Citadel (63 page)
Baillard took a deep breath. The Spaniard on the opposite side of the truck was now watching him. García, he thought he was called. A former member of the International Brigade, a man who’d dedicated his life to fighting the fascists, Baillard knew him to be brave and principled. Their eyes met, then the slightest nod and Baillard knew he had one ally at least. Perhaps, when the time came, the others would find their courage.
The convoy stopped twice, although the engines kept running – perhaps to let other traffic past – but soon the swoop and curve of the bay came into view. A few houses, the grey rock a sharp contrast with the blue of the Mediterranean.
They continued through the town, then the driver swung to the right, heading away from the sea towards the uninhabited hinterland of the Puig del Mas. Tarmac gave way to stones, potholes on an unmade track. Baillard felt his heart lurch against his ribs. A shot of adrenalin through his veins, hope too. He knew this part of the land. In the distant past, he had travelled this way, heading for Portbou on the Spanish side of the border. The odds against them getting away were high, but they were better than they might have been.
‘Can you not see what they are going to do?’ he said urgently.
He and the Spaniard exchanged another glance, García acknowledging with a grimace how Baillard’s fears were justified. Not one of the others reacted, just continued to sway with the motion of the truck in defeated silence.
They continued to drive for ten minutes, a little less. Then, without any warning, the driver slammed on the brakes. Everyone slid, or fell, forwards, then struggled back to a sitting position. All except the man beside Baillard, who remained lying on his side on the floor of the truck.
The driver killed the engine. Seven pairs of eyes turned towards the doors. Seven sets of ears listening as the chain was released and knocked against the wood, then the metal bolt was slid back. Fresh air and pale sunlight flooded in.
‘Out,’ ordered the guard, jabbing the first prisoner with his rifle. A Mauser Karabiner K98, supplied by the Germans. More proof, Baillard thought – though it was hardly needed – of what the local Milice and Waffen-SS had agreed between them.
Everyone did what they were told. Baillard bowed his head, feigning a stiffness in his legs and arms. He felt García move up to stand beside him, shuffling forwards to join the other prisoners. Eight trucks, more than fifty wretched men.
Baillard gave silent thanks at their luck. They were in a clearing he recognised. On three sides, low scrub and woodland. There was an old smuggler’s path through the woods, he knew it well. Of the eight trucks in the convoy, they were closest to the wood.
‘
À la izquierda
,’ he whispered.
The Spaniard glanced to the left, saw the narrow path, and nodded. It was a risk, but it was the only chance they had.
‘I said, everyone out,’ the guard shouted into the back of their truck.
Baillard watched him climb up inside, kick the collapsed prisoner with his boot, then he turned and shouted.
‘Hey! Give us a hand.’
While two other guards went towards the truck, Baillard and the Spaniard seized their chance. Taking small steps, Baillard began to edge backwards towards the trees. He had no way of knowing if his fellow prisoners would realise what they were doing, if others were planning the same thing or might even try to stop them.
The
miliciens
heaved the body from the truck.
‘One more we don’t have to worry about,’ one guard said, letting the corpse drop to the ground.
Baillard kept his eyes pinned on the truck and the ragged huddle of prisoners. Still, no one reacted. No one shouted a warning to the guards. Baillard and García reached the edge of the wood. Immediately, they turned and walked quickly into the deep shade. Baillard knew that if they could make it unobserved to the first fork in the path, they had a good chance of staying free. The left-hand spur went sharply down to what looked like a dead end. The wider, right-hand side led towards the higher pastures. If soldiers did come after them, he thought they would head up the hillside. It was the logical decision.
An explosion of gunfire stopped him in his tracks. Both men froze. Baillard forced himself not to turn around and to keep moving, faster along the path to the dividing of the ways. Another burst from the rifles, the shots chasing on one another’s tail, but none aimed in the direction of the woods. His foot slipped, he flung out his hand to steady himself. More gunfire.
How many dead? Twenty? Thirty?
Baillard gestured to a flat ledge, a narrow gap in the underhang of the cliff. The Spaniard dropped to his stomach and slithered inside. The guns had fallen silent. Baillard hesitated, then followed him in. Then, violent in the peace of the mountains, they heard an explosion, followed by another. Minutes later, black plumes of smoke, pushed by the Tramontana, blew across the sky in front of where they were hiding.
‘
Los despósitos de combustible
,’ said Baillard. The fuel tanks.
The Spaniard crossed himself. Baillard closed his eyes, praying now that none of the prisoners had been left alive to burn. He had seen death by fire too many times – in Toulouse, in Carcassonne, at Montségur – and the sounds and smells and sights had never left him. The screaming and choking, the sweet stench of burnt flesh, bones slipping from the carcasses.
He bowed his head, regretful at how he had failed to persuade them. How he had not been able to save them. So many lives lost. Then he felt a tap on his arm. He opened his eyes to see the Spaniard holding out his hand.
‘
Gracias, amigo
,’ said García.
CARCASSONNE
B
y the time Sandrine came away from the Café des Deux Gares, leaving Gaston to pack up the copies of
Libertat
for distribution, it was nearly ten o’clock. The Bastide was going about its daily business. An ordinary Monday morning. Suzanne went separately back to the rue du Palais to tell Raoul and Marianne that Sandrine was on her way.
Sandrine had one more job to do before she could go home, but every minute seemed endless. She hoped Robert would be on time. She walked past the Brasserie Terminus, feeling exhausted and jittery. The combination of little sleep and Liesl’s photographs of the atrocities perpetrated at Chalabre had set her nerves on edge. Even so, she realised it wasn’t just her. There was a high level of tension in the air. Everyone was more watchful than usual, anticipating trouble.
She crossed the boulevard Omer Sarraut, thinking about what might be the cause of it. Because people were already talking about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel? Or the wireless broadcast about Authié? Her hands gripped the wooden handle of her
panier
tighter. Even those who didn’t know his name would understand that the arrival of a senior commander, dispatched from the north, signalled a new phase in the battle.
Without breaking stride, Sandrine looked in through the window of the Café Continental to see if Robert Bonnet was already there. He wasn’t, so she kept walking down rue Georges Clemenceau. She’d go as far as the junction with rue de Verdun, then come back again.
Just outside Artozouls, a group of men were coming towards her. Filling the width of the street, forcing other pedestrians to step out of their way, their voices loud and belligerent. Several different conversations seemed to be going on at once. Sandrine spotted Lucie’s father. She didn’t think Monsieur Ménard would recognise her, but she turned her face away all the same.
‘It was the Amazone,’ one of the veterans said as they drew level. ‘That’s what I heard.’
Quickly Sandrine stepped into the doorway of the nearest shop and pretended to be looking at the limited display of household goods.
‘Some tart? Bloody figment of your imagination, that’s all. Partisan propaganda to undermine us. Make the Milice out to be weak. Whipped by some female.’ A coarse burst of laugher. ‘It’s communists behind Berriac. It’ll come out soon enough.’
Sandrine waited until the men had gone into the Café Edouard, then stepped back into the street. She knew she had several nicknames – ‘Amazone’ being one of the most polite. Others were less complimentary: whore, lesbian, gypsy. She reached the junction, then turned round and started to walk back. Much as she hated to admit it, the truth was the sentiments expressed by the LVF were shared by many on their side too. There were plenty of partisans who resented even the idea of an all-female
réseau
. They believed that war was a man’s business and it offended their sense of honour. Flag, faith, family, they still clung to a Pétainist view of the world. Men like Raoul, Yves Rousset, Guillaume Breillac – even Robert and Gaston Bonnet, though they were of an older generation – were in the minority.
‘Amazone,’ she muttered, allowing herself a brief smile. As long as people refused to believe that a women’s network could exist, they were safer. A few insults was a small price to pay for that.
She looked back up the street and saw Robert Bonnet hurrying towards their rendezvous. She gave him a few moments to go inside, then slowly walked back towards the café.
Robert was standing at the counter nursing a glass of something that passed for beer. She walked up and stood at the far end.
‘
Bonjour
,’ she said to the proprietor. ‘
Un café, s’il vous plaît
.’
He nodded. Before the war, an unaccompanied young woman at the counter in a café by herself might have attracted attention, but not now. Everyone was busy trying not to notice anyone else. Sandrine stood in silence until he came back with the small white china cup and saucer.
‘
Merci
,’ she said, pushing a folded note across the counter. Inside it was a list of the places Robert would need to take the copies of
Libertat
, once Gaston had packed the supplies and Marianne had notified the couriers.
The proprietor took the note, rang up the amount in the till, then walked to the other end of the counter and gave the change, and the list, to Robert. Then he returned to the centre, took a glass and began to polish it with his tea towel.
‘Anything else I can get you, mademoiselle?’
Sandrine drank the foul chicory mixture down in one. ‘No, that’s just what I needed. A pick-me-up.’
He nodded. ‘
A demain?
’
Sandrine gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps things were going to be all right after all.
‘Yes,’ she said, raising her voice so Robert could hear too.
‘Tuesday it is,’ said the proprietor. ‘Market day.’
T
here was no one about when Sandrine got back to the rue du Palais. She left her basket outside the back door, to get rid of the smell of the fish, washed her hands again with washing powder Marianne had exchanged for some matches, then went upstairs and quietly opened the door to her bedroom.
The morning light filtered grey through the gaps in the shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she picked out the bureau of bleached mahogany against the wall between the two windows. To the right of her bed, the high-backed couch covered with washed green Chinese silk and the bamboo plant stand. Opposite, beside the door, the shelves of the low bookcase were almost empty now. They had hidden some of the books, now banned, in the cellar, not wanting to let them go. Others, of less sentimental value, they’d been forced to use for the fire in the salon during the bitter winters.
Raoul was still asleep in her child’s single bed. One arm above his head, the other flung wide, claiming ownership of the space. His hair, set free from oil or wax, was tousled on the pillow and the sheet was drawn up no higher than his waist, revealing his strong, though now thin, body. In the gathering light, Sandrine could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin.
She knew she had to wake him up. But, just for a moment, she let him sleep in peace. Before the Germans had invaded all of France, the murder charge hanging over him had kept him out of Carcassonne. Two years later, so very many men were criminals or in hiding that Raoul no longer stood out. It had made it possible for him to come in and out of Carcassonne from time to time.
Sandrine sat on the bed beside him and ran her fingers down his smooth tanned arms, so brown next to the white of his chest. She could feel the life moving beneath his skin, the hardship and strength of his hilltop existence. And when she remembered how they had spent the hours between dusk and dawn, she blushed, even though there was no one there to see.
Even after two years, Sandrine was still overwhelmed by the strength of her feelings. The way her heart leapt when she caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted beneath her feet when he smiled at her. In all that time, they had never spent more than a few days at a time together. She occasionally wondered whether, if they lived together week in, week out like any normal husband and wife, this sense of the miracle of emotion and need would fade. Grow tired, habitual? Was it only because they saw one another rarely and for such short periods of time that there was this intensity, this sense of being sick and weak with desire when they did meet? There was no way of knowing.
They all lived in the present. Even so, Sandrine sometimes allowed herself to dream of a time when she and Raoul might have the chance to grow weary of one another’s company. When the war was over and they no longer had to live in the shadows. The chance to become a dull, old married couple like any other, rejoicing in the mundane and the everyday.
‘Sandrine Pelletier,’ she muttered, trying out the name in her head. ‘Monsieur et Madame Pelletier.’
She sighed. Somehow, it didn’t suit her. Didn’t suit either of them, truth be told. It made them sound too grown up, too staid. Sandrine hugged her arms around herself, disliking the imprint of her ribs under her own fingers. She had grown thin, they all had. It suited Lucie’s prettiness and Marianne’s fine features, but she herself felt merely ungainly, all long arms and legs. A
garçon manqué
once more, as Marieta had called her when she was little.
