?’

  ‘Nothing. They dug and they found nothing.’

  ‘A waste, then? For the pilgrims?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s the journey that matters, Billy. Not the destination.’

  ‘They taught you that at school?’

  ‘They did. And you know something? They were wrong.’

  She took a final look at the stained glass window. Chairs were stacked in the side aisles, adding to the sense of space. The cathedral stretched before them, the distant altar bathed in a soft yellow light.

  ‘Viens…’

  Billy followed her down the aisle, aware of footsteps behind him. Then she stopped and knelt.

  ‘We must talk to God,’ she said. ‘About what we’ve done.’

  Her lips began to move in a silent prayer. Billy was on his knees beside her, his head bowed, his hands clasped together. He hadn’t the words to describe how he felt, to atone for the part he’d played in the meadow, to make any kind of peace with what had happened. And so he recited their names, the way you might list a collection of friends you’d casually mislaid, except that he knew they’d gone forever, in the most terrible circumstances, and that he’d betrayed them.

  ‘Agnès…’ he whispered, ‘… Maria… Pablo…’

  He repeated the names twice more, a conversation with himself, and then he lapsed into silence. It had been this way in the Friends Meeting House with Irene. Except then he’d been on better terms with God.

  He looked up at the altar, still distant, still beyond reach, and then he stole a sideways glance at Hélène. Her head, like his, was erect. And tears were pouring down her cheeks.

  *

  They reached Paris in the early evening. Schellenberg directed the driver to the 16th arrondissement. Expecting delivery to another part of the German intelligence empire, Hélène awoke to find herself outside her own apartment building. It was Schellenberg who opened the rear door and helped her onto the pavement.

  ‘You want me to collect something?’ She was still confused.

  ‘I’m inviting you to stay the night, to sleep in your own bed. The alternative might be less than agreeable. Herr Angell?’ He indicated that Billy should join her. Then he extended his hand to Hélène. ‘À demain, madame.’

  Until tomorrow? Her confusion deepened. Billy wanted to know where they were, what might happen next. The Mercedes was already pulling away.

  Hélène watched it slow for the intersection at the end of the road. Then it was gone. She looked round. Were they under surveillance? Were there German eyes behind the closed shutters across the street? She had no idea.

  ‘This is where I live,’ she told Billy. ‘Or used to.’

  There was a new concierge. He was young, watchful, plump. Plump was unusual these days in Paris.

  ‘Madame Lessault?’ Hélène enquired.

  ‘Madame Lessault doesn’t work here anymore. An illness in the family, I understand. And you would be…?’

  ‘Madame Lafosse. Apartment four.’

  ‘Ah…’ he recognised the name but he didn’t get up. ‘You have a key?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then welcome…’ he nodded towards the lift.

  Hélène didn’t move. She wanted to know about an Abwehr officer named Bjorn Klimt.

  ‘I know Oberst Klimt, madame. Also Sturmbannführer Huber.’

  ‘He’s still living here? In my apartment? Oberst Klimt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s up there now?’

  ‘Regrettably not. He left two days ago. He had luggage.’

  ‘And Oberst Huber?’

  ‘He was here yesterday.’

  ‘In my flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hélène nodded. Klimt leaving, she thought. With luggage.

  ‘Do you happen to know where Oberst Klimt has gone?’

  The concierge shook his head. His phone rang, shrill in the early evening calm. She had a thousand other questions she would have liked to ask anyone but this toad of a man. About how Klimt had looked. About how he was weathering the storm that had beset them all. About whether or not he’d been meeting with Huber.

  Hélène took the stairs. Billy followed her. On the top floor she paused at the first door. For a moment she thought the locks must have been changed but then, with an effort, she managed to get the door open. The faintest scent of cigars brought her to a halt. Maybe he’s come back, she thought. Maybe he’s ghosted past the concierge desk while the fat little bastard was looking the other way.

  ‘Bjorn…’ she called. ‘C’est moi.’ Nothing.

  She stepped into the apartment. At once she knew that something was wrong but it was a moment before she realised exactly what. She was staring at the bare w
alls in the hall. Her pictures had gone. Every single one. She went through to the big sitting room. The pictures here had belonged to Nathan. The Cubist take on a rock off the Costa Brava, the work of a pupil of Picasso’s. The delicate nude in charcoal she’d loved so much. The watercolour of Chartres Cathedral, glimpsed from the wheat fields miles to the north. Nathan had left them to keep her company on her rare visits to Paris. They were warmth. They were candles in the darkness. And now they too were gone.

  She sank onto the chaise longue, her head in her hands. Huber, she thought. Emptying her life of everything that mattered. First Klimt. Then the tiny tribe of lost souls she’d gathered under her roof at the chateau. And now her precious paintings, stolen by the man who’d made it his business to take everything else away from her.

  Billy had settled beside her. He took her in his arms, told her everything would be all right, assured her that she’d done her best.

  ‘You really think that? Leaving? Going south?’ She wanted to believe it.

  ‘They’d have come for you anyway,’ Billy said. ‘You’re right. They know everything.’

  She nodded. The ambulance had had no wing mirror, an oversight on the part of Georges’ son. They must have been following me, she thought. They must have been tracking me the whole way, making their plans, laying their traps, readying themselves for the moment when three men in black uniforms stepped into the road and added yet another chapter to the history of Occupation atrocities. How could you fight people like this? For whom a human life had no significance?

  She remembered the soldiers in the back of the truck laughing when the ambulance appeared in the field. They knew, she told herself. They were part of all that. They knew exactly what was going to happen next. Load a gun. Pull a trigger. And then find someone else to kill.

  Billy wanted to know about Klimt. Had she been expecting to find him here?

  Hélène shrugged, then held up her forefinger and circled the walls and the ceiling before tapping her ear. Huber obviously had access to the apartment. There’d be microphones everywhere. It took a while for Billy to understand. No more conversations about Klimt.

  Klimt. She struggled to her feet. They had a secret place they’d created in case they ever had to leave messages for each other. It had been Klimt’s idea. Parquet flooring had been laid throughout the apartment. In the corner of the bedroom, he’d loosened one of the wooden blocks and scraped out a small space beneath it. She found two knives in the kitchen and knelt there now, using the knives to prise the block free. Billy watched her lift the wooden block and extract a folded sheet of paper. She replaced the block, returned the knives to the kitchen and went back to the sitting room.

 

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