The Cyclist (24 page)

‘What?’

‘I heard you and Maman talking downstairs about a girl called Bernadette.’

‘She was a girl who died and Papa wants to make sure no one else will die as she did.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Well, ma fleur, sometimes people die even when they are young.’

He evaded the question. How Bernadette died was the last thing he could tell her.

‘Will I die?’

‘Not until the Lord sends for you.’

‘Will I go to heaven if He sends for me tonight?’

‘Naturally, my child. All children do. It is the grown-ups who have sinned whom God punishes. But nothing will happen to you tonight.’

‘Have I sinned?’

‘Now, enough of this, you must sleep or tomorrow you will be too tired to do your schoolwork.’

‘Yes Papa.’

‘Papa loves you. Now off to sleep.’

Moments later, both girls were fast asleep and Auguste and Odette returned to the kitchen. Auguste began to feel famished. The kitchen still smelled of rabbit stew and he found his mouth watered as he pictured it.

‘Any stew left?’

‘Yes, I’ll warm it up.’

‘It is better warm, is it not?’

He placed a hand on his wife’s buttocks and kneaded, soft, gentle movements.

‘Keep your mind on the food, you animal.’

She smiled but pulled away from him.

‘It is the only thing could keep me from your rabbit stew.’

‘Well rabbit stew is all you get tonight, my husband. I don’t make love to drunks.’

‘But I’m sober now.’

‘Not sober enough, my friend. How can you think of sex at a time like this anyway? You’ve seen men hanged and heard a confession from an evil man. How can sex even enter your mind?

‘Perhaps it is a release or even a distraction. I don’t know.’

He sat down.

‘Where did you put those cigarettes?’

‘Here.’

Auguste lit one. His head felt light and the room spun for a moment or two. He blew a smoke ring and stared at it as Odette busied herself with the food.

‘You know, Odette, we must be ready to leave quickly if it becomes necessary.’

‘Leave?’

‘Yes, we will have to go to the Swiss border, but we must travel light if we do run. There are military checkpoints on most roads and we can only travel by car as far as maybe Sarlat.’

‘We can’t walk all the way to Switzerland.’

‘We may have to.’

‘What about food?’

‘We take as much as we can carry then live off the land. People will help us I’m sure.’

‘Not if they know who you are. Everyone hates the police.’

‘They won’t know me near the border. We can maybe cross the border south of Geneve. I think it may take up to a month of walking, but much depends on how far we can go in the car.’

‘We can’t carry a month’s food. Do you think Pierre can help?’

‘Maybe. It will not be for a while, but I have to go before the internments. I have sent word to all the Jewish families. If most of them escape, Brunner will suspect me. If I can arrest him then we may be safe. I don’t know.’

‘Auguste. As long as we are together I will not fear anything.’

‘I know.’

‘Enough of this now. Here, eat your food and we will go to bed early.’

‘Promise?’

‘No. I need to hold you, that’s all.’

Auguste smiled his understanding and ate in silence. It seemed as if they had made a decision. They would have to leave. Now they had a plan he felt in less doubt and it seemed as if he had been shown the way. He decided to tackle Judge Dubois in the morning. He could hardly wait. Justice was beckoning him and it felt good.

Chapter 20

1

A cold sun shed cloud-filtered rays through Judge Dubois’ office window. Auguste sat in silence in the ornate Louis Quinze chair opposite the carved oak desk. Thrumming his fingers on the arm, he noticed he was sweating though it was cool in the office. He ran his fingers around the inside of his collar and reflected it felt too tight. Looking at his watch he realised it was nine-thirty, there was no sign of Dubois and he came to the conclusion it was no wonder legal matters took so long, if even the Judges led such relaxed lives they could turn up for work at this hour.

Auguste jumped when he heard the door behind him open. Juliette entered with a coffee cup.

‘I thought you might want this.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

He took the cup and held it with both hands, looking up at his sister. It was real coffee and he savoured the aroma.

‘Funny life isn’t it?’ Auguste said.

‘What?’

‘Well thirty years ago, it would have been blackcurrant juice.’

‘Yes. Those years have gone by like lightning.’

‘Like a passing moment.’

‘Yes,’

‘You remember how Pierre used to fancy you?’ he said and smiled.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘That was what I told him at the time.’

Juliette looked down; she smiled. Auguste felt surprised. It was the first conversation in which they had engaged without anger creeping in, for years.

‘Such a pity,’ she said.

‘What? That I put him off?’ Auguste said.

‘No, don’t be stupid. It’s such a shame he is Jewish.’

‘Don’t you like Jews?’

‘That is offensive. No, the Germans don’t like Jews and it is they who rule our country. Through Pétain but all the same...’

‘We should maybe expel them then.’

‘The Jews?’

‘No. The Germans,’ Auguste said.

Their eyes met. Both of them smiled and Auguste began to wonder if there had been a softening in her stone-like heart. He had always wanted to be friends again but he had been unable to pay the price. Such is pride, he reflected and they were both proud.

‘The Judge seems to think they will always be here and we had better cooperate or die.’

‘He’s wrong. Do you remember the hamster?’ he said.

‘Hamster? You lied to me.’

‘Well it wasn’t exactly a lie. It had reddish fur.’

‘But it had a long tail. You said it was a hamster. I spent the better part of a month allowing it to crawl all over me before Maman explained what a rat looked like.’

‘It was funny. It was like what is happening in Bergerac.’

‘Oh?’ Juliette said.

‘Yes. The SD create an illusion of law and order. They pretend they wish to follow our laws, but what seems to be right is wrong and what used to be good is no longer good.’

‘I know. I wish they could all be blown up.’

‘What? Are you a partisan all of a sudden? You, who works in the Judge’s office?’

‘No. I’m just trying to warn you. Don’t push the Judge too far he is...’

A high-pitched masculine voice interrupted them.

‘Juliette. What is happening?’

It was Judge Dubois. Auguste rose and said, ‘We were just talking about our childhood.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course. What are you doing here? Juliette, why did you let him in?’

Auguste said, ‘Are you afraid I will steal an ash-tray, or look through your files?’

‘No. I just don’t like unexpected visits. I have much to do.’

‘So much you turn up here at a quarter to ten? I have been waiting forty-five minutes.’

‘You did not have an appointment.’

‘Do I need one when it comes to the law?’

‘No.’

Dubois glared at Juliette and she turned and left. The door clicked behind her and Auguste began.

‘This is a transcript of a conversation I had with Brunner. It is self-explanatory. I want to arrest him.’

Dubois removed his overcoat. In no apparent hurry, he hung it on a hanger and hung the hanger on a hook on the wall. He looked thoughtful. He placed his hat with care, balanced on the hook. Still in no haste, he turned and looked at Auguste in silence. His face was strained, lines furrowed his forehead, and there were bags beneath his eyes. He did not read the transcript.

‘Did you hear me?’

Dubois frowned. He said, ‘It is not my hearing which seems to be the problem, but yours. I told you to drop this case.’

‘But this is fresh evidence.’

‘I don’t care if he said he had murdered that Churchill fellow with a frying pan. Leave Brunner alone.’

‘He is a sadistic killer. He murdered a young lovely French girl for his own sexual pleasure. Why are you protecting him?’

‘Protecting?’

‘Yes. You ignore everything I say about the case. What more do you need? A confession, witnesses stating they saw her enter his car. The scratch on his cheek. If I can’t convince a jury with that, there is something far wrong with our justice system.’

‘It may be so. I still do not think you can bring this case. First, because there are no witnesses to the crime. Secondly, because this so-called confession is not admissible in evidence.’

‘It is a sworn statement.’

‘It is your word against his.’

‘He did it.’

‘You can’t prove it. There is no evidence.’

‘He admitted it.’

‘There is no evidence I tell you.’

Auguste tapped the scrawled transcript with irate fingers.

‘This is evidence.’

‘If I bring this case against Brunner bad things will happen. He will pick selected members of the community and hang them. He told me so,’ Dubois said.

‘And so you let him remain free to do this all over again?’

‘He swore he would never do it again.’

‘What is he threatening you with?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He is.’

‘No.’

‘I can see you are scared. What has he threatened?’

The Judge sat down. He put his head in his hands. To Auguste’s utter amazement, Dubois began to weep. His shoulders heaved and he groaned. He looked up, eyes red and wet.

‘He has my son.’

‘What?’

‘He has my son locked away in the basement of the Mairie. The only reason he is still alive is my cooperation with Brunner. I cannot bring this case to court.’

‘Another Judge?’

‘The crime was in my jurisdiction. No other Judge can take it.’

‘I can’t just give up.’

‘The girl will have to be forgotten. If you pursue this matter I will have to have you sacked.’

‘What?’

‘Can’t you see? My hands are tied.’

‘You are like Pilate. Your hands are tied? You are a man with no honour Judge. I never minded the nepotism when you appointed Claude. I tolerated your interference in police matters too. I stood by and watched as you allowed Brunner to ruin our legal system. What angers me most is your cowardice.’

‘Inspector,’ Dubois said, ‘it is easy for you to talk. It is not your child Brunner has imprisoned. How would you behave if it was?’

‘I would fight. I would not abandon everything I have spent my life building. Trading your principles because of fear.’

‘There is nothing you or I can do.’

Auguste was silent.

‘You had better go. Don’t mention this matter to me again.’

The Judge sat back in his chair. His face displayed his emotions and although Auguste suspected he hated Dubois for his weakness, he recognised there was a grain of truth in his words. He wondered what he would have done if Zara was the one in the cells. Would he have tried to get her back? Would he have fought?

‘Is there nothing we can do to get your son released?’ Auguste said.

‘Don’t be stupid. Why would Brunner throw away his trump card? He controls me and will soon control others too. His influence is like a cancer spreading through our town,’ Dubois said and he thumped his fist on his desk. ‘There is nothing I can do.’

‘If Brunner was removed, would they not release your son?’

‘There is no way to remove him. He has contacts in high places and he will act as soon as he suspects I want to arrest him.’

‘There is one thing I can do.’

‘You’re a fool. It is hopeless.’

Auguste stood up and walked with heavy footsteps to the door. He heard Dubois weeping again. Resigned, he walked through the outer office and down the ornate stairs. The realisation that Brunner held all the cards, struck deep. The Judge’s son was another pawn to be sacrificed in this game of chance. He wondered how such a turn of events could affect him. Everything had changed. The Judge was useless to him and all those rules he once valued and lived by, seemed tattered and torn. He still wanted Brunner to pay but there seemed only one way now. An impossible way and one condemning him forever.

2

The sky formed a uniform grey canopy above, threatening rain as Auguste drove to his office. He was smoking again. The bittersweet taste of the aromatic Gitanes cigarette filled his mouth and its pungent smoke filled his lungs. He inhaled deeply and his head spun as he drove. He tried to distract himself from the thoughts welling up inside. He thought about his first cigarette. He had been thirteen and Pierre and he had stolen a packet from the kiosk in the central market.

Pierre said, ‘You have to be careful to do it right.’

He had always seemed so knowledgeable to Auguste. He had been one of those teenagers who possessed an innate ability to convince. One who seemed to be ‘in the know’ and Auguste had always looked up to him.

‘Like this?’

‘No, you have to take it into your mouth and then you breathe in.’

Auguste tried and the coughing fit lasted minutes and when it passed, he vomited.

‘You will never make a smoker. Look.’

Pierre inhaled and although his facial colour changed to a faint green he did not acknowledge it, nor did he vomit. Their relationship had always been like that. Pierre—determined and strong, Auguste—wishing he could be like his friend but never daring.

He frowned thinking about how it had all changed when the Germans came. He had been instrumental in reducing his friend to the status of sub-human. A being with no rights, disenfranchised and despised. He wondered if he had harboured some kind of jealousy and it had come to the fore when he registered his friend as a ‘Jew’. Had this jealousy made the process easier? Whatever the motivation persuading him to play along with the Nazi scheme, he knew now his better self, the man within, was at last fighting back.

Brunner. His hatred for the SD Major came back too. The injustice of Brunner living and breathing filled him with anger. It was now a cold anger, an anger making him sly, devious. Auguste lived all his life for the law. It always equated in his mind with justice but he felt bitter and disillusioned now. No justice through the law would materialise in this case. Brunner had the power and he had already won.