The Collaborator (31 page)

S
unday. I make breakfast for Evelyn and the girls; I take some food to Kirill. After breakfast, Blanche goes off to Matins at St Peter’s, elegant in the velvet jacket she made. Evelyn and Millie are in the living room—Evelyn is reading her Bible, Millie has her cardboard dolls with the sets of cut-out clothes. I open my kitchen window. It’s a perfect summer morning, with a slight silver haze above us, as though all the blue of the sky is covered over with gauze. Through my open window, a polleny green air floats in, and a ripple of song from a blackbird in my pear tree. I listen for a moment.

Another sound comes—an engine. It must be the person that Piers is sending, sooner than he said. Johnnie had said they’d bring a horse and cart, but it sounds like they’ve got a tractor.
Thank God,
I think.
Thank God for that …

The engine noise comes nearer. It’s moving too fast for a tractor. It stops with a scream of brakes in the lane by the gate to my yard. I hear footsteps crunching in the gravel, coming up to my house. Many footsteps.

There’s a noisy banging at the door, that echoes in the silent house. My heart sucks at my ribs. I go to open the door.

The man who stands there is wearing the brown OT uniform. He’s short, fleshy, intense; he has little wire-rimmed glasses and stony, light-coloured eyes. There are three other OT men behind him. They all have red swastika armbands.

‘Mrs de la Mare?’

‘Yes.’

I feel unreal, as though I am floating high above my body. As though it’s someone else’s heart that is thudding in my chest.

‘I am going to search your house,’ he says. He has a heavy accent. But I understand him perfectly. ‘You must come out of your house. You, and anyone else who lives here.’

I rush into the living room.

‘Millie, go out to the yard.’

She obeys at once, hearing my voice. She still has one of the cardboard dolls in her hand. Evelyn doesn’t move.

‘We have to sit out in the yard for a while,’ I tell her. She looks up at me, puzzled.

‘I don’t see why, Vivienne. I’m perfectly comfortable here.’ ‘We’ve been told to. We have to. Now,’ I say. She frowns.

‘Well, whoever it was should wait awhile. They should know I don’t like to be rushed. They should show a little consideration,’ she says.

I pull her abruptly to her feet. She comes with me, but reluctantly; she’s heavy on my arm. I seat her at the table in the shadow of the pear tree. She stares at the soldiers.

‘What are these men doing, Vivienne?’

‘They’ve just come to have a look ‘round,’ I tell her. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of.’ Lying to her.

She sits on the edge of her chair, her back straight and thin as a flowerstalk. Her blouse has come open in front, from when I pulled her up from her chair: you can see the lace trim of her slip, and I feel embarrassed for her. But I have to leave it: I know I’d mortify her if I went to button it up.

I stand behind her, reach for Millie. I’m no longer afraid: I feel nothing, I’m quite cold and calm and controlled; but I have Millie’s hand clutched very tightly in mine.

Millie hisses at me.

‘My doll. You’ve creased it.’ She pulls her hand away from mine, tries to smooth out the doll she was holding. ‘It’s ruined.
And
you were pinching, Mummy,’ she says.

The captain stands there watching us. He has his gun out of its holster—not exactly pointed at us, but ready in his hand. The other soldiers go into the house.

All the time there’s a voice in my head, an icy, sensible, terrible voice: logical, rational, spelling everything out.
Gunther heard someone coughing. He saw me with the tray of food I was going to take up to somebody, he knew it wasn’t for Evelyn, he could see her in her chair. Gunther knew I had a secret …

I can hear them slamming around in my house, drawers thrown open, doors flung back. I still feel unreal, as though I am watching all this from a height; but my body is utterly fragile, like Millie’s cardboard cut-out doll: the slightest breath of wind could blow me away. They’re beginning their search in the downstairs rooms. I hear them in the kitchen, then moving into the passageway; hear how the noise they make changes
when it comes from different rooms: how their booted feet bang and clatter, going up the wooden stair. It’s just a matter of time now.

The captain is still watching us. He has his back to the house. I can see out over his shoulders; I can see the wall of my house, the wicket gate to my garden, the leaf-shadowed lane. Behind him, I see a shadowy shape that creeps round the corner of my house, then through the little wicket gate and out into the lane.
Kirill.
My heart seems to stop. All the pent-up fear rushes through me. He must have slipped down the staircase from the attic, and out through Blanche’s window and onto the roof of the shed. He steps softly into the lane, crosses to the further hedge and into the shade of my orchard, a shadow among shadows.

A sudden wild hopefulness seizes me, hot and thrilling as fever. Perhaps we will all be saved from disaster. Perhaps Kirill will escape.

I drag my eyes away from him, not wanting to let the captain read anything in my face. But he must have heard something—a footfall, the slightest wheezy breath.

He turns. He curses in German, runs out into the lane.

I wrench Millie against me, press my hand over her eyes.

‘Stop it, you’re
hurting,’
she says.

She tries to struggle free, but I keep my hand sealed to her face.

Kirill moves forward under the apple trees: walking on, not looking back.

The captain raises his gun. One shot. The shock of it goes through me. Kirill falls: there’s no shudder, no struggle, nothing—he drops like a fruit from a tree. The speed of it, the lack of struggle, are an obscenity to me. I can see where his body lies
in my orchard, so still in the long straggling grass, like a heap of clothes thrown down there.

The captain lowers his gun, walks back to us. He has a casual air, as though this is nothing to him. I think of something Gunther once said.
It is very easy to kill. To start with, maybe not so easy. But after a while it is very easy to kill.
I suddenly hear the blackbird in my pear tree: it must have gone on singing all this time. Yet everything seems to have taken place in an absolute empty silence.

Evelyn is sobbing, tears spilling over her face.

‘Oh God—oh God—oh God …’

She tries to get up. I put my hands on her shoulders.

‘Evelyn—you’ve got to stay here.’

‘But it’s Eugene. They shot Eugene.’ She reaches out, claws at my arm. ‘You’ve got to let me go to him, you’ve got to.’

I try to push her back down into her chair.

‘It’s nothing to do with Eugene,’ I tell her. ‘Eugene isn’t here.’

‘My boy. My darling boy.’ Her tears fall, make glimmery tracks on her face. She hits out at me weakly. ‘You should have let me go to him, Vivienne.’

‘It isn’t Eugene.’

‘Of course it’s Eugene. I’d know that nice shirt of his anywhere.’

I put my arm around her. I pray the captain didn’t hear.

The captain slips his gun back in its holster. He takes off his glasses and wipes his face on his sleeve: he’s a fleshy man and all the action has made the sweat pour off him. His eyes seem too small without his glasses, like little pale stones.

I hear the clock chime in my kitchen. It’s time for the service.
Up at St Peter’s, the late-comers will be shuffling into their seats. Blanche will be sitting ready, her prayerbook open at the Confession:
Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep …
Soon the choir and the Rector will start to process up the nave. I think about these things: cling to them.

The man puts his glasses back on. He takes out a cigarette, lights it, his pale eyes fixed on my face. He has an eccentric way of smoking, cradling the cigarette in the hollow of his hand. He inhales deeply, thoughtfully. He is taking his time.

‘When the scum ran across the road behind us,’ he says, ‘I think he came out of the back door of your house, Mrs de la Mare.’

‘He can’t have,’ I say. ‘He can’t have done. Why would he do that?’

‘Perhaps you can tell me that,’ he says. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

The captain goes to the door of my house, shouts a name. One of the other men comes out. The captain speaks to him briefly in German. The man crosses the lane to my orchard. I keep Millie pressed against me, try to stop her from seeing. But she won’t be held: she rams her fists against me, pushes me away. The soldier takes Kirill’s feet and drags him through the long grass, so lightly, easily, as though there is no substance to his body. I can scarcely bear to watch this—but I make myself look. I feel I owe him that—to look. I think how wet his body will be, from all the dew on the grass, and this troubles me profoundly—as though the damp could harm him. They fling his body into the back of the lorry. I wonder if they will drive to
the clifftop and throw him into the sea, like all the poor souls whose bodies rot in Alderney harbour.

The meaning of what he did presses down on me, floods through me. As I think this, there’s a hard knot of tears in my throat. He did what he did to save us. He knew he would die— every step he took, he knew he was walking on to his death, that they would see him, that nothing could save him. While he stayed in my house, he had hope: they might not have found him, or, finding him, might have taken him back to the camp. There was still the smallest sliver of hope—they’re capricious, they could do anything. But he knew what would happen to us, to my daughters and me, if he were found in our house. And he wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t die to save Danya his wife, but my children and me he could save. He gave his life for us.

I think of him coming down the staircase, crossing the lane. Knowing. Choosing.

One of the other OT soldiers comes out of the house. He speaks to the captain; as he speaks, the captain keeps glancing at me. They’re talking softly in German, but I can imagine their words.

‘Mrs de la Mare,’ the captain says then. He shakes his head mournfully, as though saddened by human weakness. ‘We have found a hidden room at the back of your house, at the top.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘There are certain things in that room—a bed, the remains of a meal that was recently eaten. Anybody might think that you had been hiding somebody there.’

His tone is almost regretful.

‘I have a young daughter,’ I tell him. I take Millie’s hand in mine. ‘She likes to play house in that room.’

I wonder if he will see my heart beating under my blouse—the way it shakes the fabric.

‘And the old woman seemed to know the scum,’ he says.

‘My mother-in-law misses her son. Her son is away with the army. Sometimes she thinks she sees him when he isn’t there,’ I say.

He considers this.

‘The scum had new clothes,’ he tells me. ‘Perhaps he stole them,’ I say. ‘How would I know where he got them?’

He is silent for a moment, cradling his cigarette in his hand.

‘Also, I notice that you seem very upset.’ His eyes on me, appraising me.

I try to make myself still. I think of Blanche at the service— make myself think of the prayers, say them over and over inside me.
O, God, make speed to save us. O, Lord, make haste to help us …
I cling to the words: they are bits of driftwood in a stormy sea: they keep me from going under.

‘You were very upset when we shot the scum,’ he says again. ‘I have to ask myself why.’

‘It was a shock,’ I tell him.

‘This is war, Mrs de la Mare,’ he says, wearily. ‘We are at war. These things happen.’

‘He was helpless.’ My voice is a tiny piping, blown away on the breeze. ‘He couldn’t defend himself. You shouldn’t have shot him.’

The man shrugs.

‘The scum was an escaped prisoner,’ he says. ‘He was no use to anyone … These men are all sub-human. They are not like you or me. You don’t need to concern yourself about them …’

It’s too close to what Gunther once said.
You mustn’t think about it. You must try not to dwell on it.

He smokes his cigarette, his eyes moving over my body: he’s wondering what to do next. I feel my throat close like a fist, as I see where his gaze falls.

‘S
o, little girl—what is your name?’ ‘Millie de la Mare,’ she says. ‘Come here, Millie de la Mare.’

He speaks her name elaborately, each syllable exact, as though relishing its foreignness.

He beckons her to come forward, where she can’t so easily see my face. Before she moves, she gives me a questioning glance. I nod. She steps towards him.

He is easy with children, I can tell that. He crouches down to talk to her, so his face is level with hers, so he’s not talking down to her. It occurs to me that he must have children of his own, that he will have rocked those children tenderly in his arms—this man who has just shot down my friend Kirill like an animal.

‘Do you like chocolate, Millie?’

She doesn’t know what the right answer is. She half turns to me; I nod slightly.

‘You shouldn’t look at your mother when you answer my questions,’ he says. ‘Or I won’t know which of you is answering …’
The voice is perfectly reasonable, but I can hear the threat in it. ‘So—I ask again—do you like chocolate?’ ‘Yes, I like chocolate,’ she says.

He holds his cigarette in his mouth. He takes some chocolate out of his pocket, unwraps it. In the silence, the rustle of silver paper sounds unnervingly loud. He breaks some off, gives it to her. I see how it softens immediately in the warmth of her hand.

‘Can I eat it?’ she says.

She’s trying so hard to be good—but she doesn’t know what the rules are.

‘Yes, of course.’ He smiles. ‘It’s for you, Millie de la Mare.’

She eats, and licks the smear of melted chocolate from her palm, so her mouth is smudged with it. I have a stupid urge to tell her to wipe the smudge from her face.

He’s still crouching there, his face on a level with hers.

‘I can tell you’re a good girl,’ he says to her. ‘That you don’t tell lies. That you always tell the truth. That is right, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Telling the truth is very important, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure your mother has told you that you should always tell the truth.’ She nods.

‘We have searched your house. It is a big house. You have certain secret places and hiding places,’ he says.

She doesn’t say anything. Even from behind her, I can tell how tense she is, how warily she watches him.

Fear has me by the throat. I’m terribly afraid for her—because she will be left without me, when I am taken away. I tell myself
that Blanche will manage—that Blanche is almost a woman, Blanche can look after herself. But Millie is so small still—too small to lose her mother.

‘There is a room at the top of your house at the back,’ he says to her. ‘A secret place that you go to up a narrow stair.’

‘Yes,’ she says, uncertain, wondering what is coming. ‘Mummy calls it the back attic.’

I can’t see her face, but I sense the confusion in her—she knows that this is important, but she doesn’t know what she should say.

‘The back attic.’ He repeats the words, as though they are unfamiliar to him. ‘I think the back attic must be a good place to play,’ he says.

Here at last is something she can respond to.

‘Yes, it’s very nice,’ she says. Her voice eager, helpful.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette, his eyes never leaving her face.

‘When did you last play in your attic, Millie?’ he says.

She’s trying to think, so hard: I know how her face will look, creased up with trying, with thinking, the little frown drawn with blue indelible pencil on her brow.

‘I like to play in the attic,’ she says carefully.

‘Did you play in your attic today, or yesterday?’ he says.

I hold my breath. I know what she will say. I remember exactly what I told her.
Mummy said I shouldn’t go there. Yesterday, Mummy said I mustn’t play there any more. She said it was our secret. Our big secret …
I’m so sure she will say this—it’s almost as though I can hear the words already, spilling out like water drops, innocent and shining and pregnant with disaster.

He is watching me. As he speaks to her, he keeps raising his eyes to me, studying me. I clasp my hands fiercely together. I know that he can see the trembling that goes through me.

Millie still hesitates.

‘Did you?’ he says. ‘Did you play there today, or yesterday?’ His voice is stern, insistent.

‘I play in the attic every day,’ she tells him.

‘Now, I think that you aren’t alone when you play in the attic,’ he says. ‘Who do you play in the attic with?’

‘I play there with my friend,’ she says.

The man’s eyes have a hard gleam.

‘And who is your friend?’ he asks her.

She thinks for a moment. I sense the fog of anxiety that comes off her—as though it has a sulphurous edge that I can taste on the air. Then she clasps her hands and puts her feet neatly together. I see she has made a decision. I know, with a cold, sick certainty, that she is going to tell him that Kirill was here.

‘My friend is called Simon. He’s nearly nine,’ she says. Her voice is measured, precise, and just a little too high.

All this time, the man watches me. I keep my face utterly still; but all the breath I didn’t know I was holding rushes out of my mouth. I pray he doesn’t hear this.

He stares at her a moment more, then he shrugs slightly, straightens. He drops his half-smoked cigarette and grinds it under his heel, as though it holds no more interest for him.

He goes to the door of my house, shouts an order. The other men come out of the house, move rapidly off to the lorry. One climbs in the cab, the others clamber up into the back.
One of them kicks at something, and I know it will be Kirill’s body: that he’s kicking Kirill’s body aside, to make more room for his feet.

‘I will be watching you, Mrs de la Mare,’ the captain shouts at me as he goes.

He climbs up into the passenger seat of the cab. The engine bursts into life; they drive off.

The shock of their sudden leaving unravels me. The world is spinning around me; I lean on the table and wait till it comes to a stop.

Evelyn is still weeping, not even trying to wipe away the tears as they fall.

‘They killed him, didn’t they?’ she says.

I kneel beside her on the gravel.

‘It’s nothing to do with Eugene,’ I tell her.

‘They shot him. You saw. My boy, my darling boy.’

‘Eugene isn’t here,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t Eugene who died.’

‘He couldn’t defend himself,’ she says. ‘They shot him in the back. They’re such cowards. You should have let me go to him, Vivienne.’

‘It wasn’t Eugene, it was someone else,’ I say. ‘How can you say that, Vivienne? He was wearing Eugene’s clothes.’

‘It wasn’t Eugene they shot,’ I say again.

‘That’s such a sad death, Vivienne. He died all alone, there was no one to give him comfort. My poor, sweet boy. Such a sad, sad death,’ she says.

I hold one of her hands in mine. Her hand is cold: her skin feels like fabric, not flesh.

‘Eugene’s away with the army, remember, Evelyn?’ I say.

‘Why do you lie to me, Vivienne? Why don’t you ever tell me the truth?’ she asks me.

‘You should come to bed now,’ I tell her. I pull her gently to her feet; she staggers. ‘You can have a nice little sleep. We all need a rest now,’ I say.

I take her into the house. She cries soundlessly, desolate, hanging onto my arm. I take her upstairs and help her into her bed.

When I go back down to the kitchen, Millie is waiting for me. Her eyes are raw holes in her white face.

‘Did I answer the questions right?’ she says.

‘Yes, sweetheart. You were very brave.’

I put my arms around her. Her body is rigid.

‘Will Simon get into trouble?’ she says.

‘No, he won’t get into trouble. You said the right thing.’

‘But what if the Germans put Simon in prison?’ she says.

‘They won’t, I promise. Simon hasn’t done anything wrong.’

‘But Kirill didn’t do anything wrong and they still shot him,’ she says.

My throat is constricted with tears, and for a moment it’s hard to speak.

‘Trust me, sweetheart,’ I say then. ‘Simon will be all right. The Germans aren’t bothered with Simon.’

She pulls me down to her, holding my face close to hers. Her breath has a sickly-sweet smell from the chocolate the man gave her. She speaks into my ear, her whispered words brushing my skin.

‘I know that Kirill was in the back attic,’ she says. ‘I heard him coughing. That was our secret, wasn’t it? The secret you told me about? When you told me not to play there?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t tell the secret. Was that right?’ she says. ‘Yes, that was right,’ I tell her.

‘I didn’t know what to say. I knew they’d be angry with us if they found Kirill had been here—but I didn’t want to get Simon into trouble. It was really hard,’ she says.

‘Yes, I know,’ I tell her.

‘Mummy. Kirill is dead, isn’t he? They killed him, didn’t they?’

I think of the soothing things we say to comfort children.
Everything’s all right, there’s nothing to be frightened of. Those terrible things you saw weren’t real—they were just a nightmare, a dream. There are no monsters, there’s nothing there in the dark. Go to sleep now …
There’s nothing I can say to her.

Later, we go to pick flowers.

There isn’t much blooming in my garden now, because of all the vegetables, so we pick wildflowers from the hedgebank— speedwell and red valerian—and tie the flower stalks together with string. I think of the posy that Kirill once gave to me. We cross the lane into my orchard. Around us, the summer morning is as it was before—the hazy, silvery sunlight and all the singing of birds. But everything is changed now. I can’t live the way I did before. I can’t be the person I was.

The grass is crushed where his body fell, and there’s a dark stain on the ground, where his blood sank rapidly into the earth, and the trunk of the tree where I once stood with Gunther is spattered with darkening drops. Millie is poised and still, but her face is absolutely white. I think, He will never see them again, all those places he told us about, all the things he longed
for—the birch forest, the quiet rivers. He will never go back to the workshop where he made his violins—that are made with so much care, that are so small, so fragile, so very easy to break; and yet sing out so clearly.

‘Shall we say a prayer?’ says Millie.

But I don’t feel able to pray.

‘We’ll say a prayer inside our heads,’ I tell her.

We place the flowers of speedwell there, on the stained earth.