The Cyclist (34 page)

Pierre embraced her and she knelt to hug Monique.

Auguste took her hand.

‘It will be fine, you will see.’

‘Can’t we all go by boat?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be separated from you Auguste.’

‘This is the safest way. With those documents it is certain you will be able to cross without any questions.’

‘Perhaps Pierre and Monique could go.’

‘I don’t know where the boat is and I have never been here before.’

‘But what if they catch you?’

‘Then you must make a new life. It will be all right. Come, how hard do want to make this for us both?’

He looked down at Zara, her tired eyes looked up at him and he smiled.

‘Papa, where are we going?’

‘You and Maman are walking across a big bridge, ma fleur and I will come later with Pierre and Monique.’

‘When will you come?’

‘Soon,’ Auguste said and kneeling among the dark brown leaves, he hugged her to him. ‘Never forget your Papa loves you. Never forget it.’

‘I love you too Papa.’

He took Odette in his arms and kissed her mouth. He wiped the tears from her face and said, ‘I love you my wife. I will see you in a few days. Take care of our little flower.’

Odette said nothing. She looked at Auguste then turned and taking Zara’s hand, she led her away toward the road. She did not look back, but Zara did. She waved to Pierre and Monique and then again to her father. In the predawn light, she did not see his tears.

Auguste, Pierre and Monique pushed through the wood to where they could see the military checkpoint. They lay on their stomachs, hidden by a low hedge of rosehip.

Auguste saw Odette did not flinch as she showed the papers to the soldier who manned the checkpoint. He could see the soldier smiling and passing some comment, but his wife and child had their backs toward him and he could not see their faces.

His relief at that moment threatened to overwhelm him. A deep sorrow overtook him too. He had a feeling he would never see them again.

2

‘And now?’ Auguste said.

‘Now my friend, we walk through this wood and cross some fields and then down to the river. With any luck we will get across and meet Odette and Zara in a day or so.’

‘It sounds easy.’

‘No, better than that. Our freedom is inevitable. Come Monique.’

The little girl took Auguste’s hand as if she could feel his pain and with Pierre in the lead, they struggled through the ever-thickening wood. She squeezed his fingers and Auguste who understood her meaning, reciprocated.

Auguste could think of nothing but Odette and Zara. He wondered where they would go once they were across the bridge. Neither of them had been to Genève before but they agreed to rendezvous at St Peter’s Cathedral. Everyone knew how the Calvinists had taken it over but it was a well-known landmark all the same. He calculated if it took another day to cross over, then another day might suffice before they could be reunited.

Half a mile on, Pierre stopped. He seemed to be listening.

Auguste, impatient behind, said, ‘What?’

‘I don’t know. I thought I heard something.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Hush. Keep your voice down.’

Pierre indicated with his flat hand for them to get down.

Auguste heard it then. A faint sound of twigs breaking. Feet, trudging behind them. He looked around; nothing. They squatted in low scrub at the edge of the wood. Before them, a wide field faded into a faint layered mist over a raised bank and he guessed the river must bend in that direction. The sound became louder and he heard voices. The language was guttural, it was not French. Pierre in front lay flat and August pulled Monique down further. He placed his arm around her, covering her.

He could feel sweat forming beneath his collar, his mouth as arid as when he rang Brunner’s doorbell. Nausea spreading from his stomach. Not far now. Only yards to go; now this. He was living and breathing the life of Job and he knew it. It was as if this was some kind of test, sent by God. He would not crack. He knew after all he went through to get here, he possessed the strength and will to come through.

They waited lying down, damp and dishevelled, expectant and tense. Nothing happened. The sound of the tramping feet faded. All became as still as Saint Sacerdos’ Cathedral at night. Auguste gripped his rifle. He knelt. He sighted all around but saw nothing. Still they waited. Minutes passed.

‘Auguste, they’ve gone I think,’ Pierre said, his voice a croaking whisper.

‘Are we going now?’ Monique said.

‘Yes my little one,’ Auguste said, ‘now we go together to freedom and happiness at last.’

They stood, each of them looking around for any kind of movement. There was none.

Auguste heard vehicles on the road to his right. He wondered whether they were taking soldiers away or bringing them. Inside, he knew no one would be searching for them here but he also understood how, if they were seen or questioned, they had no papers and no explanations. The sweat on his neck made the collar chafe and he ran his fingers around the rim.

Progress was slow. The ground was muddy and the bushes reached up with spiky fingers prodding and scratching as they pushed their way forward. A shout sounded to their right and they lay down again. Another shout, German voices, this time further forward. They belly-crawled for a hundred yards and then stopped by a hedge in front with a dry-stone wall to the right.

In a whisper, Pierre said, ‘Auguste. You stay here. Keep her close.’

Auguste grabbed his arm.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to see where they are.’

‘No, I’ll go. You stay with Monique.’

Pierre turned towards his friend. He smiled. ‘You have experience in this? No. I will go. This is what I’ve been doing ever since I left Monique behind. It’s what I do. Get through the hedge if you can. I’ll be back.’

‘Papa. Don’t go,’ Monique whispered.

‘I’ll be back in a moment Bubeleh. Stay here with Uncle Auguste.’

Auguste watched Pierre’s brown muddy soles disappearing in front as he crawled away. An odd thought came into his head. Since childhood, they were friends, competitors and rivals. The final curtain was now lifting. Auguste possessed no doubt about whom Pierre was or what role he played. He was a hero. He always had been. He taught him to smoke; he taught him to fish and now the lesson was one of risk and stealth. Yet there was no jealousy now, only a deep admiration for his friend. It was as if, from the moment he saw him in the square, on his bicycle, defiant and angry, Pierre continued to grow in Auguste’s eyes. Perhaps he always was a hero and Auguste failed to understand it. It was always Pierre who seemed to save him, rescue him and redeem him even from the collaborationist path he once trod.

They lay still for further moments then crawled forward. A ditch lay before them, the length of the hedge. Muddy and cold, it stretched for half a mile, as far as Auguste judged. Turning to the left, with Monique in front, they searched the hedge for a gap. A shot rang out. Then another. They collapsed down, ossified for moments, both of them. Then they moved again. He could see Monique trembling as she shifted forwards, her little knees wobbling as she crawled.

Hurrying, Auguste pushed the child forward through a hole in the hedge. It was too small for him to follow. Monique turned, still lying flat, her face up to the gap. The look in her eyes told him everything. He shared her fear, as a man might wince at another’s broken bone.

‘Wait there,’ Auguste said.

 He pressed his index to his lips, hoping she would not cry. He was leaving her. There was no other choice and her distress burned him as if he was abandoning her. He had to find a way through, without being visible. And the sounds of many feet and German voices came ever closer.

3

He crawled. He prayed too. A gap must appear, there had to be a way through.

Then relief. A space appeared where he could pull out some rocks. He created enough of a gap to crawl through.

Another shot. This time he felt it too. It felt as if someone had thumped him on the backside and he flew through the hedge. There was pain from his right buttock to the back of his thigh, a searing discomfort as if some huge dog savaged him, snapping jaws biting, tearing.

Fighting the pain, he knew to stay would be his death. Frantic now, he crawled again to the right to find the little girl; to flee, hide. Ten yards, crawling. Twenty yards, stumbling and limping, keeping his head down below the hedge top. Desperation drove him on. Had he lost her? How could he explain to Pierre? She had to be there. His breath came in gasps, his heart thumped in his chest and his eyes searched for some sign. Forty yards and he could see her.

Still stooping and hobbling he took her hand as a man might scoop up a ball on the run and she needed no encouragement, no urging. She let go his hand and set off ahead.

They ran in this way for a hundred yards and came to the stone wall. He lifted her over and followed, his right leg feeling weak but useable still. Auguste felt the wound with his hand. It was superficial, the bullet must have grazed him. To him, it was a ridiculous wound. They heard more voices, distant now. They lay still.

Twenty minutes passed and they said nothing, neither Auguste nor Monique daring to move.

A sound above them made him grab his rifle.

A whispering voice said, ‘Auguste? Auguste?’

It was Pierre.

‘Here. I’ve been shot.’

Pierre clambered over the wall.

‘Shot?’

‘Only a graze. They shot me in the arse.’

Pierre reached out and drew his child to him.

‘With your backside, how could they miss?’

They both smiled. The tension ebbed but they knew they could not move yet. Almost an hour passed in which every sound, every movement seemed filled with threat, though the pursuit seemed to have ceased.

August thought of Odette and Zara. Were they safe? Would his God not guide them? He prayed in silence but the Hail Marys seemed stale in his mind somehow. Nothing could reassure him except the sight of his two loved ones, his two reasons for living.

They stayed there for another hour. Time passed. Pierre looked over the wall and reassured no one could see them, they tramped on through the muddy ditch and then back into a field.

They plodded on, hampered by the dense bushes, and came to a wide expanse of brown, untilled fields. Keeping to the hedgerows, they climbed a steep bank and to Auguste’s relief he saw the river flowing fast below. It was forty meters wide here and the strength of the current made it impossible to swim. They needed the boat.

‘Auguste, you wait here with Monique and I’ll find the boat.’

They waited. Auguste and Monique sat beneath a hedge but they were silent. They had nothing to say to each other and the absence of conversation seemed comfortable. Within minutes, Pierre returned. He sat with them.

‘I found it. I’ve dragged it to the bank. A little push and we are away.’

He was smiling and for once, Auguste smiled too. He could feel the sway of the current on the boat already. They stood and Auguste looked over his shoulder. Something attracted his attention; he was unsure what it had been. He reached a hand towards Pierre and held him still.

‘I saw something,’ he said.

‘What? We have only a hundred yards to freedom. Come.’

He strained against Auguste’s hand and then they climbed the few yards up the bank. Auguste heard the shot before he felt it. It was like someone kicking him hard in the back. The violence of the impact pitched him forward and he lay face down, immobile. No pain came at first, then a dull ache began to gnaw him. Pierre lay on his stomach, the sten-gun cracked its staccato tune. Auguste heard more rifle fire. He tried to get up. His legs would not respond. He felt nothing below the waist. Confusion struck him. What was happening? He felt pain below his ribs on the left side. He reached down. It was as if a huge hole opened up to his groping fingers and he knew. No flesh wound. No bandages and hot soup.

‘I think they are being more careful. I may have hit one. The field is crawling with them. They must have seen me with the boat. Here, let me help you up Auguste. Monique, come.’

Monique sat, her face in her hands, higher up the bank. She did not move. Auguste said, ‘Pierre. My legs, they don’t move. I can’t feel them. Leave me.’

‘Hah, you goys are all the same. Give up at the least discouragement. Here.’

‘No. Look.’

Auguste lifted the edge of Brunner’s coat. The hole gaped, though Auguste could not see it. He could see Pierre’s face though. He knew without looking, he was losing blood. His breath came in ever increasing gasps as if hunger for the very air surrounding him became a priority. Dizziness came too and a cold sweat.

‘Tie your scarf around me, tight. It may staunch it a little. Then get me to the top there.’

‘What? I’ll carry you.’

‘No, it’s no use. Do it. There is no time. Leave me the sten-gun and a rifle. Hurry man.’

With trembling fingers, Pierre took off his long woollen scarf. He tied it over the wound and watched the blood trickling through. It mixed with the tears dripping from his face onto the green wool.

He placed his hands under Auguste’s armpits and dragged him the few yards up the slope, next to a rock and a bush providing some cover at least, to the right. He rolled his friend over in silence. Auguste groaned. It took no more than a minute.

Auguste looked up at him.

‘Pierre...’

‘Don’t say it. You know I will look after them.’

‘I know. Now go while I can still focus to shoot. Hurry. I won’t be long.’

He tried to smile his encouragement but all he managed was a grimace.

‘Monique. We must go. Hurry.’

He took the child’s hand. She turned.

‘Uncle Auguste,’ she said. She was not crying. ‘I will never forget you.’

‘Say kaddish for me sometime, Monique.’

This time he managed a smile and he turned away from her as best he could. He did not look back for them again. Focussing his attention on the field below, he saw a man stand and run stooping, towards him. The German had a brown uniform and carried a rifle. It was a distance of a hundred yards and Auguste aimed the rifle. He took carful aim. He fired. A spray of mud flew up in front of the advancing soldier. The man dived. Auguste lost sight of him.