Finding Rebecca: A Novel of Love and the Holocaust (12 page)

 
“I didn’t think they were. You really
need to leave.” She was already pulling her underwear back on.

The noise was at the door now, and it
opened. Two or more people walked though. “How am I going to get out?”
Christopher had his trousers on now.

“Eh,” Rebecca was looking around the
room, and Christopher saw her glancing under the bed. “The window, you can shin
down the drainpipe. It’s not too far anyway.” Christopher walked to the window
and looked out. It was less than twenty feet. There were voices downstairs now,
both Rebecca’s parents and Jonathan. Christopher was fully dressed within
seconds and Rebecca was at the door, shouting that she would be down in a
minute. Christopher opened the window and looked at Rebecca again. He stuck one
leg out and then drew it back inside. He looked at her and smiled.

“What are you doing? You need to
leave, please.”
 

He strode across the room and took
her in his arms to kiss her again.

He opened the window and let himself flop down into the
sloshy wetness of the still unkempt back garden and looked back up at the
window at her one last time and saw her smiling at him through the driving
rain.
 

Christopher went through the motions
of changing for bed and even climbed under the covers and put out the lamp but
his mind was already made up. He needed to see her. He threw back the covers
and reached down for his clothes, folded neatly on the chair beside his bed. He
was dressed and ready to go within thirty seconds. The light of the moon
covered the apartment in a thin film of luminescent grey, just enough for him
to find his way out and he was gone.

It was a few minutes before he had
cycled past the lights of the town. The lamp on his bike cast out a tunnel of
white in front of him, illuminating the narrow road and the bushes closing in
around him. The warmth of the summer night lay thick in the air and Christopher
could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.

It had been six days since he had
fled from her bedroom, and he had been seeing Rebecca as much as he could but
something had changed. He understood the pressure she was under, but surely the
best thing was to finally reject Jonathan Durrell and his proposal. It all
seemed so simple, yet Christopher felt something had changed. Christopher
arrived at his father’s house and climbed off the bicycle. The sweat had
transferred to his palms now, the handlebars moist and clammy from where he had
touched them.
 
He rested the bike
against a bush and began walking down towards Rebecca’s parents’ house. There was
no light other than that of the moon and stars but his eyes soon adjusted
whereby he could make out almost everything around him. In truth, he needed
little light, as he could have done this with his eyes closed. He knew the road
down to Rebecca’s house better than almost anything else. Christopher stopped
walking and turned around to face down towards the sea. Thoughts of her with
Jonathan Durrell flooded his mind, seeping into every corner. And the picture
of Sandrine, sitting on his bed facing out towards the rain was there, as if to
torture him further. He was running out of excuses not to go into the pub where
she worked. His friends all knew what had happened. He reached around the back
of his neck and took a piece of hair between his fingers and pulled. The pain
jerked him back into the moment, standing there on that dark road. He walked on
and the house came into view over the black green bushes that fenced the
perimeter.

Christopher ducked in through the
hole in the hedge at the back of the house, ignoring the pricking of the twigs
jutting out of the bush as they grazed his ears and the side of his neck. He
crouched down in the overgrown grass at the back of the garden surveying the
scene, as he always did before he looked for suitable stones to throw up at
Rebecca’s window. There was a dull light on downstairs, as there always was but
that didn’t mean anyone was awake. It was after midnight. She wasn’t expecting
him tonight so he would need to find something big enough to wake her up, but
only her, not her parents. He moved forward, feeling through the patches of
grass and rough soil for stones. It took him a few seconds to find two or three
good ones and he threw the first up at Rebecca’s window in its solitary
position on the second floor. His first throw was a good one and he crouched
down again, waiting for Rebecca to appear. Thirty seconds passed. Usually she
woke up with the first stone. He threw another, this time missing the window
altogether. He cursed gently under his breath, berating himself for his bad
throw, before throwing the third. This one hit with a loud clack and
Christopher bent down again, hoping that he hadn’t cracked the glass. He waited
for Rebecca, expecting an angry face to greet his sheepish grin. But his smile
faded as no answer came.

Christopher dug his hands into the
loose soil of the untidy garden as he thought of Rebecca with Jonathan,
somewhere with Jonathan Durrell. He got up to retreat through the bush and back
to his father’s house. Christopher heard the back door opening, fifteen feet
away, and threw his head back to see. The twin barrels of a shotgun jutted out
of the door, coming through as if in slow motion. He got up to run towards the
bush. The sound of the shotgun being fired exploded in his ears and Christopher
stopped running, half expecting to feel the slicing heat of shot fragments in
his back.

“You there, stop now,” Pierre Cassin
said. “Turn around. That was a warning shot. The next one will be right at your
head.”

Christopher immediately had the
thought to keep running, to leap over the bush and keep running all the way
home. Cassin was drunk, that much was clear from the slurred words that fell
out of his mouth and he only had one shot left. There must have been a good
chance that he was too full of whisky to shoot straight but Christopher thought
better of it. He turned around slowly and with his hands raised above his head.
The light flooding out of the open door behind Pierre Cassin illuminated his
face just enough that Christopher was able to see his lips curling up as he
recognized him. The wind gusted up to carry the whisper as Cassin’s eyes lit
up. “
L’Allemand
.”
 

Christopher stood there for a few
seconds waiting for Cassin to speak but he only smiled. “I’m sorry that I was
sneaking around in your back garden, Monsieur Cassin. I was only here to see
Rebecca.”

“Oh, I understand that,” Cassin
laughed. “It’s heartening to know that love is still alive in the world, and
creeping around my back garden of all places.” He threw his head back to laugh.
Christopher didn’t flinch, he hadn’t moved, his hands still raised above his
head, the wind licking at the top of his neck. “I suppose you’re wondering what
I’m going to do with you now? I should have you arrested for this.”

“I’m so sorry Monsieur Cassin. I
won’t do this again.”

“You won’t come to see my daughter
again, just because I came out here and pointed a shotgun at you? You
disappoint me, young man. I thought you felt more for her than that.”

Christopher looked back at Cassin.
His face was a dark hole illuminated only by the light curving around the
sides. His eyes were black fires, his hands uncertain as they pointed the
shotgun directly at Christopher’s chest.

“Where is Rebecca? Is she here?” The
wind blew hard against the house almost pushing Christopher forward off his
feet.

“No, she’s not here. Come inside and
I’ll tell you where she is,” he said and gestured at Christopher with the point
of the shotgun to walk towards him. Christopher looked at him again, hoping for
some kind of a reprieve, some word from Cassin that he could go home now, that
this game was over. But the word didn’t come. Cassin gestured at him again and
this time he wasn’t smiling. Christopher tried to move his feet but he
couldn’t. He brought his hands down to rub his face. He raised his hands again
and shifted his feet, one in front of the other, walking towards Rebecca’s
father. Cassin stood aside as Christopher approached him and gestured with the
shotgun for him to go inside. Christopher had the thought to wrestle the gun
away from Cassin, to fight his way out of this, but every muscle in his body
was seized with fear so that it was almost too much of an effort just to walk
inside the house. Christopher heard the crack of the door closing behind him.
Cassin told him to keep walking, into the sitting room.

“I haven’t seen you in this house for
many years but I’m sure you know it almost as well as I do,” he said.
Christopher wanted to say something back, but the words wouldn’t come. He moved
through into the sitting room, lit by a dim lamp in each corner. The room was
covered in a flickering golden half-light, the corners dark. The once grand
furniture seemed faded and worn, the walls covered in Cassin’s paintings of
summer days and leaves blowing in the breeze. Christopher could make out only
the dark shapes in the murky light. Cassin directed him to sit down on a chair
by the fireplace. Cassin sat down opposite him in a large armchair and picked
up the whisky glass. His face was weathered and old, his crooked nose extending
out into a point above his long brown moustache. His large shoulders slumped
down as he sat, his tattered dressing gown draped across his shoulders like
rags on a rotting scarecrow. His still chestnut brown hair was receding
slightly and greased back across his scalp. Rebecca often spoke of how handsome
her father had been as a young man and how her mother fell in love with him the
first moment they met. That was hard to believe now. He was staring at
Christopher across the firelight, the shotgun resting beside the chair within
easy reach.

“Do you want a drink?” he said
holding up his glass.

“No, no thank you.”

“Oh, now, you don’t say no when a man
offers you a drink in his own house. Now do you want a drink, young man?”

Christopher looked back across at him
for a few seconds. “Yes, please.”

“Good. I do so hate to drink alone.”
His French accent was still strong. He spoke as if he was just about to clear
his throat, but never did. He reached over to the cabinet beside him and took
out a whisky glass, filled it to the brim and held it out. Christopher pitched
onto one foot and leaned forward to take it.

“Thank you, Monsieur Cassin,”
Christopher said, the brown liquid spilling over the edges. Cassin motioned for
him to drink it and Christopher held it to his lips, taking a sip.

“Is that the best you can do? Drink
that back.”

Christopher looked across at Cassin
at then the tumbler of whisky in his hand. “Monsieur Cassin, this is a lot
of….”

“I said drink it!” Cassin hissed.
Christopher looked across at him and the shotgun, cradled in his lap. He raised
the glass to his lips and took the largest gulp he could manage, letting the
whisky slide down his throat. It was vile, like drinking flaming gravel, but he
didn’t flinch.

“So let’s talk about why you are
here, despite the fact that you are not, well, how can I put this, you are not
welcome?”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur Cassi…”

“You’ve said that boy!” Cassin
shouted. “Don’t you say that again! You’re not sorry, no, you’re not sorry. If
it had been Rebecca who came out into the garden and not me, would you be
sorry?”

“No.”

“Well, then, don’t give me that
sorry
line anymore. It’s tiring. It
demeans us both.”

“I don’t know what you want me to
say.” Christopher replied. He held the glass up to his face and then brought it
back down. Cassin ruffled his eyes into tiny slits and gestured for him to
drink. Christopher held the glass to his lips and sipped “Okay, you’re right.
I’m not sorry.”

“Now that’s the answer a man would
give,” Cassin smiled but his face was stiff, unyielding, and his eyes dead. He
finished his glass before pouring himself another. “You like my daughter then?”
Christopher didn’t reply. “Oh you love my daughter then?” Cassin said and
started laughing so hard that Christopher thought he was going to have a
seizure. He was still smiling as he lit a cigarette. The smoke hung thick and
heavy in the air as Cassin leaned forward to speak again. “So, what do you know
about love boy? Tell me about love.”

Christopher didn’t answer, instead
taking another sip of the foul liquid swirling around in the glass. “I don’t pretend
to be an expert,” he said through his grimace.

“Let me tell you a little something
about this love you speak of.” Cassin spat. “It’s pure lies, perpetrated by
women to control the men of this world. I can see what you think you know and
it makes me laugh, boy. You think you know everything now don’t you?” Christopher
felt a chill along his back and shook in his seat. “You love Rebecca and she
loves you? You know where she is tonight? You know where?” Christopher shook
his head. “She’s at a reception in Lord Durrell’s house. As you know the young
master Durrell has taken quite a liking to Rebecca.” Christopher’s heart
dropped like a stone. “Now, what was that you were saying before boy?”