Citadel (79 page)

‘You after a bit of company?’

‘No, thanks ever so much, I’m waiting for my friend,’ she heard Lucie reply in the same blowsy voice she’d used earlier. She didn’t sound frightened or alarmed.

‘You sure about that?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘That’s a shame . . .’ he said. ‘I could do with some company.’

Sandrine sighed with relief. He sounded drunk. Not a soldier, not Milice. She edged closer until she could just see them. He reached out an unsteady hand.

‘Come on, love.’

‘No,’ Lucie said sharply, taking a step back. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll show you a good time,’ he was promising. ‘The best. I know where a girl can get a drink.’

He dropped two heavy hands on Lucie’s shoulders.

‘Get your hands off me!’

‘Give us a kiss then.’

Lucie tried to pull away. ‘That’s enough.’

‘Keep it down out there!’ someone shouted out of a window.

‘Sshh,’ the drunk slurred, putting his finger to his lips. ‘Sshh.’

The man’s voice was getting louder and louder. Then he started to sing. Desperately Sandrine leant out and gestured at Lucie to go. Lucie’s eyes widened when she saw her and she shook her head, but Sandrine insisted. Lucie hesitated for a second or two more, then slipped away down the path towards the rue des Anglais.

‘Hey, come back here!
Salope!
’

The drunk started to hurl abuse. Sandrine kept glancing up to the walls, praying the soldiers would not turn and see the man, hear him. She realised she was holding her breath, counting the seconds.

She pressed herself further back against the wall, the rough edges of the stone sticking into her back, until the noise died away. Finally, when she thought it was safe, she ventured out. She ran to the bushes to retrieve her shoes, then across the open ground, with the heels in her hands, into the cover of the trees.

Now all she had to do was return to rue Longue, change back into her other clothes, leave the pipe and fuse, and get to the Jardin du Calvaire to meet Raoul.

In her anxiety to get away, Sandrine didn’t notice the red glow of the tip of a cigarette in the shadows beneath the stone steps until a hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

‘My lucky day,’ said the same voice, though now it was stiff with anger. Before Sandrine could stop him, the drunk had shoved her forward into the wall and twisted her arm up behind her back. She forced herself not to cry out. He gave a savage jerk upwards.

‘That
salope
, all the chat. All I wanted was a kiss, but no.’ His voice was ugly with frustration now. He pushed her hard in the small of her back. ‘But now here you are.’

He was half leaning against her, he was so unstable, but the drink hadn’t robbed him of his strength. Sandrine didn’t dare cry out. She was more terrified of the soldiers hearing. The patrols on the wall, going backwards and forwards, it would only take one man to look down and see them. Come to investigate.

Then below, at the bottom of the slope, she saw a black Citroën slowing down and pulling in beside the church. A Gestapo car. Any moment, they would look up and see the two of them locked in this grotesque dance. Sandrine started to struggle, trying to pull herself free. The man hit her hard, on the side of the head.

‘Keep still,’ he threatened. ‘I’m warning you.’

Desperate now, Sandrine knew it was her last chance. It was a gamble, but she couldn’t see what else to do. She screamed. As she’d hoped, the man clamped his hand over her mouth and she bit down on his filthy fingers as hard as she could.

‘Bitch,’ he yelled.

He grabbed for her hair, but Sandrine was too quick for him. She ducked out of his grasp and ran, away down the steps and on to the path.

Behind her, she heard a whistle blow. Then the sound of boots on the cobbled stones and the beginnings of an argument. In the street below, windows were opened, a door.

The Gestapo shouted at the man to put his hands up. She heard the confused response, his bravado collapsing into self-pity.

‘
Fumiste! Idiot!
’ the drunk protested. ‘I’ve not done anything.’

Sandrine didn’t turn around, just kept running. Her bare feet were being cut on the stones and the dry grass, her breath burnt in her chest, but she didn’t let up. Through the fields and heading down to the river. She heard the screech of tyres.

Had they seen her? Were they following her?

From her summer of helping with the
vendanges
, Sandrine knew the farms to the south of the Cité walls. There was a way out along the road. She ran until she reached the wooden gate into the first of the fields of vines. She stumbled over, then through the rows of grapes, crouched down and struggling to keep her footing on the uneven earth. At the bottom of the field, the gate had rolls of barbed wire over the top, to keep thieves out. At her back, she thought the siren was getting closer.

She pushed herself on, her muscles as taut as piano wire, the blood pumping in her ears. Ahead on the Pont Vieux, she saw the
vert-de-gris
of the Wehrmacht patrol, but there was no sign of the black Citroën. She couldn’t possibly wade across the Aude in broad daylight. She dropped the explosive into the water and decided she’d have to brazen it out. Hope that the pass would still be good.

She straightened her skirts, pushed her dirty feet back into the high heels, and walked on to the bridge towards the checkpoint. She held her breath, expecting them to notice her high colour or that she was carrying no basket or bag, but they didn’t. They waved her through like before.

Weak with relief, Sandrine walked over the Pont Vieux, forcing herself not to break into a run. Only a few steps further, a few steps further, one more checkpoint, and she would be back in the Bastide. Then, behind her, she heard the siren, followed by shouting.

‘
Halten Sie!
’

Sandrine blocked out the voices. Then again, in French this time. ‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’

She didn’t turn round, praying they weren’t speaking to her. Why would they be? But, seconds later, she heard the rattle of a semi-automatic, fired into the air as a warning, then the same order shouted once again.

‘Stop!’

Sandrine started to run. It was bright and the soldiers had a clear view of her, but she was banking on the fact that she knew the town better than they did. She ran past the tiny chapel, sharp right past the hospital, then swerved right again into the rue des Calquières, through the dark arched tunnel beneath the Pont Neuf and down on to the riverbank.

She could hear them on the bridge, shouting instructions in German to one another, as she continued to run. She knew her legs wouldn’t hold her for much longer. Here, on this forgotten stretch of river opposite the Andrieu distillery, there were several gaps where a person might hide, fashioned by the passing of time where the river had worked away the stones. Unless they struck lucky, she didn’t believe they would find her.

Sandrine pushed back the nettles and crawled inside backwards, feeling the sharp sting on her skin. Once inside, she forced herself to rearrange the weeds that had grown high around the opening, so it didn’t look like they’d been disturbed. Her hands roared in complaint.

The hollow stank of urine and rubbish, blown in by the prevailing wind. The space was barely big enough for her to sit down, but it gave her a good view of the Pont Vieux. Two soldiers were still standing on the bridge. And she could see an officer pointing and shouting. In the street above the riverbank, already she could hear the hammering on doors and the demands to be let in.

Had Lucie been caught?

Sandrine closed her eyes, regretting that she had brought trouble down on other people’s heads. She waited and watched, her heart thumping. Sweat pooled between her breasts and at the back of her knees and the hollow of her throat, and she understood, in a single moment, how Marianne could have reached the end of her strength.

Sandrine wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to carry on either. If she got out of this, did she have what was required to go on fighting?

Chapter 126

‘
W
hat do you mean?’ Lucie said, holding her son tightly to her.

Jean-Jacques’ eyes were wide because of the urgent whispered conversation of the two women, but he sat quietly in his mother’s arms.

Lucie had quickly made her way back to Madame Peyre’s house from the Cité. At first she’d felt exhilarated that they’d pulled it off. She understood why Sandrine and the others had been prepared to take such risks. But the closer she got to home, the more her nerves started to play up. Her stomach was now in knots. What if she’d been seen? What if Milice were on their way here now? What if Sandrine had been caught?

Then she’d found Jeanne waiting for her on the doorstep.

‘What do you mean?’ Lucie repeated.

‘He was arrested early this afternoon.’

‘Your husband?’ Lucie said, still muddled by what Jeanne was trying to tell her.

‘No, not Jean-Marc. My father-in-law. A neighbour was in boulevard Barbès and saw it happen. Came to tell me.’

‘Monsieur Giraud? But why would they arrest him?’

‘I don’t know. He was keeping an eye on the clinic. My husband had to cancel all his operations to go . . .’ she hesitated, ‘out of town.’ She shook her head, trying to get her fears under control. ‘It might be that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, I’ve got to see if I can find him. His heart’s not strong, he’s . . .’

Lucie put her hand on Jeanne’s arm. ‘I’m sure they won’t mistreat him. He’s an old man.’

‘That means nothing now,’ Jeanne said bitterly. She ruffled Jean-Jacques’ hair. ‘He’s been very good. His throat doesn’t seem to be hurting too much, but . . .’ She met Lucie’s eye. ‘I don’t think my husband will be able to do the operation at the moment. Not now.’

Lucie met her gaze. ‘I understand. Thank you for bringing him all the way across town.’

Jeanne turned to go, then stopped. ‘We don’t know each other very well. To tell you the truth, I was surprised that you . . . ’ She broke off. ‘I don’t know what you were doing today, but you’re a friend of Sandrine and Marianne’s, so I can imagine. Something’s happening today in Carcassonne. My father-in-law’s arrest is just part of it. If I were you, I’d get out while you still can. Take Jean-Jacques and go as far away as possible.’

Lucie stared at the young woman, her face taut with fear and distress, and she nodded.

‘I intend to, don’t worry.’

‘Good. And good luck.’

‘To you too. Thank you again, Jeanne. I’m sure your father-in-law will be all right. Jean-Marc too.’

Jeanne didn’t answer, just turned and left. For a moment Lucie stood, her son in her arms, watching her go. She allowed her thoughts to go to Max. There were rumours circulating in the town that the very last prisoners were being transported from Le Vernet. She couldn’t bear to think of it being true. That Max might have survived all this time, only to be deported now. She felt the familiar tightening of her throat. When she got to Coustaussa, at least she could see if Eloise or Geneviève had heard anything.

Lucie gave an impatient shake of her head, knowing she couldn’t afford to waste any time thinking. Sandrine and Raoul had wanted her to go with them to Coustaussa. She had been in two minds, but today she’d realised she wanted to be with the others. And although she felt bad about leaving Madame Peyre, the thought of seeing Marieta and Liesl again made her smile. J-J’s other adopted gran’mere and his aunt. It would be lovely for him.

Quickly, Lucie unlocked the door and went inside.

‘You play with this, J-J,’ she said, putting the little boy in the playpen in the centre of the room and handing him a wooden truck. ‘Be good for Mama.’

Lucie rushed into the bedroom and changed her clothes, rolling the dress she’d worn to go to and from rue Longue into a ball and pushing it to the back of the wardrobe. She dressed in a plain shirt and skirt, comfortable shoes, then packed a change of clothes for her son. She couldn’t look as if she was going away. The only thing she took of her own was the brooch Max had given her the first time they went dancing at the Terminus. For a moment she allowed herself to remember, the look on his face as he produced the paper-and-ribbon package, his smile as he pinned the brooch to her coat. She went back to the wardrobe. The blue twill was far too heavy for the season, but suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind. She fastened the brooch on the left lapel, shrugged her arms into the sleeves, then went back into the main room.

She wished she could leave a note for Madame Peyre, telling her what she was doing, but she knew it would be safer for them both not to give any indication of where she’d gone. Even that they had gone.

‘Not for long,’ she murmured, wondering if that was true.

The pram was in the hallway. Lucie deliberated for a moment. It would be easier not to carry Jean-Jacques all the way through the Bastide to the Jardin du Calvaire, but it would be a nuisance after that. And a pram left abandoned in the street would be sure to attract attention.

‘Come on, my little man, up we come,’ Lucie said, picking up her son. ‘Shall we go on an adventure?’

Sandrine heard the bells of Saint-Gimer strike six, followed moments later by the bells of the Minimes convent in rue Trivalle. The beating of her heart marked the passing time, the stillness punctured by the occasional splash of a fish in the shallows, a rare survivor in the plundered river, a distant Wehrmacht truck or the engine of a Milice vehicle prowling through the streets of the Bastide.

She couldn’t hear the soldiers any more, though she knew they wouldn’t give up. She had a restricted view of the bridge, but none of them seemed to have come back.

Sandrine tried to imagine where Raoul might be now. Because she had dismantled the device earlier than they’d agreed, he wouldn’t be worried yet. He wouldn’t expect her until after it was dark. He’d be holed up somewhere, waiting for dusk. Safe.

But she wished she knew if Lucie had made it back all right. That was often the worst part of it, not fear for oneself but for those one loved. In the early days, Sandrine had thought she’d always know if something bad had happened. That she would feel if any one of them – Marianne, Suzanne or Lucie, Liesl, Geneviève or Eloise – was in trouble. She’d learnt from experience that it wasn’t the case. Sometimes she assumed the worst, felt the violent tug in the gut, the twist in the chest. Sometimes it was justified, sometimes it was not. In the case of Monsieur Baillard, for example, she could not accept he was gone. After two years with no news, Sandrine knew it was stupid to cling to the slim hope that he was alive. And yet she felt his presence. Faint, but there all the same.