by Nevil Shute
The door opened, the sentries sprang to attention, clicking their heels. Nicole glanced upwards, and then stood up, holding Sheila in one hand. From the office the Feldwebel cried “Achtung!” and a young officer, a Rittmeister of the Tank Corps, came out. He was dressed in a black uniform not unlike the British battle dress; on his head he wore a black beret garnished with the eagle and swastika, and a wreathlike badge. On his shoulder straps an aluminum skull and crossbones gleamed dull upon the black cloth.
Howard straightened up, and Focquet took his hands out of his pockets. The children stopped chattering to stare curiously at the man in black.
He had a notebook and a pencil in his hand. He spoke to Howard first. “Wie heissen Sie?” he asked. “Ihr Familienname und Taufname? Ihr Beruf?”
Somebody translated into indifferent French, and the particulars of all the party were written down. As regards nationality, Howard declared himself, Sheila, and Ronnie to be English; there was no use denying it. He said that Willem and Marjan were of nationality unknown.
The young officer in black went back into the office. In a few minutes the door was flung open again and the party were called to attention. The Feldwebel came to the door.
“Folgen Sie mir! Halt! Rührt Euch!” They found themselves in the office, facing a long table. Behind this sat the officer who had interrogated them in the passage. By his side was an older man with a square, close-cropped head and a keen, truculent expression. He held himself very straight and stiff as if he were in a straight waistcoat, and he also wore a black uniform, but more smartly cut, and with a shoulder belt in black leather resembling the Sam Browne. This man, as Howard subsequently learned, was Major Diessen of the Gestapo.
He stared at Howard, looking him up and down, noting the clothes he wore, the Breton casque upon his head, the stained rust-coloured poncho jacket, the dirty blue overall trousers.
“So,” he said harshly, but in quite good English. “We still have English gentlemen travelling in France.” He paused. “Nice and Monte Carlo,” he said. “I hope that you have had a very nice time.”
The old man was silent. There was no point in trying to answer the taunts.
The officer turned to Nicole. “You are French,” he said, fiercely and vehemently. “You have been helping this man in his secret work against your country. You are a traitor to the Armistice. I think you will be shot for this.”
The girl stared at him, dumbfounded. Howard said, “There is no need to frighten her. We are quite ready to tell you the truth.”
“I know your English truth,” the Gestapo officer replied. “I will find my own, even if I have to whip every inch of skin from her body and pull out every fingernail.”
Howard said quietly, “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know what means you used to make her help you in your work.”
There was a small, insistent tug at the old man’s sleeve. He glanced down, and it was Sheila, whispering a request.
“Presently,” he said gently. “You must wait a little.”
“I can’t wait,” she said. “I want to go now.”
The old man turned to the Gestapo officer. “There is a small matter that requires attention,” he said placidly. He indicated Rose. “May this one take this little girl outside for a minute? They will come back.”
The young Tank Corps officer smiled broadly; even the Gestapo man relaxed a little. The Rittmeister spoke to the sentry, who sprang to attention and escorted the two little girls from the room.
Howard said, “I will answer your question so far as I can. I have no work in France, but I was trying to get back to England with these children. As for this young lady, she was a great friend of my son, who is now dead. We have known each other for some time.”
Nicole said, “That is true. Monsieur Howard came to us in Chartres when all travelling to England had been stopped. I have known Focquet here since I was a little girl. We were trying to induce him to take Monsieur and the children back to England in his boat, but he was unwilling on account of the regulations.”
The old man stood silent, in admiration of the girl. If she got away with that one it let Focquet out completely.
The officer’s lips curled. “I have no doubt that Mister Howard wanted to return to England,” he said drily. “It is getting quite too hot here, for fellows of his sort.”
He said suddenly, and sharply, “We captured Charenton. He is to be executed to-morrow, by shooting.”
There was a momentary silence. The German eyed the party narrowly, his keen eyes running from one to the other. The girl wrinkled her brows in perplexity. The young Rittmeister of the Tank Corps sat with an impassive face, drawing a pattern on his blotting pad.
Howard said at last, “I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean. I don’t know anybody called Charenton.”
“No,” said the German. “And you do not know your Major Cochrane, nor Room 212 on the second floor of your War Office in Whitehall.”
The old man could feel the scrutiny of everybody in the room upon him. “I have never been in the War Office,” he said, “and I know nothing about the rooms. I used to know a Major Cochrane who had a house near Totnes, but he died in 1924. That is the only Cochrane that I ever knew.”
The Gestapo officer smiled without mirth. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes, I do,” the old man said. “Because it is the truth.”
Nicole interposed, speaking in French. “May I say a word? There is a misunderstanding here, truly there is. Monsieur Howard has come here directly from the Jura, stopping only with us in Chartres. He will tell you himself.”
Howard said, “That is so. Would you like to hear how I came to be here?”
The German officer looked ostentatiously at his wrist watch and leaned back in his chair, insolently bored. “If you must,” he said indifferently. “I will give you three minutes.”
Nicole plucked his arm. “Tell also who the children are, and where they came from,” she said urgently.
The old man paused to collect his thoughts. It was impossible for him, at his age, to compress his story into three minutes; his mind moved too slowly. “I came to France from England in the middle of April,” he said. “I stayed a night or two in Paris, and then I went on and stayed a night in Dijon. You see, I had arranged to go to a place called Cidoton in the Jura, for a little fishing holiday.”
The Gestapo officer sat up suddenly, galvanized into life. “What sort of fish?” he barked. “Answer me — quick!”
Howard stared at him. “Blue trout,” he said. “Sometimes you get a grayling, but they aren’t very common.”
“And what tackle to catch them with — quickly!”
The old man stared at him, nonplussed, not knowing where to start. “Well,” he said, “you need a nine-foot cast, but the stream is usually very strong so 3X is fine enough. Of course, it’s all fishing wet, you understand.”
The German relaxed. “And what flies do you use?”
A faint pleasure came to the old man. “Well,” he said with relish, “a Dark Olive gets them as well as anything, or a large Blue Dun. I got one or two on a thing called a Jungle Cock, but—”
The German interrupted him. “Go on with your story,” he said rudely. “I have no time to listen to your fishing exploits.”
Howard plunged into his tale, compressing it as much as seemed possible to him. The two German officers listened with growing attention, and with growing incredulity. In ten minutes or so the old man had reached the end.
The Gestapo officer, Major Diessen, looked at him scornfully. “And now,” he said. “If you had been able to return to England, what would you have done with all these children?”
Howard said, “I meant to send them to America.”
“Why?”
“Because it is safe over there. Because this war is bad for children to see. It would be better for them to be out of it.”
The German stared at him. “Very fine words
. But who was going to pay to send them to America, may I ask?”
The old man said, “Oh, I should have done that.”
The other smiled, scornfully amused. “And what would they do in America? Starve?”
“Oh, no. I have a married daughter over there. She would have made a home for them until the war was over.”
“This is a waste of time,” the German said. “You must think me a stupid fellow to be taken in with such a tale.”
Nicole said, “Nevertheless, monsieur, it is quite true. I knew the son, and I have known the father. The daughter would be much the same. American people are generous to refugees, to children.”
Diessen turned to her. “So,” he sneered, “Mademoiselle comes in to support this story. But now for Mademoiselle herself. We learn that Mademoiselle was a friend of the old English gentleman’s son. A very great friend. . . .”
He barked at her suddenly, “His mistress, no doubt?”
She drew herself up. “You may say so if you like,” she said quietly. “You can call a sunset by a filthy name, but you do not spoil its beauty, monsieur.”
There was a pause. The young Tank officer leaned across and whispered a word or two to the Gestapo officer. Diessen nodded, and turned back to the old man.
“By the dates,” he said, “you could have returned to England if you had travelled straight through Dijon. But you did not do so. That is the weak point of your story. That is where your lies begin in earnest.”
He said sharply, “Why did you stay in France? Tell me now quickly, and with no more nonsense. I promise you that you will talk before to-night, in any case. It will be better for you to talk now.”
Howard was puzzled and distressed. “The little girl,” he turned and indicated Sheila, “fell ill in Dijon. I told you so just now. She was too ill to travel.”
The German leaned across the table to him, white with anger. “Listen,” he said. “I warn you once again, and this for the last time. I am not to be trifled with. That sort of lie would not deceive a child. If you had wanted to return to England you would have gone.”
“These children were in my care,” the old man said. “I could not have done that.”
The Gestapo officer said, “Lies . . . lies . . . lies.” He was about to say something more, but checked himself. The young man by his side leaned forward and whispered deferentially to him again.
Major Diessen leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said, “you refuse our kindness, and you will not talk. As you wish. Before the evening you will be talking freely, Mister Englishman, but by then you will be blind, and in horrible pain. It will be quite amusing for my men. Mademoiselle, too, shall be there to see, and the little children also.”
There was a silence in the office.
“Now you will be taken away,” the German said. “I shall send for you when my men are ready to begin.” He leaned forward. “I will tell you what we want to know, so that you may know what to say even though you be blind and deaf. We know you are a spy, wandering through the country in disguise and with this woman and these children as a cover. We know you have been operating with Charenton — you need not tell us about that. We know that either you or Charenton sent information to the English of the Führer’s visit to the ships in Brest, and that you caused the raid.”
He paused. “But what we do not know, and what this afternoon you shall tell us, is how the message was passed through to England, to that Major Cochrane—” his lips sneered “ — that died in 1924, according to your story. That is what you are going to tell, Mister Englishman. And as soon as it is told, the pain will stop. Remember that.”
He motioned to the Feldwebel. “Take them away.”
They were thrust out of the room. Howard moved in a daze; it was incredible that this thing should be happening to him. It was what he had read of, and had found some difficulty in crediting. It was what they were supposed to do to Jews in concentration camps. It could not be — true.
Focquet was taken from them and hustled off on his own. Howard and Nicole were bundled into a downstairs prison room with a heavily barred window; the door was slammed on them, and they were left alone.
Pierre said in French, “Are we going to have our dinner here, mademoiselle?”
Nicole said dully, “I expect so, Pierre.”
Ronnie said, “What are we going to have for dinner?”
She put an arm around his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said mechanically. “We’ll see when we get it. Now, you run off and play with Rose. I want to talk to Monsieur Howard.”
She turned to Howard. “This is very bad,” she said. “We are involved in something terrible.”
He nodded. “It seems to be that air raid that they had on Brest. The one that you were in.”
She said, “In the shops that day they were saying that Adolf Hitler was in Brest, but one did not pay attention. There is so much rumour, so much idle talk.”
There was a silence. Howard stood looking out of the window at the little weeded, overgrown garden outside. As he stood, the situation became clear to him. In such a case the local officers of the Gestapo would have to make a show of energy. They would have to produce the spies who had been instrumental in the raid, or the mutilated bodies of people who were classed as spies.
Presently he said, “I cannot tell them what I do not know, and so things may go badly with me. If I should be killed, you will do your best for the children, Nicole?”
She said, “I will do that. But you are not going to be killed, or even hurt. Something must be possible.” She made a little gesture of distress.
Pursuing his thought, he said, “I shall have to try and get them to let me make a new will. Then when the war is over and you could get money from England, you would be able to keep the children and to educate them, those of them that had no homes. But in the meantime you’ll just have to do the best you can.”
The long hours dragged past. At noon an orderly brought them an open metal pan with a meal of meat and vegetables piled on it, and several bowls. They set the children down to that, who went at it with gusto. Nicole ate a little, but the old man practically nothing.
The orderly removed the tray, and they waited again. At three o’clock the door was flung open, and the Feldwebel was there with a guard.
“Le Vieux,” he said. “Marchez.” Howard stepped forward and Nicole followed him. The guard pushed her back.
The old man stopped. “One moment,” he said. He took her hand and kissed her on the forehead. “There, my dear,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”
They hustled him away, out of that building and out into the square. Outside the sun was bright; a car or two passed by and in the shops the peasants went about their business. In Lannilis life went on as usual; from the great church the low drone of a chant broke the warm summer air. The women in the shops looked curiously at him as he passed by under guard.
He was taken into another house, and thrust into a room on the ground floor. The door was shut and locked behind him. He looked around.
He was in a sitting room, a middle-class room furnished in the French style with uncomfortable, gilded chairs and rococo ornaments. A few poor oil paintings hung upon the walls in heavy, gilded frames; there was a potted palm, and framed, ancient photographs upon the side tables, with a few ornaments. There was a table in the middle of the room, covered over with a cloth.
At this table a young man was sitting, a dark-haired, pale-faced young man in civilian clothes, well under thirty. He glanced up as Howard came into the room.
“Who are you?” he asked in French. He spoke almost idly, as if the matter was of no great moment.
The old man stood by the door, inwardly beating down his fears. This was something strange, and therefore dangerous.
“I am an Englishman,” he said at last. There was no point any longer in concealment. “I was arrested yesterday.”
The young man smiled without mirth. This time he spoke in English, without any trace
of accent. “Well,” he said, “you’d better come on and sit down. There’s a pair of us. I’m English, too.”
Howard recoiled a step. “You’re English?”
“Naturalized,” the other said carelessly. “My mother came from Woking, and I spent most of my life in England. My father was a Frenchman, so I started off as French. But he was killed in the last war.”
“But what are you doing here?”
The young man motioned to the table. “Come on and sit down.”
The old man drew a chair up to the table, and repeated his question. “I did not know there was another Englishman in Lannilis,” he said. “Whatever are you doing here?”
The young man said, “I’m waiting to be shot.”
There was a stunned, horrible pause. At last Howard said, “Is your name Charenton?”
The young man nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I’m Charenton. I see they told you about me.”
There was a long silence in the little room. Howard sat dumb, not knowing what to say. In his embarrassment his eyes fell upon the table, upon the young man’s hands. Sitting with his hands before him on the table, Charenton had formed his fingers in a peculiar grip, the fingers interlaced, the left-hand palm up and the right-hand palm down. The thumbs were crossed. As soon as he observed the old man’s scrutiny he glanced at him sharply, then undid the grasp.
He sighed a little.
“How did you come to be here?” he asked.
Howard said, “I was trying to get back to England, with a few children.” He rambled into his story. The young man listened to him quietly, appraising him with keen, curious eyes.
In the end he said, “I don’t believe that you’ve got much to worry about. They’ll probably let you live at liberty in some French town.”
Howard said, “I’m afraid they won’t do that. You see, they think that I’m mixed up with you.”
The young man nodded. “I thought that must be it. That is why they’ve put us together. They’re looking for a few more scapegoats, are they?”