He found it hard to look at Madame Bentayou. Finally, he asked, ‘How did you know him?’
The old woman sat down at the kitchen table, her hands embracing an empty mug. ‘I met him here in Gurs. Fifteen years ago.’
‘You mean when he was killed…with my mother?’ David felt the pounding of his blood.
‘I can tell you where they both died, if you want to know. It was a few minutes from here, by the camp.’
The cat had come into the kitchen; it stalked to the saucer and began lapping at the sickly milk.
‘The camp?’
The grandmother shrugged wearily. David asked: ‘Please, can you show me?’
There was a tenderness in her reply: ‘I can show you
.
’
It was a ten-minute walk through the leafy desolation of neglected suburbia, past an ugly church, past the half-hearted brasserie, and down a long straight road. They approached the old, nettly, rusty brown railway track – and crossed nervously, as if they all feared a train – though the track had obviously been derelict for decades. It seemed unnaturally
flat. David wondered why the whole area felt quite so dead. So bleak and shunned.
Black insects whirled in the cooling twilight, as they crossed the open concrete and gravel, by the looming crucifix. Madame Bentayou, still in her tartan slippers, sat on the wooden bench next to her granddaughter. David remained standing, and asked the older Cagot woman: ‘So…this is the camp? The cross? What happened here?’
Madame Bentayou waved a weary hand, indicating the vacant acres of weeds, and grey concrete footings.
‘It was a Nazi camp. A concentration camp.’
She fell silent.
David gazed around. So
that was it:
that explained the desolation of the little town – no one wanted to live here any more. It was poisoned by its grievous history, like an inner-city district known for a murder house, a place where the police find bodies.
You don’t want to live there.
The old woman went on, ‘The Nazis occupied…the southwest corner of France, right up to the Spanish border. The border with Vichy, the puppet France of Pétain, was a hundred miles east. This was the main Nazi camp in southwest France.’
‘And who was kept here?’
‘The usual peoples. That is a memorial to them over there, the cross, and also the glass walls.’ Then she pointed to his left. ‘The two buildings over there are some barracks. Preserved.’
Amy was frowning.
‘They kept Jews here?’
‘Yes. But also…’ Madame Bentayou paused. ‘Lots of people. When the Nazis took over it was already a prison place for refugees from the Spanish War. So it was already full of communists and, you know, the Basques. The Gestapo added Jews and gypsies. And other minority.’
The ground looked notably swampy, rancid puddles reflecting the darkening clouds. David looked to the rear of the camp: the most distant section was divided from the rest of the prison by a low wall. A second cross had been erected upon it, another memorial.
The woman noticed his gaze, and explained.
‘Another shrine. Because that is the most…the most
notorious
part of the camp.’
‘Why?’
Madame Bentayou paused, as if to brace herself.
‘It was the medical section. It is very terrible. The Germans took that part of the camp…they did the
experiments
here…scientific tests. Medical experiment.’
The old woman had a handkerchief balled in her hand, ready to dab at any tears. She went on, ‘Blood tests. Tissue tests. And there were tortures. People killed or tortured. Many people.’
Her words dwindled, the tears were close. David realized the ghastly and obvious truth.
‘Madame Bentayou.’ His words were faltering. ‘Were you here?’
Her voice was whisperingly quiet.
‘
Oui
. I was here. As a very young girl. And so was my mother, she was in this camp. Like so many Cagots.’ She shook her head. ‘So I know what you ask next. You want to know why we never moved away after the war?’ The old woman flashed him a defiant, passionate glare. ‘The Cagots have been here for a thousand years, why should we let them move us!? We stay. We always stay, unless they kill us.’ She was wiping away the tears with her handkerchief. Then she seemed to still her emotions: ‘Monsieur Martinez…’
‘David. Please.’
‘Monsieur David, I want to go home now. I am sorry. As
you must see this is very upsetting. I never speak of it normally.’
She rose. David felt the unasked questions like a pain. ‘But please – I really want to know. About my parents.’ He could hear the neediness in his own voice. He didn’t care. ‘What were
they
doing here? Where were they killed? How did you know them?’
Her face was sombre. ‘Your father…came to Gurs. And I recognized him.’
‘Because?’
‘Your father looked like your grandfather.
Non?
Is this not true?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it is true. Dark hair, big shoulders. Tall…’
‘I saw your grandfather in your father, the same way I recognized you. All three of you, you look the same…And this is what I told
your
father: I said to him, “Monsieur Eduardo, I was in the camp with your father, Sergio Martinez”…’
‘My grandfather.’
‘Yes.’
A new and chilly wind was raking the poplars that guarded the edge of the camp; their branches roiled, in a worried fashion, as if perturbed by the unexpected breeze.
The woman went on, ‘This was a surprise for your father. He did not know your family’s history, that is why he came here, to find out the truth of his background.’ Her eyes were half closed. ‘He did not know that your grandfather was a Basque and had been in a camp in the war. So I told him. And, David, when your father and mother learned all this, they stayed here. For two weeks. Asking more questions…your father Eduardo would come into the brasserie in Gurs, with your
maman
. I think my husband told him many thing, many things about the camp, and other people too.’ She quietly sighed. ‘I have been a widow for a decade.’
‘And then? My parents were in France for a month.’
‘Yes…Your father went to Provence, and maybe somewhere else, for a week or more. I do not know why. But…when he came back with your mother he was asking even
more
question.
Difficult
questions. About the camp and the Basques and the Cagots. About Eugen Fischer. About many thing. A man here, a traitor.’
‘Who?’
‘I cannot remember the name. I will try and remember. Later. These are terrible memories for me, for any Cagot, for anybody.’
David had to confront the final query, the necessary query. He felt he was on the disused railway track, and it had suddenly come to life, and the train was bearing down on him. Carrying the terrible truth in its rusted brown trucks.
‘So where were they killed? My mum and dad?’
Madame Bentayou pointed to the main road at the edge of the camp. Beyond it was a sunflower field; the withered plants of autumn looked like tiny dead trees, made of charred and ragged paper.
‘Right there. In the car. An explosion. Someone blew up the car…or at least that is what everyone in Gurs and Navvarenx believed. The police did not investigate properly. Just like they did not investigate…my son’s murder, his wife’s murder, weeks ago.’ Madame Bentayou’s voice was tremulous. ‘I wonder if this is the same people killing. I wonder if I saw someone in the town, the same man, tall, both times. But I am sorry, I am talking too much, I am crazy, is that what you say? My granddaughter thinks I am losing my head. I am going now. I want some time alone. We can talk more later.’
Madame Bentayou got up wearily. She stepped close to David, and pressed his hand between her two cold small hands, gazing into his eyes. Then she turned, taking a wooded footpath back to her bungalow.
David watched her go. He also felt a need to be alone: a fierce need. He walked to the edge of the road.
Looking down at the tarmac he wondered, ludicrously, if there would still be skidmarks. Evidence of the explosion. Fifteen years later. Little quartzite nuggets of windscreen glass still sprinkled in the gutter. Patches of his mother’s blood. A grass stalk smeared red.
And a car, black and gutted, with two bodies inside.
There was nothing. He stood there for ten minutes in the chilly breeze, wondering, remembering. His mother in a blue dress. Smiling and alive. He felt as if he was trying to reach out to her – here – hoping to see her ghost, here where she died. He was a small boy running along a path to the waiting arms of his smiling mother. The sadness of it was palpable, like the wind from the mountains.
The sun was gone and the air was cold.
He made his way back to the girls. Eloise was taking a phone call. Her expression was very engaged. She turned to David.
‘It is my grandmother again. She remembers the name, Monsieur David. The name of the traitor. It was José. José –’
‘Garovillo?’
‘Yes.’
David flashed a glance at Amy:
what?
But Eloise was now shouting down the phone. ‘
Grandmère? Grandmère!
’
Amy called over: ‘What! Eloise! What!’
The young Cagot girl shoved her phone in a pocket.
‘She says there are men coming up the drive. She says she recognizes him – it is him – the man she saw before –’
Eloise was already running across the camp.
Running to her grandmother.
Before Miguel got to her.
They all ran. The sweat dripped in David’s eyes as he
sprinted after Eloise – she was fast, young, seventeen. Soon they were over the old railtrack, and sprinting past the peeling wooden doorway of the brasserie. Eloise was running to save her grandmother; David was trying to save Eloise, and maybe to save them all. As he ran, the logic of it all exploded in his mind like a speeded up film of some natural organic process: a blossoming dark rose.
It was obviously Miguel: Miguel was doing
all
the killing. It was always Miguel, the Wolf, slaughtering the Cagots, slaughtering everyone. A fox that kills all the chickens: for fun.
They came in sight of the bungalow beyond the woodlands, and David stared.
Were they too late? The twilit road looked quiet, and deserted. There was no red car. The bungalow seemed undisturbed. But then David saw – for a moment – a dark face at a window. A tall man. The head vanished. Eloise yelled – and then David grabbed her, pulling her back into the trees. He clamped a hand around her mouth.
He hissed, ‘Eloise, the man in there is a psychopath. Brutal. He tried to kill us. He is killing everyone. Your mum and dad. He will kill you too –’
Eloise was half fighting, half sobbing, struggling against his restraint. What to do?
What to do?
David realized he couldn’t keep hold of her – it was somehow
wrong.
If she wanted to save her grandmother, if she wanted to die doing that, then he had to let her do it. With a gasp of exhaustion, he released her – and fell back onto the soggy ground.
Amy hissed a warning but Eloise did not respond, she moved a few yards, waiting, watching – there were lights on in the bungalow– and then she ran across the road, in and out of the gloomy shadows, running to her grandmother. David stood there, lurking and shameful, paralyzed – for half a minute. He whispered hoarsely to Amy: ‘What do we do? What do we fucking do?’
Amy raised a hand, and mouthed the word silently: ‘Eloise.’
The teenage girl was running back, her face was stricken with terror, her young lips trembling.
‘El –’
The girl shook her head. The silver cross on her dark skin glittered in the lonely streetlight.
‘I see I saw I see I see –’ she stammered, fighting tears, or screams ‘– through the window.’
‘What?’
Another shake of the head. No words. Eloise stood there shivering, like a terrified gazelle, aware of a nearby predator. Amy put a hand on Eloise’s shoulders; David reached in his pocket and gave her the phone. He whispered, fiercely, ‘Call the police.
Call
them
.
Even if you don’t trust them…’
Eloise accepted the phone, and dialled. Amy and David whispered together, trying to work out where to go, where to hide next. Everywhere they went, they got hunted down, maybe it was hopeless. Eloise was talking urgently on the mobile.
The door to the bungalow opened. David grabbed Eloise once again and they ducked into the woods.
‘Come on!’
At last, Eloise spoke, ‘I know…I know where we can go. We have to hide. Yes? He will kill us too!’
‘Yes –’
‘Give me your car keys!’
David handed them over; they skulked down the line of trees to David’s car. Eloise hissed: ‘Now!’
They jumped in. David took the back seat, Amy the front, Eloise revved the engine fiercely, squealed into reverse; and they were away: headlights dipped and racing out of Gurs, taking a narrow, rustic route, racing for the mountains. David
looked behind – the road was empty; he turned and saw. Eloise’s face was streaked with fierce, silent tears.
He didn’t want to guess what she had glimpsed through the window. Her grandmother killed – or worse –
being
killed. She was obviously in some kind of shock. And yet her driving was good. She was crying but she was coping. Doing it. He gazed at her dark profile. There was something proud in her teenage grace; and something purely sad. Again he noticed the cross on her dark Cagot neck. It was glittering in the oncoming carlights.
Amy opened a window and the cold night air gushed in; David flopped back, quite shattered. He was covered in noisome mud, yet again, from the crawl into the trees.
But at least they were alive;
Amy and Eloise were alive
.
But they’d left her grandmother to die.
Eloise had stopped crying. Her face was now devoid of expression. She was driving, fast – with a bleak efficiency – through the back roads, the black mountains looming ahead; the clouds had cleared, so the tallest summit wore a saintly halo of stars against the deep dark blue.
They were alive. But Eloise’s grandmother was surely dead.
Amy turned and looked at David, and then at his hand. He stared down: he had a vivid and bloody cut along the palm, from when they’d fallen back, so violently, into the trees.