Those in Peril (22 page)

‘Turn yourself slowly, please.'

He did so. A Wehrmacht officer was holding the gun in question, pointed directly at his chest, and, behind him, a semicircle of helmeted soldiers, all armed with sub-machine guns, also aimed at him.

‘What are you doing here?'

He showed his book. ‘I am sketching, as you can see.'

‘Sketching?'

‘Drawing. With pencil,' he held it up. ‘I am an artist.'

‘This is a joke?'

‘No. Not a joke. First I sketch a scene, and later perhaps I paint it. That is the way I work.'

‘Your identity card, please.'

He groped in his jacket pocket and handed it over and then felt again in another pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. The movement caused the soldiers to lunge forward, brandishing their guns. He produced the packet of Gauloises, shook one out from the open end and lit it.

‘Why are you not at work?'

He said mildly, ‘I've told you, I am an artist – as it states on my card. I
am
at work. I also have papers that exempt me from any compulsory manual labour.' He groped once again in his pocket. ‘You will see that I was wounded in the Great War and invalided out.'

The exemption papers were closely examined. Thank God, he thought, for the good major.

‘Why are you not in Pont-Aven where you live?'

He lifted his hands. ‘I am always looking for new scenes to paint and I thought I would drive along the coast as far as Lorient where I have some friends. It's a pleasant drive with interesting views.' He added casually, ‘Major Winter who is stationed at Pont-Aven is also a good friend of mine. Perhaps you know him?'

The officer stared at him. ‘It is strictly for-bidden to use this road.'

‘I was not aware of that. There is no notice.'

‘How is it that you have a car? And gasoline for such things?'

‘The car is mine. I have owned it for many years. As for the gasoline, Major Winter was kind enough to let me have a few coupons. In the interest of art, you understand. He is something of a connoisseur. Without wishing to boast, I am quite a well-known artist in France.' It was the truth, if not the whole truth. He waited, smoking the Gauloise, while they searched the car, wrenching open the small valise he had left on the seat, poking and prodding with the guns. His trusty old camera was brought forth as though it had been a ticking bomb.

‘Why have you this?'

‘I use it for my work. Sometimes, instead of making a sketch, I take a photograph – to remember the details of the scene.' Once again this was perfectly true, though, in this case, he had been planning and hoping to photograph more than just scenery.

‘Cameras are forbidden.'

‘I didn't know that.'

‘I must keep it.' The papers were returned to him brusquely. ‘You must go back.'

‘My friends at Lorient are expecting me.'

‘If you wish to travel to Lorient you must take the inland road. Not this one.'

‘But the scenery is not so good for me.'

‘I repeat. This road is forbidden. You must go back immediately.'

He shrugged and got into the car. They let him go, watching him as he turned and drove back along the way he had come. As he glanced in the rear-view mirror, they were still standing there and still watching, the officer cradling his treasured camera.

He took the inland road instead, arriving in Lorient in the early evening. His story had spoken freely of friends there. More accurately, there was a friend. It was many months since he had visited and he rather wondered what he would find at the apartment in the Rue Lazare Carnot, or if indeed anyone at all would be there. But Violette answered the door to him – a little thinner, but otherwise unchanged. Still with the long dark hair wound into a knot on the top of her head, the milk-white skin, the Mona Lisa smile.

‘How good it is to see you, Louis. And in these dreadful days . . .'

He embraced her fondly. In the past, before she had married, she had sat for him many times and was still his favourite model. She had always understood entirely what was required – how to pose with a natural grace and fluidity and how to sustain it. Some of his best nudes had been of her. He was drawn into the living room, cheaply furnished but with style: flea-market shawls camouflaging the shortcomings of the couch and chairs, lengths of antique velvet draping the windows, a cloth of soft chenille the faded pink of an old rose, covering an ugly table.

‘A glass of wine? It's not good, but it's not so bad either.'

‘Thank you.'

She fetched the wine and curled up on the couch, legs tucked under, feet bare. Her feet were perfect, like the feet of angels. ‘And you will stay to eat, I hope. Nothing special, but I have some eggs to make an omelette. I have been saving them.'

‘For me?'

She laughed. ‘If I had known you were coming, then yes. Otherwise for Daniel.'

‘You have some news of your husband?'

She shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. He's still held as a prisoner of war – that's all I know. But I hope every day that he will be released. After all, the war is over for France. Some are already being sent home. Surely the Germans will release them all soon.'

He thought it most unlikely but he said comfortingly, ‘I'm sure he will be home before long.'

She accepted a cigarette and he lit it for her. She looked up at him with her secretive smile. ‘What brings you to see me, Louis? You know that I can't work for you any more. Daniel will not allow it.'

‘I realize that, my dear Violette, and it's a great loss for me. But, of course, I respect your husband's wishes.' Indeed, he did. The dour Daniel with the large fists and quick temper was not the sort of husband one risked offending.

‘So, why are you here?'

‘I wondered how you were in these dreadful days, as you so rightly call them. And I was a little curious.'

‘Curious? About what?'

‘About what the Boche are up to in Lorient. When I tried to drive along the coast road from Pont-Aven they stopped me. It's now strictly forbidden to go that way. I asked myself what they were so anxious to hide.'

‘I know what that is.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh yes. Daniel's brother, Ernest, told me. He's a technician and working for the Germans. He was conscripted and had no choice in the matter. He was very upset about it.'

‘And what did he say?'

‘That they are building shelters for German U-boats at Keroman – you know, the fishing village about two kilometres south of here. He has to help them.'

‘Is that so? I should be interested to hear more.'

‘That's all he would tell me.'

‘Even so, I am curious. One should learn as much as possible about the enemy.'

Violette tilted her head with its charming top-knot of hair. ‘It's not like you, Louis, to care at all about such things.'

‘But still I should like to talk to your brother-in-law. Does he live in Lorient?'

‘Yes. I can give you the address, if you like. But I doubt if he'll want to tell you anything more. In Lorient, we all hate the Germans but we are afraid of them, too.'

She cooked the omelettes just how he liked them, with the centres runny and filled with chopped herbs. A little salad, a hunk of bread, some more of the wine and it was almost possible to forget about the war. Afterwards, naturally, they went to bed. The marriage to Daniel had put a stop to their working relationship, but not to the rest of it – whenever the opportunity occurred. He lay beside her while she slept, smoking a Gauloise and planning his next step.

It was not possible to see Violette's brother-in-law until the next evening, after his work. Duval spent the day wandering around the town. The Germans were everywhere, erecting barriers, demanding papers, giving orders. Twice he was stopped and his papers scrutinized. Even the knowledge that they were perfectly in order didn't make the experience any less unpleasant. To be challenged by a foreigner over his right to walk freely about his own country was the worst thing of all.

Ernest Boitard had not yet returned from work when he presented himself at the address given by Violette. Madame Boitard, regarding him fiercely from the doorway, proved as inquisitorial as any German.

‘What is your business?'

‘A private matter, madame.'

‘Private? How so? You say that you have never met my husband. Certainly, he has never spoken of you.'

But for the scowl, she would have been quite good-looking. ‘We have a mutual interest – his brother.'

‘Daniel? He's a prisoner of war in Germany.'

‘I am aware of that.' He tried smiling at her, but, for once, without any noticeable effect. ‘Perhaps it would be possible for me to wait for your husband's return?'

In the end, she gave way and allowed him in. More than half an hour passed before Ernest Boitard came back – a slightly built man with no physical resemblance to his large and pugnacious brother, and seeming a good deal more intelligent. He was apologetic on behalf of his wife.

‘She is suspicious of everybody. Always on the defensive.'

‘Because you have to work for the Germans?'

He looked uneasy. ‘You know about that?'

‘Your brother's wife, Violette, told me.'

‘She had no right to tell you. I was conscripted. Forced to. I am by no means the only one – some French have even volunteered. But, even so, it is a matter of deep shame for us. We have a son whom we try to shield from any kind of trouble. You can imagine . . .'

Duval nodded. ‘I can understand how it must be. I'm afraid, then, that you won't wish to hear what I have come to propose.'

‘What's that?'

‘First, I must ask, does your loyalty lie with Marshal Pétain? Do you believe that following him is the only way to save France?'

‘My God, no! He is
selling
france, not saving her. Look how things are going. The Germans do with us exactly as they please; they make every possible use of us, even against each other. The busybody official who rings the doorbell or stamps our papers wears a French uniform, not German. Who can we trust? What honour is there left? What hope for the future? None.'

‘You are resigned to the situation?'

‘Resigned? No, but what can I do? What can anybody do?'

‘
You
could do something.'

‘Such as?'

‘You're being obliged to work for the Germans – to help them with safe shelters for their U-boats at Keroman. Violette told me. Instead of having to go north hundreds of miles all the way round Scotland, the U-boats will now have an open door into the North Atlantic to go out and sink British supply ships. Then they will return to their base, rearm, refuel, resupply and go out again to sink more. And again. And again. Isn't that so?'

Boitard shook his head. ‘I can't speak of this. I should never have said a word to Violette. I must have been mad.'

Duval went on relentlessly. ‘If the English are defeated then there's no hope left for any of us. If, for example, the U-boats can sink all the ships that keep them supplied, then they're finished. They need to know about the submarine shelters at Keroman. How many, how they are constructed, everything of importance. Can you help?'

‘You're suggesting that I spy on the Germans? That's crazy. I couldn't risk it – I have a wife and son.'

‘I understand. But I wonder what sort of life your son will have, growing up under the Nazis? Forced, like his father, to do whatever they command. A slave. Is that what you want for him?'

‘Of course not. But why should I do anything to help the English? We all know they can't be trusted either. They deserted us. Destroyed our navy.'

‘They are our only hope left.'

A shrug. ‘They may survive for a while longer perhaps, but, in the end, they will be defeated, just as we were. The Americans won't save them again, like the last time.'

Duval drew on his cigarette. ‘There is a saying – perhaps you know it. For evil to survive, it is only necessary for good men to do nothing.'

Boitard turned away and there was a long silence. He hunched his shoulders. ‘I'm an electrician, monsieur. That's all.'

‘So much the better. Your skills will be needed everywhere at Keroman. There will be every chance to observe and note. I am only asking that you go about your business, just as you are ordered to do, but that while you do so, you use your eyes. You notice certain things: the thickness of the shelters, for example. What exactly they are made of. The precise placing of the U-boat pens, the layout of the dry docks, fuel stores, workshops, the position of any anti-aircraft guns. You write nothing down on paper, of course. All you do is take an exact note in your head.'

‘And then what?'

‘You pass on the information. To me. Or to someone appointed by me. Not here in this house. In another place. A park, a church, a café – wherever is safe. A casual encounter of two strangers happening to sit next to each other on a bench, or in a pew, or at the same table.'

‘Who is it precisely that you are acting for, monsieur? I should like to know that. For the British themselves?'

‘For France, my friend,' Duval said. ‘For France.'

He returned to Pont-Aven the next day and left immediately by train for Rennes. It was more than eight years since he had visited the town. After both his parents had died there had been no particular reason to return. His birthplace, historic though it was, had no special claim on him. As soon as he had grown up, he had left it for Paris. Now, it drew him back for the good reason that it was not only the capital of Brittany, but a major road and rail link to St Malo and Brest, to Normandy and Paris and Nantes.