The Cyclist (15 page)

Himmler positioned himself behind the lectern. He began to speak. His German was accented and sounded strange to Auguste.

‘He’s from north Germany. It’s hard to understand.’

‘What’s he saying?’ Auguste said.

‘Just that we Aryans are a great people and superior to anyone else.’

Auguste struggled; German language was not his forte, though he had a smattering. Brunner always spoke French when they conversed. He understood enough. The words ‘
Juden
,’ ‘
Die Endlosung
’ and finally he heard, ‘
Er hat den Juden prophezeit, dab, wenn sie noch einmal einen Weltkrieg herbeiführen würden, sie dabei ihre Vernichtung erleben würden
.’

Arnaud leaned towards him and said, ‘They are all mad.’

‘Yes,’ Auguste whispered. ‘They think the Jews caused the First World War and they have caused this one too. We must talk. I can do this no more.’

He understood more of what Himmler said but he was too emotional to listen well. He heard that elimination and concentration were planned and how the Jews would be shipped away to the east where the eastern authorities would be directed to carry out the ‘final solution’, an extermination.

Auguste found his balance upset, he wanted to leave, felt nauseated. He closed his eyes and thought of his God. He pictured the sacred heart, the crucifixion and resurrection. He had always been a more lax Catholic than many but now he used his faith to give himself strength. Evil. He knew it when he saw it and he was an ally to these demons, the Nazis, the killers. How could he have been so blind as to think they wanted him as a policeman? He had become, by the strength of his passivity, a lackey of the Devil himself and where could he lay the blame? He could accuse no one but himself. He had gone along with the yellow stars. He had persuaded people to register their Judaism. Now he was supposed to round them all up for the Nazis to ship them to the east to be killed. It went deep. It penetrated his very soul and he knew there could be no redemption if he capitulated.

‘Arnaud,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘It is possible? Can we fight?’

Arnaud smiled, ‘I have nothing to lose but my soul and I shall keep that untarnished, along with my honour. What will you do?’

‘I have a family, but we will have to get out.’

‘Then if you value your soul, wait until we have warned the Jews.’

Auguste took heart from the face of the Gendarme. The old man winked and they leaned away from each other in case they were seen to be talking. Himmler’s speech seemed to captivate his audience however and Auguste felt certain no one had noticed or overheard them.

He took in little else. Anyone could have been speaking, even Hitler himself. His mind worked with a desperate velocity, thinking, planning. He felt dizzy. It would be hard, but he thought he could find enough people to carry the message to the Jews if he worked hard at it. The new laws had forbidden them radios or telephones and even their letters were censored. He needed someone to contact the Maquis. He needed a contact of his own, but who? No one remained. He had already arrested all known suspects, handed them over to Brunner and heard no more. He hated himself now for it. Of course, he had heard no more about the fate of the men he arrested. The SD were torturers and killers and he had ignored it, thinking he had served his country in his way. But had he now become part of their machine? He was a collaborator and he knew it. His shame tortured him.

He wanted to leave. His desperation to be away from the lecture room rose in his stomach. He felt suffocated, nauseated once more. His heart beat a rapid rhythm against his ribs and then it happened.

He vomited. He revisited his breakfast and then bitter green bile and as if in a dream, he saw it spray over an SD officer seated in front. His head swam and he felt barely conscious but was aware of strong hands gripping his arms.

3

The sharp, intense smell of ammonia, pungent and stimulating made Auguste shake his head. They had dragged him away to the upper landing and Arnaud and Brunner stood looking down at him. He realised he was lying on the floor. He could smell vomit on his clothing and he struggled to stand.

Arnaud pressed him down with a hand on his shoulder.

‘Take some deep breaths and wait until you feel better,’ he said.

Auguste obeyed and his head began to clear.

‘I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me,’ he said.

Brunner laughed.

‘No but my colleague who you deposited your breakfast over, certainly knows.’

He laughed again. Auguste saw no mirth in his eyes and realised what a fool he must have made of himself.

‘I am so sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘No matter,’ Brunner said, ‘he was not a friend of mine.’

Arnaud said, ‘Can you sit up, Auguste?’

He reached towards Auguste’s arm and helped him to his feet. Arnaud smiled. He seemed to think the situation was droll. He said, ‘The lecture finished abruptly. There were no fond farewells.’

‘I... I...’

Brunner said, ‘Once you have cleaned up we will go. I hope to be back before it is too dark to see the road. You French need to learn how to build proper roads like those we have at home. We Germans will teach you. Our engineers are the best in the world.’

He turned around and walked away. Arnaud escorted Auguste to the toilet along the corridor. The door closed behind him and Auguste found reassurance in the room’s emptiness. He cleaned off some small dribbles of vomit without difficulty and he wondered with vague interest where the rest of his stomach contents had lodged and who would be unlucky enough to clean it up.

He had never fainted before and he still felt dizzy. He inspected his face in the mirror. The gaunt features stared back at him and he ran some water into the sink. Leaning forward he washed his face using both hands and when he was done, he dried himself with a towel. On reinspection, the bags under his eyes looked the same and the afternoon stubble had not changed but in his eyes, there was something. It was guilt. He could not define it at first but then he realised he had learned much about himself in the short time since he entered the Medical College.

He had sinned. He had committed the worst sin possible—the sin of ignorant indifference. He wondered if God forgave mortal sins in a sinner who cared but he knew with certainty such a man could never be granted forgiveness if he was unconcerned. The change in his eyes, he felt, reflected the fact it all mattered to him now and the burden was expressed there. He cared more deeply about what would become of the Jews he had registered than he cared for his own safety—his own life. It was a delicate balance whether his family mattered more than the Jews did. He hoped the cup would never be offered to him and he had no conception of which way he would jump if it came to it. He did know his soul dangled by an unravelling thread, suspended over a bitter sea of eternal punishment.

The silence cracked like a mirror with a knock on the door and Arnaud entered.

‘I told Brunner I would take you home. He was impatient to leave.’

‘It is very kind of you André. You must think I am a fool.’

‘We can talk on the way home. Ready?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

They descended the two flights of stairs and as they entered the hall, Auguste noticed Brunner was still there. He was talking to Himmler and Barbie. They were smiling as if they were discussing a football match or a holiday. When the two Frenchmen attempted to pass, Brunner said, ‘There you are. General, let me present Colonel Arnaud of the Aquitaine Gendarmerie and Auguste Ran of the Bergerac Police.’

Himmler turned. The smile never left his lips but his eyes narrowed. The Frenchmen gave the expected Hitler salute.

Himmler said, ‘Which one of you was it brought my lecture to a close then?’

‘I do apologise, Herr General. It was involuntary,’ Auguste said.

‘Indeed,’ Himmler said, ‘I do not mind, I have had a sore throat today and was in two minds whether to finish early anyway. I said what I needed and I presume you understood.’

‘Yes, General. I am glad it did not cause inconvenience.’

‘The man you doused with vomit may not see it that way,’ Barbie said.

‘Please offer him my respectful apologies and I will be pleased to pay for any damage to his uniform,’ Auguste said.

Barbie, face crimson, stepped forward and Auguste realised the man was a head smaller than he was.

Looking up, Barbie said, ‘You stupid shit-eating farmer. You think I am your errand boy?’

Himmler placed a hand on Barbie’s shoulder.

‘Klaus, Klaus, that is no way to speak to one of our noble allies. Soon we will have to depend upon the services these men provide, and it would not do to insult them.’

Barbie stepped back, scowling. Himmler apologised to Auguste and wished him a speedy recovery. Auguste could see Brunner behind the General. He wore a bored expression and looked up at the ceiling.

When the two Frenchmen were finally on the road, Arnaud said, ‘I must congratulate you.’

‘Congratulate me? It was embarrassing.’

‘Well if only you had done it on purpose it would have been the first time we French have prevented the German General staff from anything since the beginning of the war.’

He began to laugh. The laughter became a guffaw and presently, Auguste could not stop himself from joining in. The chuckles continued for minutes until Auguste said, ‘I suppose it emphasises the respect we both feel for these men.’

‘Yes.’

They were silent then for twenty miles.

‘We have to do something,’ Auguste said.

‘You know anyone in the Maquis?’

‘No, no one.’

‘I may know someone but I have not seen him for a week.’

‘I will research it. My secretary may be able to tell me.’

‘We only have three weeks and the clock ticks, my friend.’

‘Then if we both work at it, we may see success.’

Arnaud produced a voluminous hip flask. He took a long swallow from it and offered it to Auguste.

‘It will settle your stomach,’ the Colonel said.

Auguste took a pull of the flask. The eau-de-vie burned his throat but he could feel warmth spreading through him as if it had ignited a fire inside his bloodstream. He took another gulp and handed the flask back. Dusk turned to stygian, starless night and the headlights cut a thin beam ahead of them. They shared the flask in silence, each lost in their own ruminations.

It was eight o’clock by the time Arnaud stopped outside Auguste’s house. Arnaud refused to come in and as the military jeep pulled away, Auguste wondered how he could find the Maquis. The tiny red dots of Arnaud’s taillights faded and still he did not move. He still felt shocked he supposed, after the events of the day and he turned to his home, drenched in the hope Odette and the children were safe. His greatest fear now was whether one day he would return and find them gone.

Chapter 12

1

Auguste awoke in a sweat. He knew he must have been dreaming but had no recall of it. He rubbed his face with his hands and swung his legs out of bed. It was still dark but he had no idea what time it was. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, staring ahead, wishing for a way out.

‘Auguste, are you all right?’

He felt Odette’s hand on his naked back, gentle and reassuring.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s two o’clock,’ she said.

‘Really?’

‘Come, you need your sleep. What’s troubling you my husband? Is it Monique?’

‘No, it’s everything. Everywhere, I see danger. I see hate, death.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe flee.’

‘Where to? We would have no life away from Bergerac.’

‘It is all so dangerous. What do we do about church tomorrow? Brunner thinks Monique is my daughter. If we are seen with a different child, he will know. If we take Monique with us, Zara will become even more jealous.’

‘We go to church with our daughter. If Brunner is there checking up, we say it is our niece and Zara is ill.’

‘He will know. He is SD. They have ways of finding out.’

‘Nonsense, Auguste. Have faith. Love will bring us through this.’

‘You know I love you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Love won’t protect us from Brunner. We have to get out. When the rounding up of the Jews becomes a debacle, Brunner will know about that too. He already knows I am aware of his guilt.’

‘Guilt?’

‘Yes, he raped, tortured and killed Bernadette, I’m sure of it.’

‘Then you must convict him.’

‘I have to prove it.’

‘Will they let you? Brunner is a big fish. Do you really think you can indict him?’

‘Not me. The Judge.’

‘Then ask Judge Dubois about it. Come back to bed.’

‘I need a drink.’

Auguste found his shoes and his dressing gown.

Padding downstairs with sleepy footsteps, he saw a light outside. Curious, he went to the dining room window and peered out. A dim light flickered near the remains of his outhouse. A shiver ran down his spine and he wondered if he should investigate. He thought better of it and stood for long moments watching. The light, he was sure came from a torch and he saw it hover then extinguish. It did not reappear.

He heard a crunch on the gravel in front of the house. He still saw no one. It was cold and he wrapped his gown around him but saw nothing more.

Was it Brunner’s men, investigating? Even a simple burglar would have been welcome to Auguste then. At least the prospect of robbery was better than the alternatives if it was not a burglar. He crossed to the hall table and grabbed his gun from its holster. He waited.

The crunch of the footfalls became fainter and faded altogether. He noticed he felt relief. His breathing slowed and with gentle tread, he entered the kitchen. Peering out of the window, he scanned the view of the ruined outhouse. Nothing.

A sound behind him. He turned. He levelled his weapon.

‘Auguste?’

‘Odette. I could have shot you.’

‘What?’

‘I...’

‘What are you doing wandering around the house with that thing? You could have shot one of the children. Are you mad?’