Hunting Ground (20 page)

The kitchen was all but in darkness. Firelight flickered from the draught in the firebox to touch the scar. Schiller’s grey-green Wehr-macht tunic was unbuttoned, the jackboots newly greased and polished. It was 2:03 a.m., and I had thought the house asleep, had forgotten entirely that I was to have had coffee with him earlier.

He was sitting there waiting for me with a tulip glass in hand. The Walther P38 he always carried lay on the floor beside the bottle: dark green and mould-encrusted glass against gun-metal blue and the warm brick red of the floor tiles. I couldn’t have known then, but now do, that the P38 9 mm is a very rugged and reliable weapon.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded, taking in my corduroy trousers, hastily tucked-in nightgown of heavy, coarse flannel, the cardigan, the torch.

‘I thought I heard something at the rabbit hutches.’ I was still in the doorway.

‘What’s that in your other hand?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, Herr Obersturmführer.’ I had quickly dropped the woollen socks and heavy sweater behind a chair.

‘Give me the flashlight, and I’ll check the rabbits for you. It’s not safe for a woman to go out at night. There are still too many transients.’

‘As you wish, Lieutenant.’

‘Johann … Please, Frau de St-Germain, it’s not always necessary to address me by rank.’

‘It helps to keep things in their proper perspective.’

‘So, the rabbits, yes. What was it you heard? A fox perhaps?’

It had been a lie, and he knew it. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I
thought
I heard something.’

‘Brandy … do you like it, Lily?’

Is he a little drunk? I wonder, and shake my head.

‘Then sit down anyway. This war will soon be over. Perhaps you had better get used to things.’

‘In what way?’

Again, there is that smile. ‘In lots of ways. By telling me the truth, by no more late night walks without permission. After all, there is the curfew to consider.’

And it’s against the law to be out there after it, even here.

‘We’ve heard reports,’ he says. ‘News travels fast. I just thought I should let you know.’

‘Reports of
what
, Herr Obersturmführer?’

The drawstring of my nightgown is still undone, and as his eyes fall to it and my chest, he says, ‘The Wehrmacht and Oberst Neumann won’t always have the upper hand. Things will soon change. Security is bound to be tightened. The Gestapo …’

‘And the SS?’

‘Of course.’

‘But aren’t you in the Wehrmacht, too?’

Setting the brandy aside, he takes the torch from me but lets his hand linger on mine, then leaves the pistol lying on the floor as he says, ‘I’ll check the rabbits for you.’

The firelight flickers. Sparks erupt from a knot of pine, and these awaken me to the smell of drying herbs, yeast, soup, so many things as I glance again at what he’s deliberately left, my knowing Tommy and Nicki are waiting for me.

Had he seen the rucksack I had packed for them and left ready in the storeroom? Had he already found the food, the wine, and the letter I had written, telling Tommy about Marie and where she was buried and that Jean-Guy still insisted she was alive?

Had he found the two Lebel revolvers that were still wrapped in their oilcloths?

Touching my throat, I waited. Staring at the stove and not at that gun was difficult, but had he left it loaded? I wondered. It was a question I couldn’t answer, though I knew that it was what he would have done.

‘Nothing,’ he said with a toss of his head and a grin. ‘All present and accounted for.’

My back was to the stove, and he’d boxed me in, and I knew what he wanted of me, but he said, ‘Your flashlight, Frau de St-Germain.’

Again, there was that grin. I pressed my knees together and held on tightly for I feared I was going to flood the place and he knew it, too. ‘Think it over,’ he says. ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’

Leaves cling to what is left of the whitewashed glass of my little potting shed. I nudge the door open and step hesitantly inside. There are two trestle tables, one on either side of the heavy planks that form a narrow walkway between. Shards and pots, bulbs that have shrivelled up long ago, remind me of memories I want, so many of them.

‘Tommy …’ I managed and was in his arms and fighting for his lips. As I cried, he held me tightly.

‘Lily …
Ah, mon Dieu
, how I’ve missed you. Are the kids okay?’

‘There’s no time. I’ve brought you some things. Go now. Go quickly.’

‘Are there Germans staying in the house?’

‘Three.’

‘Schiller?’ asked Nicki.

I told them it wasn’t safe. ‘I’ll try to arrange something. The stream … the tower.’

For a moment, we stood under the stars. ‘Did he see us this afternoon?’ asked Tommy, still holding on to me.

‘I really don’t know, but I left him not twenty minutes ago, and at supper he asked if I’d been meeting someone at the tower.’

‘In that case, is your mother’s house safe?’ asked Nicki.

‘With him, with them, it’s too hard to tell.’

It’s Tommy who asks, ‘Can you get us into Paris?’

Very quickly, I let them know I’d need travel permits from the Feldkommandantur in Fontainebleau, and that these are very hard to get. Every second I’m with them is too many.

‘What about your sister?’ asked Nicki. ‘Could she help us?’

I told them I could only try. ‘For now, check out the farmhouse carefully, and if you stay there, light the stove only late at night. Draw all the curtains. Don’t shine a light, even a glimmer, or it’ll be seen from a distance and they may be watching the place. I just don’t know.’

Each of them embraced me. Tommy slipped into the straps of the rucksack as I handed Nicki the duffel bag, and he said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be all right.’

Tommy kissed me, and I whispered, ‘Please be careful. Something isn’t right. Schiller knows more than he’s letting on.’

Five minutes … was it even that long we were together?

I had several good gardens out here, dug by hand, no horse and plow for me. Rabbit and chicken manure were budgeted plant by plant, old leaves and humus worked in, horse manure, too, when I could manage it, well rotted, of course.

Walking down the long tunnel of my orchard, picking my way through the fallen branches, things come at me hard. Tommy and Nicki, the children, always them, their shouts, their laughter, the little squabbles that were so important to them. Michèle and my sister, even Jules.

Stepping into the house, I make my way upstairs to find the bedroom in ruins. Rubbish is everywhere, no furniture, no paintings on the walls. Someone has tried to light the fire, but the act of doing must have been interrupted and a litter of cartridge casings for a Schmeisser lies not far from the darkness of the bloodstain he must have left. The sheath of his knife has been cast aside and is empty, and as I stare at it I’m right back in time. There was no sound. The room was in total darkness as I came to stand beside that bed in which Schiller was waiting. Could I do such a thing? Must I? It was seven or eight kilometres through the forest and across the fields to the farmhouse, probably a lot more for Tommy and Nicki since they wouldn’t know the terrain as well as myself.

My belt came undone. I lowered my trousers, stepped out of them, and dropped the nightgown at my feet. Tommy would understand, but the thought of Schiller was almost too much for me. It was freezing. A hesitant step was taken. He had given me an ultimatum, but would he let the matter go if I climbed into bed with him?

He stirred. I waited. I clutched the covers I had lifted and listened hard.

The bastard was asleep.

Two or three days passed. I can’t remember exactly, but the war of nerves continued, then Schiller was called away and I took a chance.

The Feldkommandantur was in the
hôtel de ville
along with all the other civic departments. Guards flanked the entrance, over the top of which a swastika flew. Though it wasn’t yet dawn, everyone was at work since being on Berlin time in the autumn and winter meant getting up an hour earlier in the dead of night. Still, I hadn’t got used to it. They would ask me questions. I would have to have a very good reason for going to Paris.

Jean-Guy had said good-bye. Lost in thought, I watched as he rode his bicycle down the street and turned the corner towards the school. Rudi would look after him and if not Rudi, then Georges and Tante Marie. I only knew that I had to get to Paris. Tommy and Nicki couldn’t chance waiting long at the farmhouse. My mother would return, and that would only complicate matters further.

There were no civilian cars. Bicycles lined the avenue in front of the town hall, and I wondered what we’d all do when winter came. Walk, I supposed.
Ma foi,
I’ll say this of the Occupation, it sure toned up the legs. But contrary to popular opinion, some women grew fat because whenever possible, they ate like bears awaiting hibernation. The cinemas brought this out. Always the most popular films were those in which there was a meal—a banquet preferably, and I thought, I’ll wager the war will set a new style in French films. From now on, they will always show people eating and enjoying their food. Whole stories will be centred around the dining table or out in the garden over coffee and cakes. Some people used to dream about those scenes in the camps. People went crazy dreaming like that.

An army lorry passed by me, then a black Citroën with two men in the back. What might have been a busy street had the look of desolation. Still it wasn’t so bad there, not yet. There was plenty of food, if not the variety one wanted, and not too much interference, not really.

I chained my bicycle to a tree and crossed the road. To apply for a travel permit, it was necessary to fill out a form and submit one’s papers. These were then checked by the mayor and, if acceptable, given the forwarding stamp of approval.

Since most applications were unacceptable, you would have thought the process would have been fast. Long before I got there, the benches had all been filled and a line had formed down one side of the corridor. People coughed, wheezed, blew their noses, or puffed on their fags. Everywhere there was the odour of bad tobacco, stale sweat, garlic, onions, anise, and cheap perfume. Wine, too.

They shuffled, grumbled, talked of the weather, the harvest, of anything but the war and its Occupation. While some acknowledged me with a nod, others viewed me with suspicion—after all, hadn’t the British run away at Dunkerque to protect their little island and self-interest?

Most knew of my husband and his mistress, of my rebellious infidelity, so there was this to contend with as well. Others who had been jealous of the house gloated smugly because now I was just like everyone else.

It was almost noon when I finally sat down in front of the mayor. Alphonse Picard was brusque. Shoving some papers aside, he looked across the cluttered desk. I’d be difficult, he knew. ‘Madame, the Germans, they do not want you to go to Paris.’

‘Am I under some sort of house arrest?’

‘Ah, no. It’s just that they would prefer …’

‘But I must see a doctor.’

‘Why not Dr. Rivard?’

I shook my head. ‘I need to see Dr. André de Verville.’

He raised his bushy eyebrows, tugged at his moustache, gave a massive shrug at the futility of trying to deal with unreasonable women who should count themselves lucky, then said, complainingly, ‘But why? Rivard is very good,
n’est-ce pas
? You take your children … excuse me, madame, your son to him.’

‘I have a problem. For this, I need a specialist.’

‘But … but what sort of problem?
Ah, mon Dieu
, madame, the Germans …’ He cast anxious eyes towards the door and leaned a little forward. ‘The Germans have said you’re to be discouraged from attempting to leave the district.’

‘Then I must go to see them.’

‘No! Ah, no, madame.’ He ducked his head to one side and dragged out his handkerchief. ‘Please, what sort of problem?’

He blew his nose.

‘Must I discuss it with you?’

‘
Oui,
in confidence, of course.’ Again, he lowered his voice. ‘Madame de St-Germain, I’m responsible for the conduct of everyone in the district. Please, you must understand, your sister …’

‘Janine? What’s she done?’

Picard shrugged. ‘Nothing, I think. They simply can’t find her. She has “disappeared” like so many and that is reason enough to cause suspicion.’ He cleared his throat, stuffed the handkerchief away, reached for his anise-flavoured lozenges, and got right back to business. ‘Your problem, madame?’

Nini missing … Dmitry not showing up … I would have to bluff my way through and get into Paris to find out what had happened to her and if she was mixed up in anything. ‘I’m still bleeding. As you know, I lost a child during the Exodus. André de Verville is a specialist in such things.’

Picard expressed sympathy but remained adamant. ‘Well, why not see Dr. Bilodeau in Nemours? It’s much closer.’

‘His fingers wander.’

‘His
what
? Ah, I see.’
Pour l’amour de Dieu,
was I making it up? he wondered. Bilodeau … Danielle Anjou, Josianne le Belle … other young girls, his own daughters perhaps? Fingers … Paris … Why did I have to choose Paris? ‘Very well, but I must warn you, madame. You are English. One false step and …’ He clenched a fist.

As he signed the permit, I hesitated, then asked, ‘Are our friends watching my house for someone?’

Picard’s mouse-brown eyes were filled with sadness. It would have been much better had I not asked. ‘I didn’t hear you, madame. Please, you are to take this along to the Feldkommandant’s office. The colonel will have gone to lunch, but his assistant will stamp and sign it for you. Two days, that’s all I can give you. Please don’t try to smuggle food into Paris. It’s against the rationing. They’ll only think you intend to sell it on the black market.’

He walked me to the door, but kept me a moment. ‘My regards to your husband, madame. Perhaps if … if you were to ask him to explain how things are, Monsieur Jules could make you understand. Please don’t give the Germans any reason to arrest you. They would only blame me and then … Ah, what could I do for all the others?’