The Lavender Keeper (16 page)

The young soldier grinned. ‘Be careful you aren’t called up.’

‘I would gladly go, but they need my crops. I’m not allowed to leave the farm.’

‘Lucky you.’ The soldier’s gaze slid to Lisette. ‘Got a sister?’

Faucille spoke before she could. ‘No, but I can fix you up with her friend.’ He winked. ‘Hey, these Maquis dogs,’ he said, pointing jauntily at the poster. ‘Caught any yet?’

‘Four so far. That one,’ he said, pointing to Frelon, ‘is about to fall into our trap, I gather. Make sure you’re there to watch the executions tonight.’ He grinned.

‘See you then,’ Faucille replied in a brightly feigned tone.

The soldier moved on and Faucille clutched Lisette tightly by the waist but didn’t increase his pace. ‘We have to get out of here.’

‘I gathered. Was that all rubbish back there about the bar?’

‘Mostly. Monsieur Grignon is going to get a surprise.’

‘Will he turn you in?’

‘He won’t even know who sent them. I know he’s a collaborator. But he pretends otherwise.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Senanque Abbey. I have to get a message to Laurent.’

‘Laurent?’

‘Frelon. Forget you heard the name. If anything, it’s a burden to know.’

‘I’ll take my chances. Are you going to tell me your name?’

But he didn’t respond, instead looking fretful as he cast a gaze up and down the road that led to the town square.

Soon Lisette and Faucille were in a cart heading to the monastery, with a taciturn monk at the reins.

‘This monk is stone deaf,’ Faucille assured her. ‘He’s given me a ride before. We can talk freely and we must plan a cover story. That poster changes our plan. If they know about Laurent, then they will soon know about me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It means I won’t necessarily be putting you on a train to Paris alone.’

‘You’re coming with me?’

‘I’m not sure. It may be too difficult to remain in the south – at least for a while. I can work with the Resistance elsewhere.’

Like so many pilgrims before her, Lisette couldn’t help but marvel at the narrow wooded valley they were passing through. The elegantly spare stone Cistercian monastery lay ahead, at the foot of a steep incline.

‘I’m sure Prosper would welcome you,’ Lisette said, secretly glad that she might not be travelling alone.

‘We shall see.’ Faucille paused, a look of consternation
crossing his face. ‘But now I must break my own rules, Angeline. Tell me about yourself – I need to build my story around yours, in case we are stopped for any reason. You can call me Luc, but my real name is Lukas.’

The name suited him, she thought. But Luc’s plans made a mockery of her training dogma about the importance of secrecy. She knew he was breaking his own code of silence too. SOE had impressed upon her that in the field, the only thing she could really count on was her herself and her instincts. Luc was her only hope to get out of the south. Under torture, could he keep her secrets? She couldn’t be sure of that even for herself. She took a deep breath and began.

‘My name is Lisette. I was born in Lille to a German father, Maximilian Foerstner; he was wounded in the Great War – lost the use of one arm – and became entirely disillusioned with the country of his birth. When he married my mother, a Frenchwoman called Sylvie, he settled in France with her and they lived under the French surname of Forestier.’

‘Wait,’ Luc said. ‘Is this a cover?’

‘The truth … it is my best cover because it can all be proven.’

He looked worried. ‘Go on.’

‘We moved to Strasbourg when I was born, and according to my cover story I’ve been living in the east of France until now; I’m going to Paris to work in a German bank for a friend of the family.’

She felt the weight of his gaze as he considered what she’d just told him.

‘And the real Lisette?’

She hesitated. But this intimate moment seemed to transcend the rules they were meant to live by. She wanted to
tell him. She wanted to share the truth with this man whom she sensed was as damaged by the loss of his family as she had been by the loss of hers. That counted for something … that bound them. Before she could think, she began to talk, and it felt like a key had been turned in a lock. It was a release to speak of her life.

‘I was seventeen and my parents were becoming nervous about the rise of the Nazis in Germany. I was sent to live in Britain, but before my parents could join me they were killed in a motor vehicle accident.’ She reeled this off matter-of-factly; she did not want him to ask any hard questions. ‘But according to my cover story I moved to live with family friends in Dunkerque when I left school in Strasbourg.’

‘No records because of the bombings. Clever.’

‘Certainly much too hard to trace.’

‘No other family members left in France?’

She shook her head. ‘Father’s parents dead. Mother’s parents both dead, according to my papers, but my maternal grandparents live in England.’

‘So, according to your cover, what have you been doing since then?’

‘I remained in Dunkerque until the outbreak of the war and returned to Strasbourg. I worked there for a banker – an old family friend,’ she said. ‘He exists. I’m lucky he cares for me and has agreed to support this version of events, although he knows nothing of my work for SOE, only that I am desperate to return to France.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Walter? He’s in Paris now.’

‘And your papers reflect all of this,’ he pressed.

Lisette nodded. ‘I have been taking a break down south
because of health reasons. I’m going to work in the Paris branch of Walter’s bank, where he has relocated. So now, what about you?’

He hesitated, she noticed, his face darkening. This was hard for him. She couldn’t blame him. The Maquis lived under such secrecy that telling anything, even a fabricated life, could mean death.

‘My name is Lukas Ravensburg. I was born in Germany … in Bavaria. My father, Dieter, was killed the day before the Armistice. My mother, heartbroken and pregnant, somehow found her way into Strasbourg, where she was discovered by Wolfgang Eichel, who was a professor at the university, and his wife. My mother died soon after I was born in their home. But the Eichels, like your father, wanted to move far away from Germany. Wolf’s wife died suddenly, and Wolf brought me to Provence. We have been close my whole life.’ Here Luc paused and looked out into the distance. He said nothing for a long time.

‘Is something wrong?’

He sighed deeply. ‘Yes, something is very wrong. I was brought up by a loving family who raised me as their own. They knew my story but kept me in the dark. I only learnt the truth last year.’

Lisette stared at him, hardly daring to say anything. His story sounded even more pitiful than hers.

‘Why are you angry?’ she risked.

‘I’m angry that my family, who are Jewish, have been taken away to what we suspect are death camps. My grandmother didn’t even survive the belting that the
milice
gave her as she was dragged from our family home. I kissed her dead face while the screams of my beautiful sisters rang in my ears.’

Lisette could hear the pain in his voice.

‘Everyone has lost someone, and my tale is echoed all over France. But I would rather take a bullet in the head than go to work for the German war effort.’

‘Where is your friend Wolf?’

‘I have no idea. I saw him the day my family was taken. After that I fled into the hills with the Maquis. It was months before I returned to the region, although I have never returned to my village.’ He gave a shrug. ‘By then nobody knew where Wolf had gone.’

He continued, ‘Let’s keep it as close to the truth as I dare. I am Lukas Ravensberg. I was orphaned, raised by a family in the south. I am a lavender grower in the mountain region of Sault, which is far enough away from my real village to avoid suspicion.’

‘Why do you have such strong German?’ Lisette challenged.

‘I am proud of my German heritage. I have taught myself.’

‘Be sure to make mistakes, then, if you’re stopped.’

‘Don’t fret on my account. I’ve told Roger that I will get you successfully on the train to Paris. Whatever happens beyond that is irrelevant.’

‘Please don’t say that.’

‘We are all expendable, Lisette,’ he said, looking away.

There was no more time to talk. They’d arrived, the cart rolling slowly onto the gravel of the monastery’s approach. They waved their thanks to the driver, who leapt down nimbly and helped Lisette alight. The sun was lowering and it had become colder the deeper they’d sunk into the valley; it was positively cool now, and the monastery looked a lot more imposing in shadow.

‘Visitors are permitted?’ Lisette found herself whispering.

‘Not encouraged, but never turned away. Père Auguste is a monk here I can trust. Wait here for me? I won’t be long but I need to be sure we are safe first.’

As Luc and the monk walked away Lisette inhaled the smell of the forest, enjoying the silence. She turned from the monastery and looked down the valley, imagining it carpeted by lavender. No doubt Faucille – no, Luc – would enjoy telling her about how it would grow here.

She heard sudden footsteps approaching. Without warning, Luc appeared out of the shadows. ‘Up,’ he said, ‘into the cart. Hurry!’

‘What?’

‘No questions. No time. Do as I say.’

She leapt back into the cart as he untied the reins. ‘Luc?’ she implored, but his teeth were gritted. They left the way they had come, and although she had not seen another person, she was sure that eyes were watching them as they clattered away back up the hill.

When the horse hit a steady clip Luc turned and she saw a wildness in his expression.

‘What?’ she urged.

‘They’ve caught Laurent. He’s going to be executed.’

They’d leapt from the cart about a quarter of a mile from the town and had run the rest of the way. Luc could hear Lisette sucking in air as silently as she could as he forced them to a walk.

Luc reminded himself that his job was to get her onto that northbound train – and everything else was secondary. Except it wasn’t. Père Auguste’s news had rattled his normally clear thinking. According to the monk, Laurent had made it to the monastery; the plan had been for him to travel alone ahead of Lisette and Luc to organise paperwork and safe houses for them in Gordes. What no one could have known was that the
milice
would choose this day to stage a raid. Laurent had wisely followed the back-up plan and got to the monastery in time to leave the paperwork with the sympathetic Père Auguste. But the
milice
had paid a visit, and one of the monks had inadvertently betrayed Laurent.

‘You have to forgive old Claude. He’s slipping into dementia
and doesn’t really grasp what the Maquis does. He was trying to help the authorities,’ Père Auguste had tried to explain. Worst of all was that someone in Gordes had confirmed Laurent as being the man they sought. He did not know who had given Laurent up.

All the Maquis accepted that death’s cold embrace could encircle them at any turn, on any day, but Luc and Laurent’s youth perhaps permitted them to believe they would see this war out. They had felt certain they would dance on the graves of their pursuers and they would, one day, raise a glass to the loved ones they had lost. Together they would tell their sons of their fathers’ adventures. He couldn’t just let Laurent go. Luc wasn’t ready to accept Père Auguste’s advice to leave Gordes well alone.

With a creamy white Cistercian’s robe adding some semblance of disguise, Luc led Lisette up one of the cobbled alleys until they were level with the main square of Gordes.

‘Are you mad?’ Lisette asked in a hiss.

‘I have to be there.’ He saw her swallow; knew there was a struggle being waged inside her but she had no rank to pull, no way of leaving him.

‘You are
crazy
; there is no more dangerous place for you right now. Luc, we can’t risk the mission – and I won’t watch an execution.’

‘We won’t risk the mission, I promise,’ he said and held her gaze. ‘And you can’t avoid being present – where will you hide? It’s safer in the square with everyone else.’

She nodded, as though accepting the situation, but shook her arm free. He hadn’t even realised he was squeezing it. ‘Let me go. You’re a monk, remember!’

The
milice
were herding people into the square, aided by
German soldiers. The situation was becoming more dangerous. Lisette was unhappily swept up with the tide of people but it was best she stand in the square or risk notice. She knew how to blend in. Her clothes were perfect, her language too. If not for her beauty, no one would look twice. Luc noticed she was sensibly reaching for the woollen cap he’d added to her pocket at the last minute.

Luc twisted into a doorway, leaping into the shadows beneath a flight of stairs, and ripped off the cassock. It was too obvious – what had he been thinking? It was prayer time and no monk from Senanque would be in the square at Vespers. He emerged, allowed himself to be hurried along and made sure he was at the back of the crowd, bending his knees and almost crouching against the castle wall to detract from his height. He could see Lisette, immersed in a group of women.

Luc’s attention was caught by the first prisoner being led out. He’d seen it before – the victims needed no shackles. They walked bravely to their place of death, usually defiant, never anything but proudly French.

Luc’s eyes widened. It was not Laurent, but Fougasse! The man wore a placard around his neck proclaiming him a traitor, a criminal, a murderer. His hands were bleeding and Luc saw that several of his fingers were missing. But the baker of Saignon wore a brave smirk with such triumph that Luc felt his heart pound with pride. And impossibly, Fougasse glimpsed him in the crowd. Their eyes connected for a second, then Fougasse seemed to stumble; Luc was sure it was deliberate.

Proceedings were to be supervised by the Germans, not the
milice
; Luc recognised the hated grey uniform of the Gestapo as two of its officers strolled out into the fading light of the afternoon. But Luc despised the
milice
more; Frenchmen,
for whatever reason – work, pay, rations, vengeance – had donned the blue coat, brown shirt and dark-blue beret that proclaimed them one of Petain’s special force. They acted above the law, with a creed to crush all forms of resistance.

Luc’s moment of anger passed swiftly, replaced by despair as his dear old friend, Laurent, suddenly appeared from behind three
milice
. He had been beaten so badly that both eyes were closed and his face was bruised and bleeding. His shirt was stained with blood; Luc could barely breathe for the impotent rage he felt. His mind desperately sought a reason to create a disturbance. But they were Maquis. If any of them were caught, their pact forbade others from risking their lives to rescue them.

And yet, faced with reality, the temptation was overwhelming. Luc didn’t bother to read the sign hanging from Laurent’s neck. He saw Fougasse whisper something to his younger compatriot that earned the older man a pistol butt smashed viciously into his face. A collective gasp from the crowd followed. Fougasse dropped but made no sound; his wrists were tied behind him so he couldn’t reach for his face as blood poured down it. Luc’s fists balled with fresh fury as he squinted at the pistol bearer, not quite believing it. Yes, it was Pierre Landry, dishing out the violence – no longer in the uniform of a gendarme but now a strutting Vichy
milicien
.

Seeing Landry again brought back all the old emotion, surging from the place where Luc had kept it locked. The blood pounded in his head as rage filled him. He knew it – he was going to do something very unwise.

Be still!
the voice of reason urged. It was like Fougasse and Roger yelling at him at once. If Luc survived, escaped and carried on, he could make his friends’ deaths count for
something. He blinked and his gaze shot over to Lisette; she looked pale. Looking at her now was a timely reminder of the task that Roger had expressly charged him with.

‘Little things,’ that’s what Roger often told him. ‘It’s the little things we all do, every day, that can change the course of this war.’ Lisette could be one of those little things, the rational half of his mind argued. He would do nothing, which is just how Fougasse would want it.

While the four-man firing squad was lining up, Luc’s notice was caught by a head of reddish hair glowing in the dying afternoon. A familiar woman was standing not far from where the SS officers loitered, laughing quietly, talking to some of the
milice
who’d gathered.

It couldn’t be. He held his breath.
Catherine
? He hadn’t seen her since that terrible day when his family had been ripped away from Saignon. He hadn’t asked after her, and Laurent had never mentioned her again. Luc stared coldly as the realisation began to sink in: this woman was not only a collaborator, but had likely tipped off Landry to Laurent and Fougasse.

And if she was handing over Laurent, then she surely was keeping her eyes peeled for Luc. Luc ducked as she turned in his direction, her red-painted lips still smiling, looking like a gash of blood.

He slid down the wall, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes.
Think!
He could hear the accusations levelled at his friends as they resisted under torture. He could smell his own sorrow – not for himself, but for Laurent. Laurent, who still talked about the good days and who believed they’d come again, when both of them would have their lavender fields and honey back.

Luc heard the
milice
cock their rifles. They took aim. Just a second or two now. He couldn’t bear to watch; let his memory of Laurent be of the ever-optimistic, smiling young man by his side for as long as he could remember.

‘You can kill me, but you can’t kill us all!’ he heard Laurent yell.

Landry gave the order to fire with a bored air of detachment.

A burst of gunfire sounded. A woman shrieked nearby, stifling herself with her hand; men ground their jaws, threw down cigarettes and stubbed them out in disgust. As he heard the thump of bodies crumpling to the ground, Luc straightened, forced himself to be sure.

Landry was standing over Laurent, who groaned. Luc refused to close his eyes as the brute collaborator delivered the
coup de grâce
with a bullet into the back of Laurent’s head. His friend’s body jerked once and lay as still as Fougasse’s. Landry gave loud orders for the corpses to be strung up in the town.

People began to disperse, but Luc couldn’t move. He wanted to run and tear Landry’s black heart out. Instead he watched the
milice
drag away his friends by their feet. Their brutal deaths demanded that Luc avenge them in the only way any resister would. He simply had to hurt the Germans and those who supported them.

He looked over to find Lisette and saw that she was drifting away with the crowd. When he caught up with her, she glanced at him, her eyes still wet with tears. ‘We have to get out of here,’ she warned.

‘Not yet,’ he said and grabbed her arm, pulling her back to the wall.

‘What?’

‘Go down this cobbled alley to the café. You’ve got a book?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘Order a coffee. Wait for me.’

‘People will—’

‘They won’t! I won’t be long.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What I must. Wait for me. One hour.’

She ripped her elbow from his grip and stomped away down the alley. Luc melted into the people moving like a river away from the square … and went in search of his prey.