Peach (18 page)

“I’ll bet it’s Ferdi,” said Peach, nibbling on the fig she had just picked in the garden.

“How did you guess! But where is Grand-mère?”

“In the garden I think.”

Dressed in a simple cotton skirt with a battered straw hat to keep off the sun, Leonie was working on her plot near her beloved Bébé’s flowering tree, tidying the borders and planting bright new flowers. “Grand-mère, Grand-mère,” waved Lais. “He’s here, I’ve brought him to meet you.”

“Your German?” asked Leonie quietly. The sparkle died from her granddaughter’s face so quickly that she wished she hadn’t had to say it.

“Ferdi is German. He’s serving his country because he has to. Exactly the way Frenchmen had to. It’s not
his
fault! And Grand-mère, after the war is over and everyone is free, he wants to marry me.”

Lais brimmed with the optimism of youth and love and Leonie wished she had Lais’s belief in the future. Would she ever see Jim again in a free France? Would Amelie and Gerard
ever be reunited? Or would Nazi Germany, of which this young man was a part, continue to tyrannise the world?

“Please receive him, Grand-mère, please,” begged Lais, reaching out a tentative hand to Leonie. “I do love him so much, Grand-mère.”

Leonie knew it was true. Lais was transformed. She was soft, sweet, proud with love for this man. And if he could transform her wayward granddaughter, then that was to his credit. “Very well,” she said, setting down her trowel and taking off her gardening gloves. “I’ll meet him.”

“Oh Grand-mère, Grand-mère, thank you.” Ecstatic with happiness, Lais threw her arms around Leonie.

“Give me five minutes,” begged Leonie as Lais dragged her towards the villa, “just to wash my hands and tidy my hair.”

Peach inspected the tall young man, waiting alone by the long windows of the salon. He was certainly handsome, tall and blond like the fairy-tale prince from her old story books. Perhaps he’d kissed Lais and woken her from a hundred years’ slumber and wanted to marry her.

“You must be Peach,” Ferdi said with a smile. “I know all about you.”

“Oh? What do you know?” asked Peach suspiciously. She hoped Lais hadn’t told him about her leg. She never wanted anyone to know about that.

“She said you were astonishingly pretty and very grown up for your age and, of course, I can see that she was right.”

Peach blushed. Of course Papa and Jim thought she was pretty, but this was different. “Where do you live?” she asked, sitting on the window ledge beside him.

“In a castle on the Rhine.”

“A castle!” gasped Peach.

“And sometimes in a house in a big city called Cologne. And temporarily, I live in Reims, here in France.”

“I used to live in America,” ventured Peach. “I think I still remember it.”

“Well, I
think
I still remember the castle too—but only just. It’s been a long time.”

Peach looked at him sympathetically.

“Ferdi,” Lais rushed into the room. “Oh Ferdi, she’ll be here in a minute. She wants to meet you. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Ferdi knew Lais had been worried that her grandmother wouldn’t receive him and he’d been afraid of her disapproval. Lais had a very close relationship with her grandmother. She had said to him one day, “Grand-mère is my conscience. She knows my soul. She lifts me up when I’m sinking and helps me to float again. Without her I think I might have destroyed myself by now.” Lais’s wounds went deep.

He looked up expectantly at the sound of Leonie’s light footsteps on the tiled floor. Leonie’s hair was brushed back smoothly and she smelled of some soft distinctive perfume.

“Grand-mère,” cried Lais, “this is Ferdi von Schönberg.”

Leonie looked at the blond good-looking man before her; he looked so like her Rupert it seemed to her like an omen of ill-luck. Yet this was not Rupert, this was Lais’s suitor, Lais’s lover. And he so obviously adored her granddaughter. Leonie told herself it wouldn’t be fair to inflict the shadow of her own past, or the bitterness of war, on two such happy people. She wanted to give them her blessing, though God alone knew how long they would have to wait before they could marry. She prayed for Lais’s sake that the wait would not end as hers had done for Rupert, and that peace would come soon.

Leonore walked unhurriedly to the kitchen, aware of Kruger’s eyes boring into her back. She paused, pretending
to check the lunch menu. He was still there lurking behind her in the corridor, waiting to pounce, hoping to catch her out. Negotiating her way past the hot ovens she paused to give the pastry chef special instructions for the birthday cake to be presented to Commandant von Steinholz at dinner that evening. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kruger push through the swinging double doors, and stand legs astride, hands on hips, glaring around the kitchen. No one took any notice and after a few moments he pushed his way back through the doors again.

Leonore slipped through the kitchen past the storerooms to the side door. The young boy was waiting, a box of freshly baked bread beside him. “Your order, M’mselle,” he announced loudly, then leaned forward to whisper, “Gaston says there’s danger, M’mselle. The Gestapo have put the Comte de Vogüé in prison in Chalonssur-Marne, and the rumour is that he is to be executed. There have been many other arrests in Épernay but three Resistance workers managed to escape and will be arriving this evening on the champagne truck. They must be helped along the funnel to Marseilles, M’mselle. It is urgent.”

Leonore stared at him horrified. Without the help of the people in Épernay their “champagne funnel” was finished. She only prayed that de Vogüé and the others would be spared.

She carried the bread into the kitchen, wondering what to do next. As she put the box on the table she suddenly sensed someone behind her and spinning around found herself face to face with Captain Kruger. “Er, we needed extra rolls for the party tonight,” she explained flustered, “you know how your boys like to throw them around, after a few drinks.”

“And of course they drink champagne,” said Kruger silkily, “of which we seem to have a constant supply.”

“The pastry chef would like to show you how he is decorating
the Commandant’s birthday cake,” said Leonore, regaining her nerve, “he would like your approval. The colours are pretty, don’t you think?”

Kruger grunted, licking his wet lips and eyeing her suspiciously. “It will do,” he said grudgingly.

Amelie looked despairingly around the crowded bus station at Arles. Her suitcase had been there just a moment ago and now it was gone! “Pardon, Madame, M’sieur,” she pleaded, “did anyone see my case? I just turned around to pay for my ticket, and it’s gone.”

Shrugs and averted eyes were the only response. No one wanted to know about a missing suitcase, they had their own problems. “Dammit!” thought Amelie, now all she had was what she stood up in, a dusty print dress and a pair of sandals. But she still clutched the bag from Modas de Crianças with Peach’s presents and, thank God, she had her purse with her money and papers. All was not lost.

In the station café she consoled herself with a cup of bad coffee and a stale bun and with forethought bought a couple of apples and some fresh figs for the journey.

Surprisingly, the ancient bus was almost on time and Amelie fought for a place with the others, using her elbows to push her way through. She had learned fast that those who pushed got on the bus and good manners were not going to keep her from Peach! Squashed into a seat next to a spotty-faced youth, Amelie could scarcely breathe. Strong wafts of garlic mingled with the odour of onions and stale sweat in the stifling heat and she battled unsuccessfully to open the crusted window, finally settling back with a sigh of frustration as the rattling country bus meandered slowly towards Aix-en-Provence and the next step of her journey—the route along the southern coast of France.

The big truck covered with a green tarpaulin marked “Champagne, Épernay” rolled to a stop in the rear courtyard of the Hostellerie. Volker Kruger strutted forward importantly. He’d heard the news about the round-up of the Resistance workers at Épernay. This was the third champagne delivery in as many weeks and, if his suspicions were correct, they were being used to carry more than champagne. “Your delivery list!” he barked, holding out a hand.

The stocky Frenchman gazed at him impassively, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the top pocket of his blue overalls. Offering one to his mate, he lit them both from a single match.

“Your list!” demanded Kruger.

“You got the list, Jacques?” asked the stocky one, indifferently.

“Me? No. I thought you had it,” replied the other, coughing.

Kruger eyed them furiously. They were tall, broadchested men used to lifting heavy crates of champagne, and they had succeeded in making him feel small and insignificant. “If you drive a delivery truck, you have a list,” he shouted. “Get it at once or I’ll have you both arrested.”

“Arrested? For not having the delivery list?” laughed Jacques. “That’s a new one!”

“Come on, Jules,” he said, ignoring Kruger, “we’ll get ourselves a bite of supper in the kitchens before we unload, it’s been a long drive.”

Kruger stared after them angrily. They
knew
he could have them arrested and they didn’t care! Or were they trying to put him off the scent? Something was going on tonight, he was sure of it. Apparently many of de Vogüés associates were on the run. It would have been a clever notion to smuggle them down here on the champagne truck. Or even cleverer if they pretended to be drivers. He’d never seen those two before. For all he knew
they
could be the escaping Resistance workers—they had seemed a bit too casually confident, a touch too smart for truck-drivers. Well, he’d show them where the power lay.

Fifteen minutes later six powerful motorcycles screamed to a halt in front of the Hostellerie, followed by the ominous black Gestapo wagon, its dark windows covered with wire mesh. Waiting on the steps, Kruger shouted his commands, “To the kitchens,” he barked, marching the helmeted and jack-booted Gestapo men through the elegant pink marble foyer under the noses of surprised German officers.

The two truck-drivers lifted their eyes from giant bowls of bouillabaisse. Jacques tore a chunk from the baguette in the middle of the table. “Well, well,” he said, chewing, “brought the big boys to fight your battles, have you?”

The busy kitchens had ground to a halt and the chefs watched nervously, wondering what was going on. With the Gestapo one could always expect the worst.

“These are the two men,” cried Kruger, “inspect their papers please.”

The Gestapo captain glared at Kruger witheringly. “You mean you haven’t looked at their papers yet?”

“They’ll be false, I’m sure of it,” Kruger cried triumphantly. “Search them.”

“Captain Kruger. Please!” The Gestapo captain didn’t like Kruger giving him orders. The man was only an office
worker after all. Didn’t he know that the Gestapo were the cream of Hitler’s troops? “Stand up,” he commanded. The two drivers rose slowly to their feet, wiping their mouths on the backs of their hands. “Your papers?” the Gestapo captain held out his hand.

Leonore ran down the corridor to the kitchens, slamming through the double doors in a panic. She took in the scene at a glance and then, through the window, she saw the champagne truck, parked in the courtyard. It was unguarded.

“
Bonsoir
,” she said politely to the Gestapo captain, “I am Leonore de Courmont and this is my hotel. May I suggest that whatever the trouble is we sort it out in my office? My chefs are preparing dinner and we are interrupting their work. As you probably know,” she added with a smile, “there’s a special birthday celebration for Herr Kommandant von Steinholz this evening. We wouldn’t want a delay, would we?” Glaring at each other, Kruger and the Gestapo captain followed her from the kitchen with the two drivers and the jackbooted soldiers marching behind them.

Lais hitched up her long green crěpe de Chine evening dress above her knees and tied it with a piece of string, leaving her free to run. Slipping on a coat she made her way down the back stairs into the storeroom and closed the door behind her, waiting in the dark. Her heart was pounding and she realised she was afraid. Since she’d met Ferdi she was no longer able to regard this as a game. It was life and death—and life was too sweet to risk now. She thought of de Vogüé, imprisoned in the notorious Gestapo headquarters at Chalons-sur-Marne and condemned to death. She knew she would go on risking everything, just as he and many others had. Because they must. Life lived on these terms was no life. If she was ever to marry Ferdi, France must have its freedom.

The door to the store cupboard opened a crack. “Lais?” It was Peach’s voice. Relieved, Lais slid through the door and they ran together along the corridor to the rear courtyard.

“They’re in Leonore’s office,” gasped Peach. “She said we’ve got five minutes.”

Lais fiddled with the locks on the back of the truck and the flap swung down with a loud crash. They stared at each other apprehensively. Through the kitchen windows they could see the chefs, busily preparing dinner. “Quick,” whispered Lais, “I’ll give you a leg up.”