Authors: Fredrik Nath
‘If only,’ he thought. ‘If only it could take away my sin. Those poor people, separated, imprisoned, work camps, dead.’
He looked up at Père Bernard as he approached. Despite all, he opened his mouth and the wafer felt dry and bitter to him. It was all in his head, he knew it, but the bitterness seemed symbolic of the guilt eating away at him at that moment, a moment of truth. The wine, sour and strong seemed to cloy in his mouth and his emotions brought unsteadiness to his gaze.
And then it was over. He rose as if from some mortal trial and he wondered why he had been so scared. Odette took his hand as they walked back to the pew. Zara looked up and smiled.
‘Is it next year, Papa?’
He shook his head. ‘What?’
‘Confirmation,’ Odette said.
‘No,’ he whispered, ‘in two years.’
‘Oh,’ Zara said and she smiled up at her father.
Auguste smiled back, reassured by his child. If all else came apart in his life, at least there was one anchor to keep him sane. Zara was all, even if Odette left him for the evil he had allowed to happen, he would still have Zara’s love. Yet, he also knew Odette was his woman, his adult life, his linchpin; having both of them made his existence worthwhile. He would do what he could in this mess of a war and he would protect Monique too. For Murielle, for Pierre.
The end of the service came and Auguste realised he had paid no attention to it. He had not worshipped, he had ruminated. He crossed himself, facing the altar on the way out.Père Bernard shook his hand as he left.
‘I was glad to see you here my son.’
‘Yes, Père,’ Auguste said, ‘I was glad to be here.’
‘Perhaps you wish to confess? I am here all afternoon. I know you are busy, but it has been many weeks. You must not leave the Lord and his Holy Church, my son.’
‘No. I can come today if you think it is necessary.’
‘Only you, my son, know if it is necessary. Take some time first to prepare and then come to me.’
They both smiled artificial smiles and Auguste felt like a man who refuses a forceful salesman but feels guilty all the same for not buying his expensive goods.
He stopped in his tracks on the steps. A black Mercedes stood parked in the street outside, next to his own battered car. Brunner. If the SD Major was here, he had his story prepared but it was thin. Because it was transparent, he knew there would be consequences.
It was almost with relief he saw Linz emerge from the vehicle, his black uniform smart and pressed as ever and Auguste wondered whether French hands or German had been employed in the pressing. He could imagine Linz working with Brunner raping and torturing Bernadette and he had an unreasonable urge to pull out his weapon and kill him. The thought was as fleeting as the smile one might offer to a passing stranger and Auguste smiled to the SS officer.
‘Scharfürer, how nice to see you,’ he said.
Linz gave his usual, smart, unwelcome ‘seig heil’ and this time Auguste gave him room for manoeuvre.
‘Major Brunner presents his compliments,’ he said, ‘he requires your services tomorrow.’
‘My services?’
‘Yes. It is necessary to find and arrest a man in the area east of here and he wishes you to accompany me.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, he has other things of greater importance to attend to.’
Auguste was tempted to ask if it meant leaving listening devices in someone else’s office but he resisted the temptation. He stood square in front of Zara. The chance of his hiding her completely was remote but he thought there was some possibility the arrogant German would not bother with a child, a French child in particular.
‘That is all,’ Linz said.
‘Where? When?’
‘I will pick you up from the Prefecture. At seven.’
‘No, you will wait for me outside at eight-thirty. I have things to do first.’
He watched Linz’s face as it changed from brash arrogance to puce irritation.
‘I was told...’
‘Damn it man. You are not in charge of civil matters. You are a soldier and do not direct me in these things. I will look for you at eight-thirty and you will not be late. If I am late you will wait anyway, clear?’
‘Heil Hitler,’ the SS officer said. The salute was less smart and it gave Auguste a childish satisfaction.
Linz opened his car door and got in. With a splash from the white-walled tyres of the black Mercedes as it decimated a puddle, his driver and he left the scene and Auguste prayed he had not noticed Zara.
2
As the Ran family drove home, there was silence in the old car at first. Auguste, deep in thought wondered whether the invitation to ride with Linz next morning was a pretext for something else. Had they become suspicious? Had Bruner sent Linz to identify his daughter?
It seemed unlikely. If Brunner suspected anything, he would have searched the house and he had not. No. Brunner would hardly describe Auguste’s child to his junior officer.
Presently, Zara said, ‘Papa, who was the man in the black car?’
‘He is a German, a soldier.’
‘Is he the one Pierre wants to kill?’
‘No. Pierre wants to kill all of them and there are many now in our country. We have to protect Monique from them, because they would want to kill her if they knew she was with us. I told you. If they find her in our home we will all go to a prison camp.’
‘I want her to go home.’
‘Darling we should always be kind, it is what Jesus taught us,’ Odette said.
‘Yes, never refuse to help a friend who needs you. Haven’t I told you many times?’
‘But she is Jewish and we are not. Besides, she takes my toys.’
‘She has none of her own. Pierre only brought one dolly when he brought her to us. Is it so bad to share?’
‘Why should I share all my toys with a Jewish girl?’
‘You have played together all your lives. She is your best friend, Zara,’ Odette said.
‘Zara. Please try to understand. These are much more grown-up matters than dollies and toys. If the Germans come they will kill Monique and maybe us too for sheltering her.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Ma fleur, I hope you never find out. We are a family and we are together, it is all that matters.’
He was sure Zara understood nothing. He wondered how she could. A nine-year-old child he thought, could not have any concept of the evil adults could perpetrate upon each other. He realised Zara must see it as unfair, but he knew equally well there had to be a balance in life. He had to protect them both and if God allowed it, get them out of the country. At the same time, he had to keep his family together.
When the car drew up outside the house, crunching on the grey gravel by the front door, Auguste began to fear the worst. The front door was ajar and although there was no sign of forced entry, he worried the SD had found him out.
‘Stay here, both of you,’ he said, his heart racing.
He drew his pistol with a sweaty hand and approached the door. He moved with caution and made little sound. With his back to the door, he sidled in and heard a fat cough from the kitchen.
‘Who is there?’ he said.
‘Oh, Inspector. I am sorry. The door was open and I knew you would be in church, so I thought you would not mind if I waited here in the warm kitchen. It is so cold outside.’
‘Dufy, if you came here to steal, I will arrest you and let Judge Dubois deal with you in the morning. Empty your pockets at once.’
Auguste pointed his weapon at the old man. François emptied his pockets. Auguste detected an aroma reminiscent of dank ponds mixed with sweat as the man moved. Dufy was perhaps sixty years old or so Auguste estimated. He had clear, blue eyes and a scarred, grubby, bearded face. He wore a beret sitting perched at an angle on his large head. He wore a thick tattered, woollen coat.
Auguste looked at the pockets’ contents. In one, there was a button, a Laguiole knife and a few francs. In the other was a soiled handkerchief and a folded piece of Manila paper, perhaps torn from the back of an envelope.
Auguste poked the note with the barrel of his gun.
‘What’s this? You can write?’
‘Naturally I can write, Inspector. It is the reason why I am here.’
‘What, writing?’
‘No, to deliver a message.’
‘Push it across the table.’
Auguste took his eyes from Dufy only long enough to pick up the scrap of paper. Scrawled upon it was:
Auguste,
I am compromised. SD officers are searching for me as I write this. I have given it to Marquite and she will see you get it. I will say nothing. Is there anything to say in any case?
Colonel Andre Arnaud.
Auguste felt a cold hand grip his neck.
‘Where did you get this?’ he said.
‘Well Inspector, I was delivering some beautiful trout to Madame Arnaud and she asked me to bring this to you without any delay.’
‘You have read it?’
‘Inspector, I am a poacher, you know that. I have been to prison; you know that too. I have not sunk so low in the scheme of things to read other’s correspondence.’
‘François, you do not speak like a poacher. Who were you before the war?’
‘I was as you see, a man who enjoys living off the land.’
‘The truth.’
‘I was a school teacher in St Cypriene. But you know how, if you like a drink, they condemn you out of hand. It was most unjust.’
‘What do you know of this matter? What happened to Colonel Arnaud?’
‘Why, the Germans took him. I am sure he will be released.’
‘Sure?’
‘Well what would they want with such a man?’
‘That is for me to know and you to keep quiet about. You understand?’
‘I am in touch with certain people whom I come across in the woods from time to time. If you require me to pass the odd message, it is no problem.’
‘Who have you been speaking to?’
‘Speaking? I don’t understand.’
‘Why would I want a message passed?’
‘Perhaps it is good to stay in touch with old friends. My mother often said, you should always care about small cuts and old friends.’
‘Damn it man. Speak plainly.’
François whispered, ‘Plain can be dangerous. Just remember, if you need a message sent, old François could perhaps be of service.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Of course you don’t Inspector. My lips are sealed. May I go?’
‘Yes, go. Next time don’t break in, wait on the stairs.’
‘Perhaps it would be unwise. May I use the back door?’
‘Go.’
The door closed behind the old poacher.
Auguste jumped at the sound of a voice behind him.
‘Papa, who was that old man?’
‘Never mind darling. He was a messenger.’
‘He smells of fish.’
‘Never you mind. You must let Monique know we are home.’
‘Why me?’
‘But you know what to do. Run along now and when you are both here, we can eat. We have beef from Duboef’s farm today and if we ever get the smell of the old man out of the house, we will enjoy our lunch.’
She scampered up the stairs to the attic. Odette stood in the doorway. Her worried face hid nothing from Auguste.
‘They have arrested Arnaud.’
Odette said, ‘Auguste?’
‘I don’t know whether it is a danger to us or not.’
‘Does he know about Monique?’
‘Do you think I have become a fool? No, of course he doesn’t. He does know I planned to warn the Jewish families whose addresses I gave to Pierre.’
‘Will he talk?’
‘They all do. Whether they will ask the right questions or not is another matter. There is no reason why they would ask about me and maybe the old soldier will not mention me either.’
‘If they suspect a conspiracy in the police they might. Oh Auguste, what shall we do?’
‘Odette, my love, we sit tight. There is still a chance I can trap Brunner. If I can remove him, the SD will have no reason to go after me. They will replace him and his successor will not look in my direction. I just hope Arnaud doesn’t talk.’
‘But he will, if they ask him.’
‘Yes.’
He crossed the kitchen and held her in his arms. He kissed her forehead. They embraced and he held her as tight as he would the edge of a cliff from which he had slipped. He felt like a plummeting man. Piece by piece his life was falling apart; danger seemed to lurk around every corner. For Auguste it was as though the German occupation had taken his neat, tidy policeman’s life, twisted it and lacerated it. Even his religious beliefs, such as they were, seemed challenged. Was he losing his faith? Was he becoming like Job—a man whom God had selected to suffer?
Chapter 14
1
Auguste asked Édith to check on Arnaud before leaving his office. He made sure it was an audible request. He wanted Brunner to know he had no knowledge of the old soldier’s whereabouts.
He left the building with all the fears expressed to Odette on his mind. Getting into the Mercedes with Linz required effort, but it was an effort he was ready to make; he had no wish to arouse suspicion. It was a cold day, even for February, with grey rain clouds overhead, but Auguste found the car’s heater adequate; it converted his cold sweat to a higher temperature. It was sleeting outside as they hit the main Sarlat road. They headed east towards Beynac and he knew they would turn left towards St Andre L’Abeille. It was a small hamlet and Auguste wondered which of the three houses they would be searching.
‘Who are you looking for?’
‘You do not need to know,’ Linz said.
‘If you wish me to be involved, you will need to tell me won’t you? How can I arrest a man if I don’t know his name?’
‘Jules Aubrac, if you must know.’
‘He doesn’t live there.’
‘We know he is hiding there.’
‘Ridiculous. He was a bricklayer in Pont-de-Cause, it’s the other side of the Dordogne valley.’
‘No, we have information he is hiding in St Andre.’
‘Even so, he is not a traitor. I can vouch for it.’
‘I suppose you would have vouched for Colonel Arnaud?’
‘What do you mean?’