Read The French Promise Online
Authors: Fiona McIntosh
The trip back to Strasbourg from Koblenz had taken two hours. Max had fallen asleep almost immediately as the train drew out of the station and he’d slept most of the way, blaming the warm spring sun through the window for making him drowsy. It was cold on the Strasbourg platform, though, by just after 5 p.m. and Max pulled on his leather jacket over
his white T-shirt, which made him feel altogether like James Dean. However, if the fashions he’d seen in Paris recently were anything to go by, then a two-button suit was going to be a wardrobe essential. And women this summer would be dazzling in psychedelic colours. He had to admit, a girl in a pair of the new hipster slacks looked seriously cool but even better in the miniskirts that would be
raising eyebrows around the university campus next June, July and August.
He sighed. It was definitely time he began dating again; he thought about Gabrielle and her dark intelligent eyes that had regarded him so intensely in the restaurant. She’d smiled
for Nicolas but her gaze had been reserved for Max, and he’d ignored it. Stupid. He made a pact with himself. If his father’s wartime lover helped
to take him forward on his path, then he would go back to the restaurant and ask Gabrielle out on that date he’d promised Nic he would organise. And he would be interested in her life and would make every effort to be amusing company. And he would spoil her. She looked like she needed spoiling.
‘Good,’ he muttered to himself as he emerged onto the street, his conscience eased. ‘Come
on, Lisette,’ he urged into the wind. ‘Help me.’
He left the rose-stoned facade of the railway station behind and headed on foot to his new flat in Krutenau, an old village full of tumbledown but quaint houses near the university that were originally built for fishermen and then became a military barracks before it was reclaimed as residential. The smell of tobacco was permanently in the air here
because of a large factory based in the neighbourhood. It was colourful and full of activity; he liked that older people lived in and around this area, rather than only students. He’d moved out of the shared university digs just before Christmas, preferring the peace of his own apartment and space in a serious bid to lose his constant sense of guilt at being rich. He could afford this independence,
so why not?
It had taken him longer than he’d anticipated to get organised for his trip to Germany and then it just made sense to combine it with a detour to see his grandparents, which meant waiting even longer until he could spare a full week away. In the interim, Max had taken the time to make careful notes of all that he needed to research and he’d also sent off his first letter to the woman
he knew as Lisette Forestier,
using the address in Scotland as his starting point. His letter had been returned, unopened, two weeks later, which was disappointing, but someone had kindly scrawled
Try Morris at Pierrefondes Road, Farnborough.
More phone calls had revealed that there was a Mr and Mrs C Morris at number 50 Pierrefondes Avenue; this had to be the right one. He enclosed
his original letter with a new note to the Mr C Morris at Pierrefondes Avenue outlining that he was trying to reach Lisette Forestier and that he was the son of a friend she’d known during the war years. He explained that his father had died during the war before he could meet him, and he was hoping she might tell him more about his father. He had kept it deliberately vague and had made sure he posted
the letter from Paris, as too many people assumed Strasbourg was German and that would simply complicate things in a Brit’s mind. He’d waited another four weeks.
A letter finally returned from Colin Morris, explaining that his granddaughter, Lisette, who’d anglicised her surname while in Britain to Forester, was now married and had left in the early fifties to live in Australia. Once again his
original letter was unopened, which surprised him. He thought the grandfather might have been more curious. It was a brief note without much more information, which could have brought his enquiries to an abrupt halt but Lisette’s grandfather’s last line – a postscript – was ‘gold’:
Incidentally, Lisette is now Mrs Luke Ravens and can be contacted care of Bonet’s of Nabowla, Tasmania, Australia.
It
was
Ravensburg! His father’s lover had married his father’s enemy – the Frenchman with the German name and the same one who’d waited with his father as he died.
Eichel clearly had not known of this development. Max was now convinced Lisette had been working for the Brits, masquerading as her father’s lover but really spying on him for the Allies. It all seemed obvious to him, so why
hadn’t his father, or Eichel, seen it back in 1943 when everyone was supposedly so suspicious of each other?
There was certainly one person suspicious of Lisette, of course, and that was the Gestapo officer von Schleigel. And he tied her to a man called Bonet. It had been the final piece of the jigsaw to read that she could be contacted at Bonet’s – presumably a farm – in Australia.
He’d cheered aloud, in fact, when he’d been able to link Ravensburg with Bonet – convinced that these names belonged to the same man. And he’d felt an uncomfortable kinship with von Schleigel, understanding the man’s determination; he too must have felt as close as Max did right now to solving a mystery.
So what did he now know? Bonet was a French Resister working clandestinely with a British spy.
They fell in love and his father was the stooge. It seemed straightforward enough and yet he couldn’t let it rest. What was so intriguing to the Allies about a German colonel in Paris, who by his own admission was in exile and ‘rotting away behind a desk’? It was fascinating. He simply had to know.
He’d written immediately to Lisette in Australia, hoping enough time had passed that she wouldn’t
be offended by his enquiry. He made sure the letter was clearly addressed to her using her maiden name and not Ravens. He wanted to hear from his father’s lover first and foremost. He’d received nothing back. Until now, that was. He’d asked Nic to collect his mail from the post office, where he’d had it held while
he visited Switzerland and Germany, and a phone call had revealed that a letter
had arrived from Australia at long last.
‘Is there a name on the back?’ he’d asked over the phone, trying to contain his excitement.
‘Yes, an L Ravens.’
L Ravens
. His stomach knotted. It was him.
‘No first name?’
‘Yes, but I can’t read it. Wait – hang on, I think it says Lisel or Lisbet.’
‘Lisette, you fool,’ Max murmured. Of course, he was the dimwit; naturally she would now
use her married name.
‘Right, well, that insult’s going to cost you dinner soon. I’ll book the tavern, you pick up the tab.’
‘Okay, okay, sorry. I’ll pay for dinner.’
‘You’re too easy,’ Nic had laughed before hanging up.
Max considered his progress. Walter Eichel was now ticked off his list and could offer no more. Lisette had responded; he had a hunch that more information about Ravensburg would
come via that Australian connection – he hoped so. That left only von Schleigel. Given that both Eichel and his father spoke in such a scornful way about the man, it seemed von Schleigel had made an impact. Besides, his law studies had repeatedly taught him to leave no stone unturned; sparkling diamonds begin as dull lumps of rock, his tutor had counselled.
What’s more, it was von Schleigel who
connected all the players in this piece of theatre. Whether or not the Gestapo officer might reveal new clues about his father, he was convinced that he needed every piece of this jigsaw, no matter how inconsequential it might seem.
It was why the visit to Das Bundesarchiv in Koblenz was important. But what he hadn’t imagined was that the
Federal German Archives might reveal far more than he’d
anticipated … and not about his father at all. In fact, he was grateful for the nap on the train because he hadn’t been able to sleep easily since his discovery.
Max didn’t know precisely what he’d gone looking for, but it made him feel active while he was killing time waiting for any communication from Australia. He’d hoped to get lucky and find some reference to Kilian and possibly
von Schleigel, but what he had learnt was chilling.
He returned to his flat to discover it was freezing, having been closed up for a week. He threw his rucksack in the hallway and immediately put on the kettle and also the small gas fire. An assignment was due in a few days but he couldn’t think about that now. He could see his mail sitting on the low coffee table where Nic had left it for him.
Lisette’s letter was on top; Max could feel it calling to him but he wanted to savour it and he needed to warm up, get some food on and dig out his notes from Koblenz.
Max turned on the radio low and began humming along as his living room filled with Ben E. King’s voice urging his beloved to stand by him. He joined in the chorus as he made coffee and dug around for some biscuits, eating two while
the kettle finished boiling. He would have to grocery shop in the morning but in the meantime would make do with a week-old piece of hard cheese that was in his refrigerator, the bag of potato crisps in his small pantry and his grandmother’s fruit cake, folded in a tea towel for the trip, which he’d forgotten about but would now enjoy … ‘
Whenever you’re in trouble, won’t you
…’ he sang as he wandered
back into the living room and put his mug and plate of snacks near the fire.
Just the notebook, a pullover and he would be ready. Max
found both in his rucksack and returned to the fire. He sipped the coffee and stared at the tissue-thin air letter before him. He reached for it, trying to assure himself that life would go on if she refused to discuss his father and yet realising now
that he was holding his breath; he hadn’t factored in just how much hearing from Lisette meant to him.
Max slit open the letter and flattened it out on the coffee table. The handwriting was small and cramped – she surely wouldn’t have written so much if she wasn’t going to talk about Kilian, he told himself. Relief settled around him like a pillow of comfort. He began to read.
The letter
was dated five weeks earlier and written in French, no doubt for his ease.
Dear Max,
Your letter came as a shock and I am saddened to learn that Markus had no idea of your existence, but it makes sense because he never once discussed children. Your father also did not discuss your mother in detail – he was far too private for that – so I know little about her. Nevertheless, my sincere
condolences for your loss.
However, Markus did mention his regret that he had probably let her down. I got the impression from that casual mention – and this is my interpretation only, Max, based on a rare glimpse into his life before the war – that Markus admired your mother enormously but theirs was a genuine and true friendship rather than perhaps a grand love affair. Again, my
interpretation only! I gathered their backgrounds were extremely well matched but once he was thrown into the war everything changed for him
and although he’d toyed with the notion of marriage to someone who dovetailed into his life so well and he liked so very much, he didn’t want to think about the future when he couldn’t be sure he’d be alive the following day. Men were returning from the Russian
Front with horrific injuries – if they returned at all. I remember him saying that Ilse deserves so much more and especially someone who loves her wholly’.
I don’t know if I’m glad you’ve written or not – your letter obviously reopens a past I’ve deliberately put behind me. Everyone who survived the war is surely doing the same. Anyway, let me be candid – I know it’s what you want
from me. I was a British spy, sent to France in 1943. My mission was a honey trap, to ingratiate myself with Colonel Markus Kilian of the Wehrmacht in the hope of learning secrets. He had been selected as someone with a grudge against and a general disgruntlement with the Nazi regime, its ideals and how it went about its business.
Your father was sent to Paris because he had defied
an order directly from Hitler to execute – without hesitation – any Russian prisoners who could be identified as commissars. Your father subscribed strongly to the ethics concerning prisoners of war and he encouraged his men to show the same defiance of the commissar order. The Führer showed his anger by pulling your father away from his command to a position that made mockery of his talents as
a leader of men and his very fine strategic mind for warfare (I was briefed fully on him by London, so I can tell you this with authority).
From London’s perspective in 1943, here was a man ripe for change. As it turned out, your father was more honourable than any could suspect. Let me assure you that everything I learnt about Markus convinced me that he was a supremely loyal German,
but he hated the Nazi structure. It was my contention – although I was not able to prove it with hard evidence – that he was involved with a plot to assassinate Hitler. In private he often referred to Hitler as ‘the lunatic’.
I was not present when your father died. But I do know what occurred. Markus took a single bullet wound to the chest, deliberately baiting a young French rebel
to fire at him rather than at his enemy – Lukas Ravensburg – a man I loved and ultimately married. This is complicated, Max, but I shall unravel it for you and hope you can understand the situation we were all in as Germany began to retreat and the Allies took the upper hand in France.
My husband, Luc, is also German by birth and so similar to your father it’s uncanny. Had the world
been a different place, I suspect they would have been good friends. I know my husband held an abiding respect for Markus but it is not a topic we discuss, for obvious reasons. I find it very painful to talk about him anyway because the truth is that I was incredibly – and some might say dangerously – fond of him. We were very close during the spring and summer of 1944 and I admired him tremendously.
His untimely and certainly unnecessary death has remained an open wound for me and I’ve found it easier simply not to think on him … forgive me.
You asked about Kriminaldirektor von Schleigel. Yes, I remember him. How can I forget him! He arrested Luc and me in Provence and something occurred between them that to this day I have not been privy to but its darkness still
haunts Luc, which is why I have not shown your letter to him. Von Schleigel represented everything your father detested about the Nazi regime and a single, brief telephone conversation they shared in 1943 was enough for Markus to despise a man he’d never met. We already had good cause to loathe the man and frankly even the mention of his name so many years on can still make me cringe.
I was told he transferred to the Auschwitz camp in Poland, another reason not to show Luc this letter, for his adoptive Jewish family perished in that camp but he has no details of what occurred – simply a painfully stark letter stating that his sisters had died in Auschwitz. His parents and youngest sister were not even registered but we know they left Drancy prison camp for Poland on the
same train as Rachel and Sarah.
And now you’re wondering how a German-born French Resistance fighter lost his family to a Jewish camp? Between us, because I did promise candour, the man born Lukas Ravensburg, who lost both parents in rapid succession after his birth, was smuggled into France just after the Great War and was ultimately adopted by a Jewish family – the Bonets of Saignon.
Luc was a lavender grower – a successful one. He knew he was adopted but had lived with the assumption that he was born to French parents. He only learnt the truth in 1942.
News of the death of the Bonets hit Luc hard – particularly the loss of his sisters, two in the prime of life and one still a child. It has taken years for him to come to terms with their untimely
and no doubt cruel end. The guilt has been a dark cloud over us since we left France when Paris was liberated. We lived in Britain, as you know, but France and its memories were still too close.
We have now built a new life for ourselves in Australia and Luc has finally found peace amongst the gorgeous tracts of lavender he has planted here. To see him at peace and happy after years
of him feeling tormented by his loss is my great joy. I watch him with our children, Harry, nearly fifteen, and our daughter, Jenny, eleven going on thirty, and he is a contented man. He is teaching Harry about growing lavender and we’re hoping next harvest to distil oil that will go to London for testing. We’re all very excited. It’s taken us many years of hard work to get to this stage and I
don’t want to spoil this family’s happiness by returning to the past. I hope you understand, Max, and will not think badly of me for asking that we do not enter into further correspondence.
I hope I’ve answered all of your questions and I especially hope that you feel comforted by what I have shared about your father. I knew him only for a couple of months but in that time found him
to be a fine man – an ethical man – with a love for soldiering, an unrivalled concern for his men and for correct war protocols … and you need feel nothing but pride at being his son.
I wish he’d known you. I think his life might have felt complete.
Sincerely,
Lisette