The Cyclist (7 page)

‘I don’t think she is that sort of a girl.’

‘Nonsense man, all French women are at my disposal. See if they aren’t.’

Brunner waved an expansive arm towards the rest of the tables. The wine seemed to have affected him too.

‘I promised her mother she would be home shortly after midnight. I agreed to take her home. If I do not, I will have broken my word to a sick woman.’

Brunner was silent then. He stared into his glass and became serious.

‘Let us see if she wishes to go with me. I am often persuasive. You’ll see.’

Presently, the brandy arrived and Bernadette followed behind. She drew up a chair, her face pale, she looked as if she was about to be shot by a firing squad.

Brunner stood up and smiled a lascivious smile. He gestured for her to sit and the fool clacked his heels and bowed at the hips.

‘I am delighted to meet you. You sing wonderfully. Like a bird of paradise. My compliments.’

She said, ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

Brunner sipped his Armagnac, never taking his eyes from her. Auguste thought the man was obsessed. He could see beads of sweat on Brunner’s balding forehead and he knew what the German was thinking. He recognised the thought had in some form, been buried in his own head. The drink made his thoughts muddled but he recalled his fatherly feelings for the girl. He would not allow Brunner anywhere near her and he knew it then.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ Brunner said.

‘No thank you. I don’t take alcohol.’

‘You don’t? And you work in a place like this? Nonsense, I’ll get you a brandy.’

He summoned the waiter and ordered more drinks. He grabbed the bottle from the waiter’s tray and set it on the table. He waved the man away.

Auguste had not finished the first one and he did not intend to drink more with Brunner. He detested the man and this performance confirmed his hatred. It was not as simple as revulsion, Auguste pondered. It was to do with his pride in being French. This man was a German interloper. A beast from the forests troubling his country since Roman times. He also recognised he felt protective of Bernadette and he knew he needed to get her away from Brunner.

‘Well it’s getting late I’m afraid,’ Auguste said, looking at his watch.

Brunner said, ‘You entertain all these men with your mouth. Perhaps you would like to entertain me with it too? In private of course.’

Auguste looked at Brunner. The man was oblivious. It was now beyond his control, he had to leave. He stood up before Bernadette could reply.

‘I’m sorry Helmut, but I have promised to take her home. I’m sure another occasion will present itself. I bid you a very good night and thank you for your gentlemanly company.’

He stressed the word “gentlemanly” too hard and he realised it. Perhaps it was the drink but there was something more in his mind. It was impossible for him to hide his contempt.

‘But we have only just begun,’ Brunner complained.

Auguste took Bernadette’s hand and led her away. He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the door. Brunner was scowling and talking to Bousquet. He leaned forward. His elbow slipped and he almost hit the table with his face. Auguste realised the SD officer was very drunk. He hoped he had not caused a permanent breach in relations, because he needed Brunner in the long term. But some things, he reflected, were beyond any man’s control.

The battered Citroën came to a halt in the narrow cobbled street. The lacklustre bonnet gleamed with a dull shine in the light of the overhanging streetlamp. Auguste turned to the girl seated beside him.

‘Bernadette, you can never return there.’

‘But I have no other way of earning money.’

‘It doesn’t matter. The man is evil. If you go back there he will cause you trouble. He is an SD officer. Secret police. Never go there again. I will speak to Jules, the baker and see if he can find you some night work in the bakery when it opens again. You can trust Jules, he is old enough to be my father let alone yours.’

She smiled.

‘Will it be soon?’

‘Yes, my little friend,’ Auguste said. ‘I will ask him tomorrow. Do as I say. I am the police after all.’

She opened the door and turned to Auguste. Her eyes shone and they reminded him of Odette in those days when their love was new.

‘You are a good man, Inspector.’

Stung by the words, he said, ‘I wish it were true. If I were a good man, I would not do the work I do. God will judge. I have much to make amends for, my child.’

She smiled.

‘Te absolvo,’ she said, grinning as she slammed the door shut. He watched her skip across the road, until she reached and opened the painted door to her mother’s home.

Auguste drove home. He drove fast, the puddles scattering in shiny spray as his tyres hit them. For the first time in his life, he watched the rear view mirror at every turn, to check for following cars.

Chapter 4

1

Auguste expressed his impatience by tapping his foot on the linoleum. His office felt cold and he had promised Odette he would be home early. He levelled his gaze at the portly Gendarme Colonel in front of him.

‘Colonel Arnaud, I have no choice in the matter,’ he said.

Arnaud, an old man for his job, shrugged. He wore a grey moustache and his baldness seemed exposed as he fiddled with his cap. He shifted in his seat, as if he was sitting on something irregular. He was a relic. He was one of those left over from the old war, a German war and one still burning within him, as far as Auguste could see. Relics, he thought, should be locked up in museums, not administrating the Maréchaussée.

Colonel Arnaud said, ‘Inspector. This is not a military matter, as I see it. This is political and so does not fall under my jurisdiction. If it had been a criminal matter in the countryside, of course we would be involved. We are always first in line when it comes to our duty, but rounding up Jewish people because of a change in policy, well...’

‘This is a matter in which I need your help. I can send word to Lyon and you could be made to cooperate.’

The two men were silent for a full minute as they looked at each other, then the Colonel said, ‘Very well. Two men to a truck. How many trucks will you have? I cannot supply any. It is hard enough to get fuel nowadays. I cannot waste the little we have on this kind of nonsense.’

‘Brunner has instructed your men may not be armed.’

‘What?’ Arnaud said.

He leaned forward in his chair. It creaked. Auguste could smell the garlic on Arnaud’s breath and he wrinkled his nose.

‘Brunner will commandeer trucks and I have to supply the names and locations,’ Auguste said.

‘Tell me Inspector, what do you really think is going on here.’

‘Well, one hears rumours...’

‘Rumours?’ Arnaud said.

‘Yes, rumours. What have you heard?’

‘I heard the internees will be deported to camps in Poland and Germany and they are places where they may not come out.’

‘You mean death-camps?’

‘I suppose you could say that,’ Arnaud said.

‘I have heard similar stories. I don’t know what to make of it. I have lived here all my life. I know almost everyone in the town and the surrounding district. I know many Jewish people too.’

‘Why don’t you just say no? Let the invaders do their own dirty work. That was what I meant before, until you persuaded me.’

‘Suppose they were warned?’

‘How could that happen? They are not allowed radios or telephones. Your men saw to that, only last year.’

‘You trust me?’

‘We are both French. If the Vichy government chooses to collaborate with these invaders, then they can. I know to whom I owe my allegiance, and he is exiled in London’

‘But he is not in France now. All we have is Pétain and God knows if de Gaulle will ever return. Some don’t even think that is his real name. The Germans will defeat the Rosbifs and all of Europe will eat sauerkraut.’

‘You are unwise to talk too loudly even here. They have spies everywhere. I realise now you are a good man though, Auguste. Of course, you might be working for them, for all I know. Life is a gamble after all—la bonne chance.’

‘Someone else said that to me not so long ago. If it was true, I would not be sending all these innocent people to their deaths. Suppose the Gendarmerie were to have the list of internees and it got ‘lost’?’

‘Why, I would be furious with the man who lost it. I would have to kiss him upon both cheeks.’

Auguste smiled. Arnaud was turning into the first ally he had come across. He was glad he was not alone.

Arnaud stood up. ‘I must go. Would you send me the records so I can go through them? I can then let my men know where they will be expected to go. Of course, some of them have great difficulty finding their way around in this neighbourhood. Some of them might get lost or go astray.’

‘You appreciate the Germans will say we are incompetent?’

‘Well, vive la difference, is all I can say. I must go.’

They shook hands and Auguste noticed the old man had a warm dry hand and a firm handshake. Arnaud had not found the conversation stressful. A spark of admiration grew within him and he smiled when the door made its soft click, as Arnaud closed it behind him.

Auguste could hear the old man whistling. It was a military tune, he recognised. He remembered his father singing it, after drinking wine. It was from the first war, to do with love triumphing over all and the importance of duty.

His admiration and nostalgia left him as fast as it had emerged; he felt sick. It was not the tune, it was his feeling of betraying his father, his country and his beliefs. He believed in God. God the Almighty, who gave ultimate forgiveness, ultimate absolution. Would his God —his Father, Son and Holy Ghost—forgive the internment and final murder of Jews because they had in some way, ancestrally, been instrumental in the Saviour’s Passion? He knew it was not so, deep inside. It was not the God he believed in. His God was kind. His God was one who forgave. He had never believed in Mortal Sin, unforgivable, eternal, final.

He had friends who had sinned, it was true. They had committed adultery. Did his God judge them so finally? Hell had no meaning to him for he could not believe it was eternal. He thought if his actions resulted in the death of some Jews, saving the ones he could, it would counterbalance the evil he committed for the sake of saving his child, his woman.

He realised his hand trembled, holding the pen. It was enough, he thought, to do what he could for the people to whom he had access. God would forgive him. Auguste would warn them. If they refused to run, refused to hide, then he could not help them at the expense of those whom he loved.

His thoughts this time, settled him. He had made up his mind and had a course of action ahead of him. He felt as if the tension of his indecisiveness had resolved itself and the calm came as a peace, a tranquillity he had sought for days. He wondered if it was always the same, whatever the mental conflicts. Decisiveness brings relief.

He stood and walked to the window. There was no Pierre, cycling in aggressive defiance. No marches, no protestations. The German occupation of his home, his country, had quietened them all, but he knew the fire raged, burned and consumed his countrymen. France would rise again; it had to. It was not a matter of God. It was a matter of justice. He had made up his mind and it felt good.

2

It was raining again as Auguste stepped from the car. For once, he did not care. He walked to his front door. A certain levity crept into his step, an elevation of his mood. He knew he was right and believed his God was there, helping him. He had never felt the presence of his God so strong, so emotive, before.

Odette greeted him in the hallway. She threw her arms about his neck and her lips sought his. It felt like a rekindling of their adolescent love. He was surprised, but his feelings for her made it an expression of pleasure. He thought there was nothing in his world like the embrace of the woman he loved.

‘Auguste, I was so worried.’

‘Why?’

‘If anyone came to the house, what do I do with Monique? We have nowhere to hide her. All day it has been worrying me.’

‘I have been thinking. It is no good using the woods. We need a place where she will be able to hide for hours at a time. The woods are no good. It is freezing. I need to make a place of safety here in the house.’

‘But how?’

‘Call the girls and we will discuss it.’

‘The girls?

‘Of course. They are the instruments of the deception. They must know all about it.’

Within minutes, the four of them sat at the kitchen table to plan a hiding place.

Zara said, ‘Papa, we can lift the floorboards and make a place there.’

‘No ma fleur, it would be uncomfortable and Monique could not lie there for a long time. I think we should use the attic. We have a better chance then.’

‘The attic?’ Odette said.

‘Yes the gable end would be a good hiding place. I can brick it up, a few feet from where it ends and no one would know.’

‘And the bricks? Where would you get them?’

‘I cannot buy them. It would be noticed. I can dismantle the out-house. There must be enough bricks then.’

‘If she hides there, will she not be stuck behind the wall? She could not live in such a way. If anything happens to us she might be left there.’

‘Calm yourself,’ Auguste said, ‘I can make a door, faced with brick. Let’s eat and then I will start work. Until it is done, the woods will have to do. We must be disciplined and strong.’

Odette looked at Auguste. She reached out and her hand descended upon his.

‘Auguste, you are a good man.’

Something happened then. He felt a stab of pain. It was mental, not physical, as if some outside force had prodded his soul.

He said, ‘I have no idea what goodness is. I know some men are good and it is obvious. There are others whom no one would recognise as anything but evil. Where I and my life fit into the scheme of things, I cannot tell. I want to be what you think I am, but my conscience is so weak. I have orders from an evil master, orders to cause the death and destruction of innocent people. I cannot save them all. I will try to do what I can, but death stalks me and I cannot stop it. I beg our Lord in Heaven to forgive me.’