Stranger at the Gates (35 page)

Standing with the pilot beside her, Louise watched them running across the sunlit field and into the shadow of the trees. Minutes later, the sound of the Mercedes's engine was followed by the uneven rumbling of Camier's van. Then there was silence. The pilot looked uncomfortable; the woman was crying, and he didn't know what to do. He remembered the hip flask and quickly offered it.

‘Drink this,' he said. ‘It'll make you feel better—come on, don't upset yourself; there's nothing you can do about it.'

‘Thanks.' Louise swallowed; the raw whisky made her cough. She wiped her hand across her eyes using the same gesture as Albert Camier. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘It's just nerves. I'm all right now.' He had a young, worried face, its lack of comprehension suddenly infuriated her. She turned away from him.

‘You're American, aren't you?' He had walked after her. He wanted company; he was personally brave in situations which he understood, but waiting around for three hours in German-occupied France while a group of inexperienced Frenchmen tried to attack the S.S. was not a contingency for which he had been trained. The navigator and gunner were back at the aircraft. The quiet, sunlit field and the surrounding trees was the most sinister place he had ever been. ‘Where do you come from?' he persisted. ‘How did you get here?'

‘I live here,' Louise answered. ‘I'm married to a Frenchman. They should have taken me with them. I can't stand this waiting.'

‘It's pretty bloody,' he agreed. ‘If the Jerries come I've got orders to set fire to the plane. You'll just have to run for it, I'm afraid.'

‘It won't matter what I do.' Louise turned to him. ‘One of their top men is lying dead in my house; my sister-in-law shot him. We're finished, whatever happens. And I don't care; I don't care about anything but saving the children. They've dug a mass grave for them in the woods.'

‘Christ,' the airman muttered. ‘You can't believe it, can you?'

‘I can,' Louise answered. ‘I can believe anything. Could I have a cigarette?'

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘It'll be all right. Couple of hours and they'll be back here. Take the packet; I've got plenty more.' Louise saw him take a service revolver out of his jacket, load it and put it back. Together they sat on the grass under the shadow of the wings, to wait.

The engine sent from Paris was an old-fashioned steam locomotive, manned by a German army driver and two firemen from the depot. A single cattle truck was connected up behind. It was wooden-walled, creosoted black and the sliding door was drawn back. An S.S. guard stood at the entrance; he carried a whip of plaited leather. The first group of children climbed up unaided; a seven-year-old had to be lifted. The German swung him easily onto the top step. The boy hesitated and began to scream with fear of the darkness inside. The whip cracked as a warning to the rest to hurry up. The boy was pulled inside and only his persistent crying could be heard. Michelle Giffier was kept to the last; she stood near the Major, watching the pathetic file disappear into the black mouth of the cattle truck; she carried a five-year-old girl in her arms. Suddenly she turned to the Major. They won't be hurt—you promise?'

‘My word of honour,' the Major said. ‘Hurry up; we're running late and you have a long journey. There's food and water inside.' He saluted her. ‘Heil Hitler.' She had a thin body, her clothes were creased and she looked dishevelled; she reminded him of many other women he had sent on a similar journey. The expendables, the inferiors, weeping Jewesses clutching their children and moaning, sections of humanity marked by nature for disposal by the strong.

The girl mounted the few steps and went inside. He gave an order and the door was dragged shut, its heavy batten secured. The cries coming from within were muffled. Three of his men climbed into the engine cab and stood with the driver. A third climbed to the roof of the cattle truck and crouched by the machine gun mounted on top. The Major gave a signal and the train lurched forward, hissing steam. Behind them, held back by a ring of S.S. guards, the people who had gathered at the station sent up a cry. The Major turned and addressed them.

‘You've brought this punishment on yourselves,' he shouted. ‘You know now the price of opposition to the Reich! Go back to your homes! Disperse or my men will open fire!'

There weren't more than twenty men and women; the stricken parents round the school had not had time to get there. Helpless, they began to drift away. Many of the women wept, the men looked back and cursed, a few waved their fists. One of the guards fired a burst over their heads and they scattered. The stationmaster had been locked into his office. Contemptuously they flung the door open; he staggered out. The S.S. piled into the lorries and drove off; their acceleration was an insult.

Down the line the rear of the cattle truck disappeared from view.

The group of men at the control point heard the car approaching. It was the Standartenführer's Mercedes being driven even faster than when it had passed them not long before. Automatically they saluted; it shot past them and the senior NCO peered after it. There must be something up,' he said ‘He never drives like that. You, Fritche, go after him and see if everything's all right.' The motorcyclist kicked his machine and minutes later Savage heard the whine of its engine.

‘They've seen us!' Dumois shouted. He was staring through the back window. ‘He's coming after us! Go faster!'

‘He'll catch up,' Savage said. ‘Open your window—quick. Be ready, Albert, I'm going to slow down. Let him get close and then shoot him. Now!'

The Mercedes' red brake light showed so suddenly that the motorcyclist found himself shooting towards the car; he slowed sharply. He saw something glint at him from the nearside window and made an instinctive movement to swerve, but the reflex came too late. A burst from Dumois's sten gun ripped into him; his machine reared up and then went spinning off the road as he fell.

‘I got him!' Dumois shouted with exultation. ‘I got him!' Savage didn't answer. He snapped his foot down on the accelerator and took the road which branched to the left towards the famous hunting ground and beauty spot, Chemire.

‘Lie down, Mademoiselle Régine—I'll make you something hot to drink.'

‘No,' Régine said. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands gripped together on her lap. ‘I'm all right, Marie-Anne. Leave me alone.'

‘Jean-Pierre said I was to sit with you,' the old woman protested. She had known Régine since she was born; the face looking up at her seemed to belong to a stranger. It was grey-coloured, as bloodless as if she were dead; the eyes were dilated, the lips trembled, but she no longer cried.

‘I've told you I'm all right. Go away!'

Régine didn't move for some minutes; she sat on the bed and twisted her fingers together. The first hysterical storm had subsided, leaving her sick and drained. He was dead. She had gone on firing at him until the gun was empty. If she closed her eyes she could see his face, changing to the ghastly hue of death, the jaw falling slack, one hand grasping his side, blood trickling between the fingers. Blood coming from his mouth. She gave a low cry, and then stopped. His body must still be downstairs. An awareness of danger crept into her confused mind; she got up and went to the door. It was an instinctive movement, without real direction. She couldn't go downstairs and see him lying there. She couldn't call Jean-Pierre and tell him to take the body away …

She opened the door and hesitated. Her father. Her father was upstairs; she could go to him, sit with him. When she went into his room, he was sitting in his armchair, a book open on his lap. He smiled when he saw her. Memory often deserted him at the first sight of someone, but never with his daughter. He held out his hand, and said, ‘Come in, my little one. Come in!'

She bent and kissed him and his hand clutched at hers, like the claw of weak bird. Tears filled Régine's eyes.

‘How are you. Papa? How did you sleep?'

‘Not well.' He shook his head. ‘There was so much noise last night. The Germans are coming but you mustn't be afraid.'

‘I'm not,' she said. ‘Don't worry about me.'

‘I won't let them hurt you,' the old Comte said. ‘I fought them once before—I can do it again …'

He stroked her hair, his hand tremulous, his attention flitting from subject to subject. Emotion distressed him, anger made his heart race, and he sank quickly back into tranquillity.

‘It's very warm Régie,' he said. ‘Take this rug away, will you? I don't need it.' She took the rug off his knees and folded it. She turned and looked at him. ‘You look pale, my darling,' he said. ‘Is anything the matter?'

‘No,' Régine said. For a moment she had thought to find a refuge with him. But it was a child seeking a child. She came and kissed him. Love. Love for this gentle old ghost whose body was still earthbound; love that consumed and burned for a man whose brutal sensuality had corrupted everything else. Adolph Vierken. If his body was discovered, they would all be shot.

‘I've got a few things to do downstairs,' she said. ‘Then I'll come back and read to you.'

‘Don't be too long,' he said. ‘Come back soon.'

She found Jean-Pierre in the hallway. He was pulling the driver's body along by the feet; the effort was exhausting him. Régine paused, and then looked away.

‘Did you do that?'

‘Yes,' the old man said. ‘The swine—I nearly blew his head off! My grandchildren …'

‘We've got to get rid of him,' Regine said. ‘And of the one in the salon. I'll help you with this one first.'

The driver was a big man, and his weight was too much for them. Régine called Marie-Anne. Blood streaked the stone-flagged floor from the German's shattered skull. The old woman didn't blanch or even turn away. She looked down at the body and spat. Then she seized a leg and began to drag. They didn't speak; getting him out of the house required all their strength. There was a long garden trolley, which Marie-Anne found, and heaving together they managed to get the German's body on it.

‘This way!' Régine gasped. ‘Down that path …' They dragged the trolley to the end of the garden path to the enormous heap of compost and leaf mould which had not been cleared for three years. Occasionally Minden's batman Fritz used to mow the lawns and tidy the kitchen garden, but there hadn't been a young gardener at St. Blaize since the war. The old man who kept the vegetables and weeded along the front of the Château was bent with rheumatism. Moving the compost heap was out of the question. Régine and Jean-Pierre heaved on the trolley and the body rolled off. They pulled it out of sight behind the mound.

Gasping for breath, with sweat running down their faces, the three of them paused. ‘Now,' Régine said; her body was trembling with the exertion, and her clothes were sticking to her skin. ‘Now let's get the other one. Marie-Anne, go in first and cover the face. I don't want to see it.'

Vierken seemed less heavy; the old woman had wrapped a kitchen towel round his head, Régine helped to half lift, half drag him without looking at him. She didn't realise that as she worked she was crying, the tears running down her face, her mouth screwed up with soundless sobs. Neither of the servants commented, even to themselves. Something terrible had happened to Mademoiselle Régine, but she was in command and they obeyed her.

At last the two bodies lay beside each other at the edge of the heap.

‘What are we going to do?' Jean-Pierre mumbled. ‘I can't dig a grave deep enough for them, I haven't the strength.'

‘We don't have to dig,' Régine said. ‘That's why we've brought them here. We'll move that earth on top of them. ‘Three of us can do it. But first we'd better clean up the mess in the house. Marie-Anne, you go back and do that. Jean Pierre, get two shovels. We'll begin on this.'

‘Won't they come looking for them?' the old woman asked. Her husband was still out of breath.

‘Nobody knew where he was going this morning,' Régine said. ‘He was expected at the school; they're probably still waiting for him. Madame has taken the car. There's nothing to connect him with St. Blaize except me; I can say he went on to the school. They'll think he was ambushed—or kidnapped! Anyway, we've got to do our best. We have the Comte to worry about.'

‘They'll murder him,' Jean-Pierre said. ‘They'll murder us all, if they find anything.'

‘They're not going to find anything,' Régine said. ‘What's done is done,' she muttered. ‘I've got to protect Papa now. Get the shovels!'

Albert Camier's van rattled along the road; the men crouched in the back were bumped and jolted. It was a narrow country road, not much better than a track, and it wound its way across country until it joined up with the railway line and intersected it at the little crossing. Jean de Bernard was seated beside Camier; he carried his sten gun across his knees, covered by his jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his tie removed. As they rounded a bend the railway line came into view, not more than a hundred yards ahead of them. The engine stood at the crossing, steam idling from it; the cattle truck was open. A single figure in uniform straddled the roof, leaning against a machine gun.

‘Stop!' Jean de Bernard yelled, and Camier stamped on the brake. For a moment they stayed immobile, staring at the scene; the old crossing keeper had seen the van and was moving slowly towards the gates to open them.

‘Oh mother of Jesus,' Camier groaned. ‘Mother of Jesus—we're too late!'

‘The others won't be,' Jean said. ‘They had the Mercedes and they took the short route. We've got to put these pigs out of action. There's three in the engine and one on the roof there. Drive forward and when you get to the crossing, stall the engine.'