The Lavender Keeper (21 page)

Luc rubbed his face, not needing to feign fatigue, and in that moment found the contrition he required. ‘Forgive me, von Schleigel. This has been a long and trying day.’ He watched his enemy’s face relax slightly. ‘It horrifies me that Germany is reduced to this,’ he said, pointing. ‘Beating up old men … our own kind.’

‘No!’ von Schleigel yelled. It was the first time he’d raised his voice. ‘This man is
not
our kind. He does
not
deserve to call himself German. I should do him a favour and send him on the trains with his Jewish friends.’

Wolf now began to speak. The grating guttural words sounded harsh and laboured; few would have understood the sentences spoken in Old Norse.

‘What did you hope to discover from him?’ Luc asked, his heart feeling fractured.

‘We believe he knew the Bonet family. He would have known the Bonet we are searching for … the Jewish cockroach that has escaped our net. I insisted he give him to me.’

So they really had no idea who Luc Bonet was, what he looked like, that he could speak German. Luc realised he was
inadvertently touching the hidden lavender pouch. He dropped his hand casually. ‘Clearly he doesn’t know this Bonet fellow.’

‘Oh, but I’m sure he does. He lived in the next village. But you hear that rubbish he’s talking? That’s all we can get out of him.’

‘Why this obsession with Bonet?’

‘It’s not an obsession, Ravensburg. I’m chasing all the resisters we know of just as keenly as those who fall into our traps.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t help it if I enjoy my work. Go ahead. Talk to Dressler,’ von Schleigel added slyly.

Luc realised he had trapped himself. All it would take now was for Wolf to recognise him. It would be more than enough proof for von Schleigel.

‘Say goodbye to the old man for me.’

Luc stared into the cold blue eyes of the man he now loathed even more than Landry.

In truth, did he really care about himself any longer? No. He did care about Lisette, however. Somehow during their brief time together she had slipped beneath his hardened exterior and found her way into his heart. She was more than a duty now, more than an obligation. He felt heart-bound to help her … but she could carry on without him if it came to it. Paris and her mission were within her grasp. Apart from Lisette, there was only one other person in the world that was left for him to care about … and that person was sitting here, broken and dying.

Wolf clearly had accepted this was his end. Reciting prayers in the mysterious, almost forgotten language he loved was indication enough that he had found a safe place from which to farewell the world, no matter what they did to him.

‘Wolf,’ Luc whispered. ‘I’m Lukas Ravensburg.’

He forgot about von Schleigel and his henchmen. He ignored the war and the terrible sorrows it had inflicted; he set aside the woman waiting for him and the greater good that the Maquis demanded he fight for. And for a few brief, bright heartbeats he was Luc Bonet with his dear, much-loved friend and teacher.

He fought back tears when Wolf lifted his sunken head slowly and opened bloodshot eyes that hadn’t fully lost their genial intelligence. Luc alone saw the spark of recognition in Wolf’s eyes. Lukas Ravensburg was his son too, for he had loved him on sight, and there was love in those eyes now.

‘The
kráka
must fly. Stay
útlagi
,’ Wolf said in the forgotten language, a vacant smile on his ravaged face.
Remain an outlaw
? Luc translated. He was telling Luc to flee and stay safe, keep his identity secret. ‘My time to die,’ he whispered.

‘What is he saying?’ von Schleigel demanded.

‘I don’t even know what language he’s speaking. Part German, part nonsense.’

‘Well, there’s enough of him left for us to try once more.’

Luc turned slowly from where he crouched. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, Ravensburg, that it’s time you went. We have work to do here with Herr Dressler.’

‘What are you going to do to him?’

‘What is it to you? When I’m satisfied that no amount of
persuasion
will loosen his tongue, I shall put the old Jew-loving goat out of his misery.’

‘If he hasn’t told you anything after this heinous beating, he’s not worth torturing further.’

‘You think so?’ Von Schleigel sighed. ‘There’s almost always more you can learn. It’s obvious he doesn’t recognise you.’

‘Did you hope he would?’

‘Yes,’ he laughed. ‘Actually I hoped just that.’

‘Let him be. Let him die peacefully. He’s German, damn it!’

‘In the comfort of a warm bed, perhaps?’ Von Schleigel shared a laugh with his henchmen. Then his face grew serious. ‘I think not, Ravensburg. But how about this?’ He unfastened his pistol from its holster and offered it to Luc. ‘If you want to put Dressler out of his misery, then go right ahead. I presume you know how to use a gun? Shoot this man dead, if it will ease your conscience as a good German.’

Not even in his nightmares could Luc have imagined something so vile, so terrible as the situation he now found himself faced with.

‘
No!
’

Von Schleigel tutted. ‘And yet you claim to be a patriotic German, ready to fight for your country.’

‘I
am
patriotric. I am fighting for my country,’ Luc said, speaking more honestly than von Schleigel could ever know.

‘Then shoot this dissident. He works against the Nazi regime and all that we stand for.’

‘The Führer wants to get rid of the Jews. Dressler’s helping you achieve that.’

The Gestapo man smiled. ‘We want them dead, not hiding like sewer rats in Spain or Denmark, waiting to re-emerge. As a good German I’d imagine you’d want that too.’

‘I won’t kill a civilian in cold blood,’ Luc said, his voice brittle.

‘As you wish.’ Von Schleigel glanced sideways to one of his men. ‘See Herr Ravensburg out.’ He turned back and regarded Luc expectantly. ‘Your friend must be very cold in the car now.’

‘This is barbaric!’ Luc spat. His ears were beginning to ring with alarm.

Von Schleigel shrugged, unmoved. Once again he held out the pistol. ‘Save him the pain, Ravensburg. Deliver him. You can walk away knowing that you did a good deed for Germany this evening.’

Luc glared at him. The unspoken message was clear: any question of Luc’s identity would be erased by this single act. He didn’t think he was capable of speaking. They stood in silence, neither blinking. The atmosphere felt heavy and cloying, their breath rising in the freezing air. Time seemed to move achingly slowly.

Von Schleigel blinked first. ‘Prove yourself.’

Luc felt the cold weight of the service pistol land in his hand. He had fired a Walther P38 during his training in the mountains; it had been stolen from a dead German soldier. He dropped his gaze from von Schleigel and stared at the weapon. He had no choice. They would kill Wolf anyway, painfully. How would he live with himself, whichever choice he made?

And then he heard Wolf’s familiar, gravelly voice cutting through the trauma. He spoke words that Luc had heard many times previously, reciting Psalm 23. It was a text that was as precious to the Jewish faith as it was to Christians. The Bonet family had shared this psalm every Saturday, and then on Sundays Wolf would read it to them. This was Wolf’s signal, telling Luc that it was all right to do this.

‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,’ Wolf murmured in Old Norse.

‘Shut him up, for heaven’s sake, Ravensburg,’ von Schleigel said in exasperation.

Luc ignored the Gestapo, bending to tenderly kiss the old man on each cheek. ‘Fly away,
kráka
.’

The old man nodded and bent his head. Luc took aim, closed his eyes and, holding his breath, he pulled the trigger.

The pistol clicked on an empty chamber. Everyone laughed, especially von Schleigel, who seemed deliriously amused by the trick. Luc wanted to vomit.

‘You did it, Ravensburg,’ von Schleigel congratulated, slapping Luc on the back. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’

Luc turned around and something in his expression clearly startled von Schleigel. The Gestapo officer took a step back. ‘So now,’ he said, straightening his jacket, ‘let’s do it properly.’ He carefully inserted a single live round into the weapon and smacked it back into Luc’s hand. ‘One bullet. Send the old man on his way.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘I’ll wait outside, but these soldiers will have their pistols trained on you,’ he warned.

This time the gun fired a bullet, and the last of Luc’s connections to his family was severed. His ferocious glare stopped von Schleigel’s henchmen from stepping forward as Luc shifted Wolf’s body to lie flat. He gently placed Wolf’s hands on top of each other on his chest. Despite the cold, he draped his coat around Wolf, and without looking back, he stalked from the shed. Now more than ever it was important to stay impassive, although his heart was in turmoil.

Von Schleigel escorted him to the car, where Luc saw Lisette, pale and worried in the back. She leapt out. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We’re leaving now,’ Luc growled. He was barely hanging on. His eyes pleaded with her and she understood.

‘All right. Good evening, Herr von Schleigel,’ she said and eased herself back into the car.

‘
Mademoiselle
,’ von Schleigel replied. ‘Farewell, Ravensburg. I doubt our paths will cross again.’

Luc turned to face the despised soldier once more. ‘There will be a reckoning for this, von Schleigel. There is a code in war, especially for a man in uniform.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘No. But perhaps you’d better hope our paths don’t cross again.’

‘You do not frighten me, Ravensburg. You are best off in your lavender fields, making your oil. Men like you should leave war to men like me.’

‘Is that why you’re here in this sleepy outpost away from all the action?’

Von Schleigel laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been promoted. I’m going to a prison camp called Auschwitz. Heard of it?’

Luc shook his head numbly.

‘It’s probably where the Bonet family was sent. Berlin obviously thinks I’m well suited to the disposal of Jews.’ He grinned maliciously.

Luc was glad no one could see his whitened knuckles. Without another word he slid into the car alongside Lisette.

‘
Auf wiedersehen
.’ Von Schleigel waved through the window as the driver gunned the engine and the big car rolled out of the drive.

They drove in silence through the main street of l’Isle sur la Sorgue. The streets were deserted except for Germans in uniform, who could be heard singing from the bars.

Luc knew Lisette was watching him surreptitiously but he had nothing to say. He felt numbed. He knew his hands were trembling. His whole body was as he sat forward, tense, shivering.

He felt Lisette’s tentative hand on his back. His mind was filled with the deafening sound of a gunshot, of blood, of an old man’s resolve and a younger man’s hate. But while salty tears ran silently down his cheeks, he was aware of her arms reaching around him; holding him tight. She knew not to ask any more questions, not to talk even; she just held him. Through her touch he understood that there was one person left in this world to care about. Her mission, her survival, was all that mattered. He let his head lean against her shoulder and she responded by softly kissing his temple.

‘Whatever this is about, I’m so sorry,’ she finally whispered.

And her gentle voice and touch gave him comfort. Love still existed in the world, despite all the ugliness. He thought he heard his grandmother sigh, but it was just Lisette reaching to touch the pouch of lavender against his chest. The vaguest breath of its scent wafted up and enveloped them for a heartbeat.

Markus Kilian sighed. The young woman admitted she’d forgotten some papers and stammered her apology in halting German as she left the room. As a highly effective colonel, he wondered again at the vacuous role he had recently been appointed to. On the other hand, he knew he should be grateful to be in his favourite city and not trapped in a backwater in Germany. He could work at convincing himself that Hitler’s wrath had cooled, although it was obvious that the Führer had not yet finished with his punishment.

Until the autumn of 1942, Kilian had been the rising star of the German generals. He came from a proud and wealthy Prussian background; his father was a hero in the famous Bavarian Jäger Battalion during the Great War and the son had proved that the apple did not fall far from the tree. Kilian had won praise from his superiors for his daring leadership in the push into Russia.

The problem was that while Kilian was a ferociously patriotic
German, he was not pro-Nazi and certainly not pro-Hitler. But after the crushing humiliation of 1918, he had felt obliged to support anyone with the leadership skills to rebuild the Fatherland. He had survived the bloodiest of all battles at Ypres during the Great War and swore at just twenty-five that he would commit his career to changing the prevailing German approach to war.

He kept this promise. By the time Germany went to war again on a grand scale, Kilian’s belief in small, fast, mobile units had paid dividends. In the Russian offensive he’d led his men from one success to the next in what would prove itself to be the most ferocious of military campaigns ever fought. His skill had come to the notice of senior officers in the Wehrmacht; here was a charismatic and fearless commander who could surely motivate his men to follow him into Hell if he were asked to. The Führer especially was impressed.

Kilian had the tall, wide-shouldered and finely featured looks of his Nordic ancestry; a perfect Aryan specimen. And even though he ran a tight fighting unit, he was popular with his men. This stemmed from his readiness to lead by example. Unlike most of his counterparts, Kilian trained with his men, slept rough and shunned the traditional comforts afforded senior officers. It was a common sight to see Markus Kilian sharing a cigarette with unranked soldiers. He was increasingly noted for his lack of disciplinary actions; while his counterparts might punish men for not raising their arms fast enough for salutes, he saw that as nothing more than the oversight of hungry, bone-weary men.

Kilian had been privately angered by Germany entering into another war. If Hitler had known of his treachery, Kilian might never have survived beyond the spring of 1940, when,
following the lead of Ludwig Beck, chief of the German general staff, Kilian had actively helped to leak information to Carl Goerdeler, then working for the German civilian resistance. Goerdeler was in contact with London and Britain’s then prime minister, Neville Chamberlain. But despite their efforts, the invasion of France went ahead.

If committing Germany to war in western Europe was the action of a man inflated by his own sense of power, then to Kilian, taking on Russia was lunacy; few others openly agreed.

The sycophants in Berlin went along with Hitler’s vision that the Russian campaign should be a war of annihilation, destroying particular peoples, places and their history as a priority. Meanwhile, Kilian had looked ahead to what a Russian winter might do to German troops a long way from home, without reliable support lines, and his sense of foreboding had deepened. The size of Russia alone should have been warning enough – resources would be stretched far too thinly. Insufficient firepower meant not enough support for infantry units, which would bear the real brunt of this disastrous decision to take on the Red Army.

Kilian refused for his men to be used as fodder in the Führer’s twisted vision of empire. But with his men committed to fight in the summer of 1942 in the loathsome Operation Barbarossa Offensive, Kilian had little choice but to lead as he knew best. And in typical style he had shown great dash, leading his units across the border into Soviet lands, winning ground and taking plenty of Red Army prisoners along the way.

But it was those very Soviet prisoners who had catapulted him off his meteoric trajectory. The Führer’s heinous Commissar Order had been Kilian’s undoing. He wasn’t the
only senior officer to criticise it, but it was Kilian who openly defied it. The Commissar Order asked all German officers to root out Communist officials within the ranks of the Red Army prisoners of war. They were then to be summarily executed. Kilian argued that this order would serve only to boost the morale of the Soviets. The executed men, he had said, could well become martyrs. He went so far as to demand that the order be revoked. Kilian was duly informed that ‘the war against Russia cannot be fought in knightly fashion’, and promised pardons for the soldiers who fired the bullets and for the commanders who ordered it.

It had outraged the professional soldier in Kilian, who had grown up believing in the Prussian ideals of war and the protocols they adhered to. He had told his officers to follow their consciences, but went so far as to forbid anyone under his command to shoot Russian prisoners. To the men he trusted most he admitted that he feared Nazi daydreamers in Berlin were committing a generation of Germans to watering Russian soil with its blood.

It wasn’t his own death that troubled Kilian. He believed it was heroic to die fighting for one’s country. What mattered was that the Russian campaign was pointless; it was a war they could never win. Nevertheless, trapped by duty, he led his men, claiming small victories in the Russian hamlets. Finally came the moment when Kilian openly breached the edict that came direct from Nazi headquarters. He had noticed a prisoner wearing the giveaway red star on his sleeve, denoting he was a Soviet commissar. Following orders, he had taken the man alone from the raft of hungry, hollow-eyed Red Army prisoners into the surrounding forest.

They’d talked during this brief journey. He was a farmer;
he didn’t believe wholly in collectives, but he did believe that the collective farm – at the root of Communist ideology – made practical sense. The commissar had a family – a wife, three young children.

Kilian had found himself telling the man about the time not long before when he had teetered on the brink of engagement. Ilse Vogel had followed a career in science and had almost forgotten about marriage until the softly spoken, intelligent Markus Kilian had sat down next to her one evening at a dinner party in spring 1936. While the rest of the guests had talked about the Olympic Games, Markus and Ilse had eyes only for each other. They had become lovers – great friends as well – over the next couple of years, but the brewing war clouds had made Kilian nervous to commit.

‘You should have married her,’ the commissar had said in Russian.

Kilian smiled and offered the man a cigarette, replying in his language. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. We were a good match.’

They had shared a smoke peacefully in the quiet of the forest. Finally, they both stood.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ the Russian had said. ‘But face me when you do it. Don’t shoot me in the back like I’m scum. I am a soldier. I’ve fought for my country. I’ll die for it now. Don’t take away my dignity.’

The man had offered a hand and Kilian had been moved by the simple gesture; they’d shaken. The Russian had then walked to a tree before turning stoically to face his executioner.

‘Make it quick,’ he said. ‘Head or heart.’ Then he’d grinned. ‘Surprise me.’

Kilian had shaken his head, resolved. ‘Go. Go back to your
family. Kiss your wife, hug your children,’ he said. He waved a hand, gesturing that he was dismissed. And then he saluted.

The man had stared back at him in disbelief but hadn’t moved. So Kilian had sheathed his pistol, to show he had no intention of spending a bullet.

The soldier had frowned, then a bemused half-grin had twitched on one side of his mouth. Raising a hand to his heart as thanks, he’d turned and melted away through the forest.

That simple act of mercy had been witnessed by a visiting officer. It didn’t take long for Kilian’s recall to Berlin, where he had received a gut-twisting dressing-down from his superiors, although it could have been worse. A few months later the Commissar Order had been revoked but it was too late for Kilian. He was already cooling his heels in a dead-end desk job. It was two years of penance in the backwaters of Germany before he was given an opportunity to claw his way back, initially to the Bendlerblock in Berlin. It was not what he wanted, but those superiors who’d protected him and shared similar feelings towards the Nazi ideology reiterated their advice to keep his head down and do what was asked of him.

Although his sense of honour prevented Kilian from outright rebellion, he had long ago decided that Hitler was a monster. He had seen too much that hurt his soul in the Ukraine, and even though he had not made it easy for Himmler’s death squads to carry out their devil-inspired duties, he felt the cloying stain of their work clinging to his uniform and all that he held dear.

Little did Hitler know that Kilian had maintained contact with the Underground and had known of two attempted assassinations on the Führer’s life. Under the protection of
others within the Party who shared his feelings, Kilian had been transferred to Paris quietly in December 1943, slipping into a city that couldn’t fully hide her beauty beneath red flags and bold German street signs. On his first day his anger had been flamed by two thuggish
milice
mercilessly beating an old man with a yellow star wrongly pinned on his coat.

However, he’d come to realise that for most Parisians – unless they were Jewish or Roma – life went on smoothly enough. In the more elite circles families went without little. In fact, well-heeled Parisians led what could only be described as a jolly existence. There was no lack of private parties, nightclubbing and drinking, and all the usual excesses of the
bourgeoisie
were still to be found, despite the curfew. Nevertheless, Paris was quieter than he remembered – probably because it was now a city of bicycles. The only people with access to petrol were the Germans and wealthy French.

Kilian liked the French; he admired their pluck and especially those who, in the face of stringent reprisals, still defied their occupiers. A trip to the cinema proved comical. As soon as the propaganda reels flickered on, the French audience would whistle and stamp. The only way the police could monitor the audience was by leaving the lights on, negating the effects of the propaganda that no one could now view.

Kilian was particularly fond of the way idealistic teenagers rode up to German cars on their bicycles and stuck signs on them, urging the people not to trust the Vichy government or obey the ‘Boches’. But his fellow Germans lacked all sense of humour and he’d had to step in once, pulling rank on soldiers beating up a youth who’d been caught.

He sympathised especially with the hungry, knowing a lot of the Parisian population spent most of their waking
hours worrying about how to make it to the next meal or keep a roof over their heads. And as Europe moved into the depths of winter, even growing food in window boxes became impossible. How many times had he watched Parisians searching the public squares for chestnuts, twigs, dead leaves, anything vaguely flammable that they could burn to stay warm? He’d observed sadly as men and women alike had sold their jewellery, even wedding rings, just to feed their children, stay alive, survive another month. Lentils that he loathed were normally a few francs, but by 1944 could sell on the black market for seven or eight times the official price. He grew to detest the smell of Swedish turnip – rutabaga – that emanated from Parisian households, seemingly the staple of life for the less fortunate.

Unless Kilian was officially required to dine out, he was content to munch on bread and cheese, with the odd slice of cold meat for his evening meal. He couldn’t stomach fine dining when there was so much conspicuous poverty. As a result he had become even leaner, but his gaunt appearance gave him a curiously roguish look. His slightly sunken cheeks made him look younger and accentuated his strong jaw. He was clean-shaven, usually tanned – although paler these days – and kept his blonde hair trimmed around his ears. His eyes could appear anything from a flinty grey to a glacial blue, and his gaze was intense. But Kilian liked to smile, as the lines around his eyes testified. Everything about him was tidy and spare – save his thoughts, but he rarely shared those.

There were more than enough of his fellow officers who would help to fill the packed restaurants around the city, from the hugely popular Maxim’s on the Rue Royale to the Café de l’Opéra near the Grands Boulevards, and happily tuck into
rich food bought on the black market at up to four times the official price, before spilling into the cafés, cabarets and concert halls. While its greater population was trying to cope with just staying alive, Paris had never been so effervescent as it seemed now with the cash-flushed German military and its visitors. Art, music, literature were flourishing. Fashion clung on – no matter what hardships were pressed upon the French women, they still managed to look elegant and fashionable. From staining their legs to appear as though wearing stockings, to crafting new hats from old tulle and feathers, their ingenuity was admirable. Clothes were constantly remade into new garments. Even high heels were maintained using old wood or cork.

Paris was still Paris if Kilian squinted his eyes a little and ignored the jackboots and the daunting red flags they marched beneath. And if he was to be in exile, he preferred to be here than any other place. He liked to stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries with its structured and orderly pathways and gardens that had once held beautiful beds of flowers – now replaced by vegetables. He made an effort to enjoy the brass band of the Wehrmacht on a Sunday and avoided the Hotel Crillon as best he could, where the German High Command resided, or Rue de Saussaies, where the loathed Gestapo had set up its French HQ.