The Cyclist (21 page)

Starting up his car, he turned towards the dirt road and switched on his headlights. It was a frosty night, the fog froze hard and solid on his windscreen, despite the salty water with which he washed it down. He did not mind the effort, it was nothing compared to what was to come and he knew it.

2

A tall fair-haired SS officer knocked on Brunner’s office door. Auguste smiled but the man’s face remained serious. The SS officer went in and presently, held the door open for Auguste to enter.

Brunner stood when Auguste entered and gestured for him to sit. They remained silent for a moment and then Auguste said, ‘The gallows are built I see.’

‘Yes,’ Brunner said, unsmiling, ‘my men are quick workers, unlike you French. Germans do not stop to drink wine and eat frogs in the middle of their work.’

‘Frogs?’

‘Well whatever they eat. You eat horseflesh do you not?’

‘I came to discuss the internments before the prisoners arrive.’

‘Yes, of course. What is on your mind?’

‘I heard you had arrested Arnaud.’

‘Yes, poor Arnaud. He must have known a lot about the Maquis. Pity.’

‘He is talking?’

‘Not very loudly. He died.’

‘What?’

Auguste sat forward in his chair. He examined Brunner’s face. It betrayed no hint of any traceable human emotion. It was as if the German had become impassive, blank and neutral.

Auguste said, ‘you shot him?’

‘No, no, no, Auguste. We would never shoot a man of Arnaud’s rank without a trial. We are not barbarians. We obey the law. He had a heart attack under questioning. Hardly said a word.’

‘He was no traitor.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘We questioned a man. He was Maquis and he told us. Not immediately but all the same...’

‘You tortured him?’

‘Well, we tried to coax him. Eventually our methods of persuasion work on anyone. Susceptibility had nothing to do with it.’

‘But sometimes they would say anything would they not? Incriminate anyone, just to make you stop.’

‘Yes, of course. However, we look carefully at the logic of what they say and seldom act unless we have more than one statement corroborating the other. In this case, I had suspected Arnaud for a long time. Our singing Maquis-bird only confirmed what I already thought.’

‘I knew Arnaud to be a loyal soldier in the First War. My father often talked about him as a hero. He would not betray his duty.’

‘Did you know he had a radio?’

‘Of course, he would have wanted news the same as anyone of us.’

‘No, a radio transmitter.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Truly, it was hidden in a closet at his home.’

‘You think he would be so stupid as to keep it in his home?’

‘It was an old model. One like they used in the last war but our prisoner told us he used it to stay in touch with the Maquis and the British.’

‘Preposterous. I knew Arnaud. He was no traitor.’

‘We will never know for certain. He never lived to tell me. So, it does not matter. There are many more traitors.’

Auguste looked at Brunner. He struggled to hide the hatred he felt. This man had taken a loyal old French soldier and intended or carried out torture, on the word of a man who had given any information to make his torturers stop. Auguste pressed on in any case. Arnaud was dead. Nothing would bring him back and he needed to concentrate on the living.

What was it Arnaud had said? ‘La bonne chance’, life was a gamble and he was sure the old soldier would never have incriminated him even under torture. If only Brunner knew the truth. Auguste was sure he did not, but he also knew it was only a matter of time before he tortured the right man and Auguste would disappear like Arnaud.

Auguste said, ‘The problem I now face is, I have no one in the Gendarmerie with whom I can deal. I have to have both their cooperation and their trucks for the internment. Arnaud also had the list of Jews. If you are right, he could have passed it on to anyone.’

‘This is true. But you said yourself he would not betray his government.’

‘And if you are the one who is right?’

‘Well, it will become messy that is all. You will have to occupy yourself and your men with hunting down the missing Jews.’

‘Not my job, Helmut.’

‘Auguste, you seem to misunderstand. Your job is anything I say it is. Matters of state security are my domain and you must co-operate, you have orders, do you not?’

‘Is it not enough you have made me into an executioner’s lackey, to fetch men for you to hang?’

‘Ah, so that is what’s bothering you? Can you not see by hanging these men, you are protecting your people? They will never support the murderers if they know any of them can be hanged for a reprisal.’

‘I understand the logic. It will tie the Maquis’ hands.’

‘Exactly.’

Brunner looked at his watch.

‘Your men are bringing the prisoners at three o’clock?’

‘Yes in ten minutes.’

‘So we have time. A little music perhaps?’

Brunner stood and Auguste noticed for the first time there was a phonograph on a low table in the corner of the office. He watched as the German extracted a black vinyl disc from its sleeve, careful not to touch the glistening black surface. He placed it upon the red leather turntable and wound up the motor.

A soft crunching sound began as Brunner placed the needle into the outer groove. Music filled the office. It was Bruckner. Auguste knew the piece. He had heard it once when a German orchestra had played it in Lyon, on one of those rare occasions before the war when Odette and he had been able to take a short holiday.

The music started soft and gentle and rose to an early gradual crescendo. The loudness subsided only to approach again and as it did so, Brunner began to wave his hands as if he had become the conductor. He was smiling and Auguste realised this whole pantomime was symbolic. He thought Brunner really believed he was conducting everything in Bergerac, right down to the hangings they were both about to witness. He had an urge to shoot the man. It would be so simple to draw his gun and put a bullet into the SD Major’s face while the music blared. He imagined he could do it during one of these loud, ungainly and unsubtle German crescendos and perhaps no one would hear, but he knew it was foolishness. Someone would hear. They would arrest him. They would execute him. No, he must goad the man into confessing Bernadette’s murder. Only then, could he go through normal channels and arrest Brunner. He knew his murderous thoughts were sinful but they seemed to well up within him unbidden and foreign.

Chapter 18

1

Auguste recognised hate as a difficult emotion to control. He knew it was sinful too. Did not Christ preach forgiveness? It disturbed him he had no capacity in his heart to forgive Brunner. He detested the man and he knew it. The depth of his hatred seemed boundless in those moments before the hangings.

They descended the ornate staircase accompanied by six SS soldiers and the tall blond officer who showed him into Brunner’s office. No one had introduced Auguste, but manners aside, he had no interest in the man. He was German. He was Arian and worst of all he was a Nazi. Auguste surprised himself with the thought. He wondered if he was becoming as bigoted and anti-racial as these men with whom he found himself today, but in reverse. He hated them, all they stood for and most of all he hated Germany.

One of the soldiers opened the doors for the group and they emerged into the small cobbled square outside the Mairie. Five gallows stood there, sinister and forbidding in the sloping drizzle. Auguste wished he had brought his raincoat with him but he braved the cold, wet weather all the same. They stood on the steps and surveyed the scene. Half a dozen men and women stood under umbrellas at the far side of the square. There were no smiles and no one talked. This was no wedding after all.

Auguste glanced at his watch. It was three minutes after three. The prison van should have been here by now. He noticed he was sweating. His mouth felt arid and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. He had to slow his breathing down for he realised it had begun to be noticeable.

Brunner stood next to him. The German was impassive.

Presently, he said, ‘Auguste, I am amazed your men do not take this more seriously. To be late at a hanging is worse than tardiness at a christening. In any case I do not want to waste too much time over this.’

‘No. I would rather be at the Prefecture. Ah, here they are.’

Auguste pointed as a green van turned the corner into the square. The rear compartment had windows with bars. It stopped beneath the steps and the driver emerged. He looked up at Auguste and said, ‘Inspector Ran?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Would you sign here please,’ the man said, indicating a clipboard. ‘All duly present and correct. They have been gagged and the sacking masks have been applied as you instructed. They won’t give any trouble.’

‘Thank you. As soon as the sentences have been carried out, you can take the bodies away and you can go.’

One by one, Brunner’s men pulled five men out of the van. A sacking mask, tied around the neck, obscured each man’s face. Auguste noticed they stumbled and he realised some kind person had made them drunk or drugged. He felt as if his heart would burst with fear. He hoped with mounting desperation, nothing would go wrong. The unpredictability of the situation had him on the verge of running.

Each of the prisoners had a sign hanging around his neck with a name scrawled upon it. None of them tried to speak. Auguste supposed it was a combination of helplessness and alcohol but then remembered he had ordered them gagged. A soldier to each man, the prisoners staggered up the steps of the gallows. No priest came. Brunner had forbidden it.

Auguste watched as the soldiers slipped the nooses over the men’s heads and pulled them tight. A large knot sat at the side of each man’s neck. One of the prisoners leaned to one side as if the rope was the only thing holding him up. Auguste reflected he must have been on the verge of collapsing. He said a Hail Mary under his breath.

He looked at Brunner. The man still showed no emotion. The pallid, expressionless face remained a mystery to Auguste and he wondered what the German could be thinking.

‘Pity,’ Brunner said.

‘Yes. It is a terrible thing to hang an innocent man.’

‘No. It is a pity I cannot see their faces. The look in the eyes as they tighten the noose is something one never forgets. It is a look of fear or sometimes resignation. Perhaps we should take off the masks? Their people in the square might learn the lesson better. What do you think?’

‘I... I... it would be a mistake. The victims are quiet now. If you take off the masks, it may not be as peaceable as you had wished.’

‘All the same...’

‘Trust me. I have seen many hangings and the less the victim knows, the better. I once saw a man fight so hard, the knot loosened and we had to go through the whole process again.’

‘When were you ever involved in a hanging?’

‘Didn’t you know? I worked at the Regional Prison before I became a policeman. I was on the... how do you say it in German? The ‘Die Todesstrafe’ cells?’

‘Yes, though we don’t call it that. Well, we had better start. One at a time or all together? A difficult choice.’

‘All together would be quickest.’

‘Auguste. You French. You have no sense of occasion. Very well, they are your prisoners after all. Do you want to give the orders?’

‘No,’ Auguste said. ‘It is your privilege.’

Feeling relieved, he looked at Brunner’s face and saw him smile. Brunner stepped forward. He raised his hand. He licked his lips and smiled. Once he had the attention of all five soldiers, he drew his hand down in a chopping motion. The German’s pink, soft tongue still circled his lips. Auguste continued to stare at Brunner who appeared not to notice. He was intent on the prisoners.

The trap doors clicked and Auguste could guess without seeing, what kind of scene must have unfolded in the little square, in the rain. He swallowed. He felt nausea rising from the pit of his stomach and fought hard to control it. No leniency would be offered if he threw up on Brunner; he knew it.

He looked across the square, his gaze avoiding the five swinging corpses. The watchers stared. One of them, perhaps a reporter, paper and a pencil in hand, was alternately scribbling and looking at the dead man. Auguste realised he was noting the names and it gave him a glimmer of hope his plan had not been in vain.

The face of a woman he recognised imprinted itself on his mind. She was a salesperson in a shoe shop who had sold him a pair of shoes the previous summer. He had not at the time, ever imagined her as someone who might attend a public hanging. Her face displayed a look of anger, mixed with horror. The expression characterised the emotions stirring in his own mind. He identified with her. He could feel the exact feeling in her head, even without looking at the dead men who hung there, the mark of Brunner’s reprisal. How could she know he felt as she did? No one could know. It was a burden of loneliness and he felt it more and more as the days wore on, particularly now, since he had realised where his true allegiance lay.

What made this war crime even harder for Auguste, was the way Brunner had forbidden a priest to be present. Of course, Auguste did not know if any of the dead men were Catholics but to deny a man extreme unction when close to death was tantamount to wishing him to Hell. He had not been to confession in two weeks and he made up his mind to do so soon. He endured such a weight of sin upon his shoulders now, he wondered if the priest could ever offer him absolution.

Yet, love and forgiveness went hand in hand in his beliefs. He believed implicitly that God forgave. The concept of forgiveness was the one thing making him dubious of the existence of Hell. Perhaps Hell was here. Here in France, in Aquitaine where innocent men were supposed to be arrested and killed for German spite and vengeance.

He closed his eyes. If only he could wish himself away from here. He knew however, he could not run, at least not yet. He steeled himself to stay long enough to avoid suspicion, for it would have seemed strange if he had disappeared immediately after the hangings were completed.