Citadel (15 page)
‘Quite something,’ said Suzanne.
‘Wonderful.’
Suzanne looked at her. ‘That clown earlier didn’t upset you too much?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? People like him.’
‘What happened earlier?’ Marianne said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.
‘Fournier.’
Sandrine saw a flash of disgust in Marianne’s eyes. Then up ahead, there was a crescendo of applause and they all turned to look.
‘
France libre
,’ someone shouted. ‘
France libre. Vive la France
.’
Another outbreak of clapping, hand against hand against hand, growing louder. Cheering and yelling, the sound reverberating off the high stone walls of the old Bastion du Calvaire, the cathédrale Saint-Michel, the façade of the Caserne Laperrine on the far side of the Place des Armes.
‘De Gaulle, de Gaulle, de Gaulle.’
The chanting grew stronger, braver.
‘
France libre, France libre
.’
Sandrine’s heart was pounding. All around her she felt the spirit of those courageous men and women who, in the past, had stood as she did now in the streets of Carcassonne, and who would do so again in the future. Voices raised in protest.
Then, above the noise, a woman began to sing.
‘
Allons, enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé
. . .’
Her voice floated above the crowd, a simple soprano line, as the words of ‘La Marseillaise’ filled the air. One by one, people joined in. Tainted by its adoption by Vichy, on this forbidden Bastille Day the anthem was being reclaimed by the daughters and sons of the Midi. Holding her sister’s hand on one side and Suzanne’s on the other, Sandrine joined in the final words of the song.
‘
Marchons, marchons, qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!
’
Applause, again. Another song began, the notes rippling like a wave through the crowd.
This time, the words caught in her throat. Sandrine was suddenly overwhelmed by affection for this band of women – Marianne and Suzanne, Lucie and Liesl, other friends and neighbours elsewhere in the crowd. And she knew that, whatever happened in the future, she would always remember this day. Standing together beneath the endless blue of the Midi singing for peace. For freedom.
‘
Vive la France
,’ she cried, punching the air with her fist. ‘
Vive Carcassonne!
’
Raoul had not intended to be drawn in, but the simple innocence of the crowd, the shouting and the singing, car horns beeping, touched him. He realised he was smiling. Bruno would have loved it. Been proud to be a part of it. The true Midi standing up for what they believed in. The pavements were five, six people deep, so Raoul climbed on to the base of a street lamp to get a better look. Now he could make out the distinctive features of Henri Gout. Could hear his rallying cry. His call for the crowd to fight for France, to resist the occupation of the North, to disregard Vichy. Raoul stuffed the remaining leaflets he was holding into his jacket pocket, moved by the emotion of it all. He pushed on where the crowds were densest and climbed up on to a low wall.
‘
Vive le Midi!
’ The shout went up for the last time.
The band on the terrace of the Café du Nord struck up again, playing louder, faster, wilder, like a tarantella, notes spiralling, twisting in the air, as when dancers lose their footing at the Fête de l’Âne. Hats were being thrown in the air. Bellowing, shouting, berets and workers’ caps and bonnets of straw and felt. Carcassonne in glorious colours. Around Raoul, the crowd on the boulevard Barbès, the Places des Armes, in the tiny side streets. Matrons and maîtres, men and women of all classes, all ages, united in the moment. Flags and placards, banners.
A woman’s straw hat suddenly flew in front of his eyes, nearly hitting him in the face. Raoul instinctively flung out his hand to catch it.
Then all sound fell away, all he could hear was the beating of the blood in his veins. He took in the elegant woman in a navy blue dress, her very tall friend with cropped hair and the bottle blonde, all standing beside a girl in a green dress with a white belt. Wild black curls.
That girl.
Now she was turning around, reaching up to take the hat from his hand. A crack of light entered Raoul’s numb heart.
Her eyes widened, as if she was trying to remember how or why she knew him.
‘
Merci infiniment
,’ she said politely.
He climbed down and handed her the hat. She took it, held his gaze a moment longer. Then turned away. Raoul saw her whisper something to the woman in blue, who then turned round to look at him too. Sisters? She was older, pale, with soft brown hair, but they had similar features.
Raoul didn’t dare speak, for fear his voice would betray him. He had found her. Or, rather, Carcassonne had given her up.
The girl turned round again and now was staring directly at him, cautious but curious too.
Raoul was about to smile, about to try to speak, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of four thugs step forward and grab a man whose arm was raised in the communist salute. He was pushed to the ground. Someone screamed.
The mood of the day immediately changed, tightened, sharpened. A second man started to run, going against the tide of people. One of the officers hit him across the throat, and he fell. A woman shouted. Panic started to spread through the crowd. Then, the sound of glass breaking and tables being kicked over, chairs.
‘I’m glad you’re all right,’ he said, allowing himself to touch her briefly on the arm. ‘Very glad.’
‘It’s you,’ Sandrine said.
But Raoul had already turned on his heel and charged towards the café.
S
andrine felt a swooping sensation, as if she was up high and looking down on herself from a great height.
‘Max has already gone ahead with Lucie and Liesl,’ Marianne was saying. ‘I think we should follow them.’
She stood stock still, watching him go.
‘Sandrine, come on,’ said Marianne impatiently.
She didn’t move. ‘It was him,’ she said, in a dazed voice.
‘What, who?’
‘The boy who gave me my hat back. It was him. From the river.’
Marianne stared at her. ‘But you said you didn’t see his face properly.’
‘I didn’t, not really.’
‘Well, how do you know it was him? Did he say?’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘He just said he was glad I was all right. But when I heard his voice, I was certain. It was him.’
There was another shout, then the shriek of a police siren. Marianne and Sandrine found themselves being pushed forward in the surge of the crowd.
Marianne grabbed her hand. ‘We must get away from here, come on.’
Raoul ran to join César, who was standing outside the Café du Nord. All around on the terrace, tables and chairs were scattered, lying on their sides.
‘What happened?’ Raoul demanded, trying to concentrate on César, not think about the girl.
‘As soon as Gout and the others had gone, the
flics
moved in. Arrested someone. They’d obviously been watching him.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Ex-International Brigade, working with the Narbonne Resistance now.’
Raoul looked around. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Gaston and Robert were by the Place de l’Armistice earlier.’
‘And Laval?’
‘Saw him up by the Bastion du Calvaire about half an hour ago.’
‘With Coursan?’
‘Haven’t seen him at all. You?’
Raoul shook his head. ‘Keep looking. Make sure no one else is taken.’
‘Fine,’ said César.
Raoul continued up the boulevard Barbès. Most ordinary people, rattled by the altercation, were heading back into the safety of the maze of streets behind the Place des Armes. He caught another glimpse of Fournier, this time with a couple of men he recognised as members of the Fascist LVF.
He stepped back into the shadow of the building.
Then he saw Sylvère Laval was with them. At first, Raoul thought he’d been arrested, but as he watched, Laval pointed to a man in the crowd and spoke.
‘That one, him.’
Immediately, the police reacted.
‘
Attention, arrêtez
,’ one of the officers yelled.
The target began to run, darting sideways, trying to find a path through the frightened men and women in his way, attempting to escape.
‘
Arrêtez!
’ the officer repeated. ‘Stop!’
The partisan desperately pushed forward, launching himself into the sea of arms and legs. Someone fired into the air. A moment of silence, then people began to flee. Some dived for cover, others started running. Their quarry stopped. Slowly, he turned and put his hands above his head. Raoul saluted his bravery. There were women and children, old men who might get shot if he didn’t give himself up.
The police were on him in a second, throwing him to the ground and cuffing his hands behind his back. Then hauling him to his feet and marching him towards a dark prison van parked beside the trees below the walls of the Bastion du Calvaire. As he was marched past the group, the partisan spat in Fournier’s face.
Raoul leant against the wall for a second, his mind racing. Laval and Fournier. Undercover, working with the police, a trap. His thoughts tumbling one over the other in his mind.
He doubled back to where he’d last seen César. No sign of him. He skirted round the periphery of the dwindling crowd, watching all the time. He couldn’t see any of the others. Then he caught sight of Laval again, now standing in front of the Garden of Remembrance by the cathédrale Saint-Michel. He was holding something in his hand.
Raoul watched as Laval bent down, then immediately stepped back into the sheltered west door of the cathedral. As if taking cover.
In an instant, he saw the whole plan laid out from the first act to the last. The full scale of it. This wasn’t just about Laval infiltrating their group; it was part of a coordinated attempt to use the demonstration to turn the people of Carcassonne against the partisans. To paint the
résistants
as dangerous, careless of the lives of ordinary citizens. To portray them as the enemies of peace.
‘Get down,’ Raoul shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Everyone, get down!’
His words were lost in the explosion.
For a second after the blast, nothing seemed to happen. Time stood still. Fistfuls of masonry, of stone and ballast seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment, under the malevolent watch of the gargoyles, before suddenly crashing back to earth. And all around, copies of the leaflets Raoul was holding were fluttering like leaves blown by the wind. It seemed Laval had packed their tracts round the bomb to implicate them further.
Then, screaming and people shouting for help.
Raoul ran towards an old man lying dazed on the ground, still holding the placard he’d been carrying. A trickle of blood ran down his temple, but he was shocked rather than seriously hurt.
‘
Vivre libre ou mourir
,’ Raoul read, prising the veteran’s thin fingers from the wooden handle. ‘Are you all right, monsieur?’
‘Never better, son,’ he said. ‘Shows we’ve got ’em on the run, è?’
A woman came to help, so Raoul moved on to the next. A teenage boy was propped against the wall, clutching his arm. He looked very grey, very pale. Raoul took off his jacket and swung it over the boy’s shoulders. As he did, the few remaining tracts fell out of the pocket.
‘Look!’ a woman with a child was shouting. ‘That’s him. That’s one of them, look!’
It was a split second before Raoul realised she was pointing at him, at the leaflets lying on the steps beside him. The same black and white images as were drifting all over the garden.
He heard sirens, distant but coming closer.
‘No,’ he began to say. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laval step out of the doorway and slip away into the crowd. He pointed. ‘No, the man you want is—’
‘He did it,’ the woman shrieked. ‘There!’
Now police were converging on the patch of garden from all angles and the woman was still shouting.
Raoul didn’t like the pallor of the boy, but he knew there was nothing he could do.
‘I’ll try to get someone to help you,’ he promised, then he ran into the cover of the streets beyond the square.
‘
W
hat was that?’ said Sandrine, turning back in the direction of the noise. ‘Firecrackers?’
A woman’s scream drifted across the rooftops. Everyone around them paused, then carried on with what they were doing. Sandrine saw the owner of the Pharmacie Sarcos hesitate, before reaching up with his long wooden pole and hook to pull down the yellow and white awning as if he’d heard nothing. The mechanism squeaked as it unfurled.
‘Why’s no one taking any notice?’
Suzanne tapped the side of her head. ‘See nothing, do nothing, that’s how it is.’
‘We should go back,’ Sandrine said.
Another shout from the direction of the boulevard Barbès.
‘We’ve got to help,’ she said.
Before Marianne could stop her, Sandrine had started running. She raced back along the rue du Chartran, going against the tide. Marianne and Suzanne were now following behind.
The crowd was streaming away from the boulevard Barbès and into the safety of the Bastide. Men walking fast, women clutching the hands of frightened, crying children. In the distance, the wail of an ambulance.
Sandrine shot out her hand. ‘What’s going on? We heard an explosion and—’
‘A bomb,’ the man said. ‘Might be another, no one knows.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘Didn’t stick around to find out,’ he said, pulling his arm free and running on.
Sandrine’s heart was thudding in her chest and her muscles were taut, but she kept going. Across rue Voltaire, then straight ahead she saw the devastation. The Garden of Remembrance looked like a quarry. Masonry, bricks. The rose trees lining the paths were snapped and twisted, there was rubble everywhere. The west door of the cathedral was obscured by a cloud of dust. The façade was still intact, but the semicircular stone surround and the pillars on one side were broken, torn apart by the impact of the blast.
