Hunting Ground (33 page)

She begs, pleads, cries at me, and backs away until she gives a startled scream, and I hear the sound as she hits the steps below.

Exhaustion comes. It’s always swift after a killing. One feels totally drained, but I know Jules is out there and will have heard the shots, as may Schiller and Dupuis yet, for a moment, I can only stand and listen to the house, to its silence and the fragments of memory.

Her body lies sprawled on the steps. Blood drains from her broken head. Vuitton is very dead, but I can’t take the chance. One slug for him and two for her. I’m just like Schiller. I’ve crawled right back down into the cesspool with him and all the others, and this I don’t like about myself. For this, as for so many other things, I am ashamed.

Making my way carefully downstairs, I step over her body and leave the house to my husband. I know I must remember how it was back then, that only in my doing so is there salvation, and that before I die I must confess everything.

Now, where did I leave off remembering?
Ah
bon, that autumn of 1941 and my sister’s request that I recruit men to help us. Yes … yes, that’s where I was but did I tell you we were to rob a German train? Can you imagine such a thing? A mother with two kids? A woman in love, warm, sensitive still, one even willing to forget and to forgive so long as she could escape with her children.

What an idiot I was.

There are some rocks, a place to hide, and I’m near the tower, but won’t go up there yet. Too many memories, too much feeling.

Clateau … Yes, yes, I’ll start with Clateau, the butcher, and the loft above his slaughterhouse in Barbizon. It was full of tobacco smoke. I was the only woman present, and it was very late. Well after curfew. I’d ridden my bicycle all the way there through the pouring rain and was still freezing.

There were seven of us sitting around the table on which a single lantern burned among half-empty bottles of Armagnac. Four of the men were from Melun—distrustful guys who’d just as soon cut our throats. Two worked for the railways, a third was with the police, and the last a pious schoolteacher. Two Communists, one Socialist, and one Radical Socialist.
Ah, mon Dieu,
it was quite a combination. All were over the age of fifty, and all of them knew that, if caught, they’d be shot and their families and closest relatives taken, the women sent into forced labour, the men, from the age of eighteen on, held hostage until needed to atone for the actions of other
résistants
, the children sent to reform schools in the Reich or to the camps.

Clateau and I formed numbers five and six, but it was to the seventh that we needed to turn: He of the
gueules cassées
, the broken mugs from the 1914–1918 war, those poor unfortunates whose facial features have been disfigured by shrapnel, machine-gun fire, or other such things. Paul Tessier lived in the little town of Bois-le-Roi on the Seine and about eight kilometres to the south of Melun. The main railway line to Paris went right through there. Tessier was a woodcarver whose services were not much in demand those days, but his fingers were of a surgeon. Later I was to discover that he knew all about explosives but, more than this, that he enjoyed them.

‘This railway train?’ he asked.

He was of about sixty, I suppose. ‘One railway truck. Only one,’ I told him. ‘The paintings and other works of art will be sealed inside it by welding the doors shut.’

‘It’s too risky,’ said the schoolteacher, reaching for the cigarettes I’d brought along with the Armagnac from my husband’s cellar. ‘Who’s to say the things will stay in France, should we get them?’

He was emaciated, possibly tubercular, and wore glasses that served only to hide his blue eyes and then, suddenly, to expose their nervousness.

‘Right now, my friend, the stuff’s slated for Germany, so why argue?’ I asked. ‘Something has to be done to stop it. Isn’t that right?’

It was the
gueule cassée
who said, ‘What interest have you in this? The way I see it, your husband’s in bed with the
Boche
, and we shouldn’t trust you.’

‘He’s my husband only in name. Look, I haven’t slept with him in over two years. We stay together because …’

‘Because she’s British,’ interceded Clateau, ‘and her husband needs her to watch over his family’s house. In turn, she needs him to keep her from the internment camp.’
**

‘A fine match!’ said the smaller of the two railwaymen, one whom you wouldn’t trust with his mother’s handbag. He’d sunk half a bottle already and was brave, but not on the drink, had the innate courage of a cornered rat. ‘Your railway truck, madame. Why, please, will it depart from the Gare de Lyon?’ He was smart, too.

‘Because Göring is afraid the RAF might bomb the train, so he’s taking no chances. The train will be routed south to Dijon and from there to Mulhouse on the Rhine and finally to Munich.’

He was impressed. ‘How is it that you know all this?’

‘I … I can’t say. Look, it would be foolish of me to reveal my sources. The less others know, the better.’

‘How many men have you?’ snapped the
flic
. He was not in uniform, but one can always tell a cop.

‘That I also can’t reveal. When the time comes, you’ll know by the armbands they’ll wear.’

‘Our funeral?’ the schoolteacher said with a snort.

There was only one way to handle this. I got up and said ‘I’m leaving. Forget you ever saw me. Forget I asked for your help. France is being plundered of her art treasures, and all you can do is drink my brandy!’

‘Sit down, madame. Please, it’s all right. Don’t be put off by our little questions,’ said Tessier, but was the broken mug their leader? He had a way with him I liked. He dragged out a map of the district and began to spread it on the table. ‘The bottles … come now, boys,’ he said. ‘Don’t knock them over. The lady’s been generous.’

A forefinger traced out the line from the Gare de Lyon through to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges and on southward to Melun and Bois-le-Roi.

‘We must discuss the repercussions first,’ he said, lifting those small, hard eyes to look fully at me, and I knew I couldn’t shrink from this initial defiance, for he had the twisted face of a deformed potato, the wired jaws that must have hurt terribly in the damp and the cold. ‘Since hostages will be taken and shot, madame, from where, please, would you like this to happen? In my town, or theirs?’ He indicated the four from Melun. ‘Or yours?’ His voice had the flutter of dry wind over paper.

‘Fontainebleau,’ I heard myself saying, ‘is far too close to my house. We need to stop the train somewhere …’

‘We need to switch it on to a siding,’ said the smaller of the two railwaymen. ‘Villeneuve-St-Georges would be suitable and far enough from all of us, but the closer one gets to Paris, the more Germans one has to put up with.’

‘How many other railway trucks will there be?’ asked his pal. ‘Is it to be a goods train, madame, or one that also carries passengers?’

‘I … I don’t know yet. Look, as soon as I find out, I’ll get word to you.’

‘How?’ demanded the schoolteacher.

I was getting to like him less and less. ‘Through a friend of a friend.’

Tessier clucked his tongue and waved an impatient finger. ‘Arnold, be quiet, eh? Let the lady tell us if she’ll have a cutting torch to open that can of beans and the lorries with which to move the stuff once we have it.’

There were so many details to work out, it all seemed hopeless.

‘You really do need help, madame,’ he said, ‘but where are you going to hide everything if we should manage to steal it?’

‘I have a place but can’t tell you where it is.’

‘Then it’s no deal,’ said the schoolteacher.

‘Arnold,
pour l’amour de Dieu
, be quiet,’ snapped Tessier.

‘Surely the
Boche
will have a guard on this train?’ asked Clateau. ‘We haven’t any guns, madame. There’s bound to be a fight. Some of us will get …’

He left it unsaid, but butchers the world over tend to be practical. Tessier ran his finger down the railway line, and I knew he was still worrying over the problem of hostages. ‘Nemours,’ he said, ‘where the line curves into the Bois de la Commanderie. The woods will help us. I’ll go to Paris and make the complete run. I’ve a cousin who lives in Nemours. He’s a real shit, and in bed with the Nazis, so it’ll be good to get in touch with him. That way the
Boche
won’t be suspicious of me.’

‘I could meet you in Avon on your way back, if that would suit. My children go to school in Fontainebleau so I have the excuse of being there when they get out.’

‘At five’ he said, lifting those puckered eyes of his. ‘Well, what about it, Gaston?’ he asked the taller of the two railwaymen.

‘Five … no, the five thirty, I think,’ said that one. ‘It’ll pass through there on the way into Paris, but you’ll only have a few minutes and the platform will be guarded.’

Those schedules could have been off as well, but I nodded. It was too good an opportunity to miss and I had to do something. Tessier squinted at me. I think, then, that he finally said, Okay, to himself, for he smiled and shook his head. ‘A woman with two children should limit her risks, madame. Let me get off the train and have my supper someplace. A little café, a bistro—surely Fontainebleau has such, or have the
Boche
turned it back into the luxury of the kings?’

I mentioned the restaurant of Matthieu Fayelle, and all of them understood.

‘Then I’ll see you there at four thirty, madame, should the train not be delayed. We’ll have an acorn coffee or perhaps even an apéritif. It will be my pleasure.’

‘What day?’ Already I was thinking I could really trust him and it was such a relief.

‘Which day would suit you best?’ he asked. ‘For me, my time is more or less my own, since the wife runs our little
tabac
without too much assistance, especially now that there’s so little tobacco and what there is of it, leaves much to question.’

‘Friday.’

‘
Ah, bon,
and not a no-alcohol day.’

As were Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, but could I get cigarettes from him? I wondered. Oh, for sure, the rations were being cut and cut and women still weren’t allowed a card and tickets, but there were ways, weren’t there? Always. ‘Yes, Friday would be best. It’ll give me time to talk to some of the others.’

‘No names,’ said the schoolteacher. ‘From now on, please.’

‘It goes without saying, eh?’ I told him. ‘Of course, we’ll be careful. You also.’

‘I have a van,’ said Clateau. ‘I can help you with that.’

His grizzled moon face was deadly serious, and it was then that I realized he must have known Tommy and I were near the caves the night we saw him.

I nodded. I said, ‘I knew I could count on you.’ But could I really? One never knows. Even butchers can be tempted.

The glasses were filled, the cigarettes gathered. We drank a toast to our little venture and one by one left that place.

Those guys from Melun had come by bicycle as had Tessier, so I was glad I was not any of them. For me, there was probably only one patrol, for them perhaps as many as three and, of course, for me the distance was much shorter.

It seemed strange, listening for the departing squeaks of their bicycles. A dog barked. Clateau gave a muted curse as he slipped a parcel of sausages into my hands. Good ones, too. The night was full of rain, but that would make the patrols less likely. I passed the farmhouse of my mother, rode across the plain, and up into the forest. When I had to, I walked, and when, finally, I got near the house, I headed through the orchard to the potting shed and left my bicycle there.

Then I made a careful circuit and when I found Georges standing under an overhang, smoking his pipe, I knew I was going to have to do something about him.

I had only a brief memory of that next meeting with Paul Tessier. I knew that I had brought him something very dear to the hearts of all true Frenchmen. A bottle of absinthe, the real stuff—illegal, of course, since before the 1914–1918 war when the government banned it for fear of its causing a decline in the birthrate.

I didn’t know about that, but did know its happy combination of alcohol and aromatic herbs or whatever, would help him. He understood my unspoken reasons for the gift but said only an embarrassed thanks as he tucked the bottle out of sight in his haversack.

Matthieu Fayelle brought our ‘coffee.’ There were several Germans, and he was understandably nervous and quickly went back into the kitchen.

‘Madame …’ began Tessier.

‘Please call me Lily. It’s easier, and for what we have to do, less formal.’

‘
Ah, bon, merci
. So, Lily, listen carefully. What we need is a dummy railway truck. This must be the same in every way as to the one the
Boche
will use.’

‘Rolling stock is too hard to come by. Even I know they’ve taken far too much of it.’

‘Yes, but the impossible must be done. Somehow the switch must be made, then later we can cut open the other one and remove everything in relative comfort.’

I know I must have said something, but it’s lost to me. He spoke of welds and cold chisels, of the noise, the terrible delay the work of opening the railway truck would cause.

I was to organize the taking of the train only if all else should fail. ‘We have to trust them, Lily. Those two railwaymen will come through. Don’t worry so much. Just look after the emptying and hiding of all that artwork. You’ll have enough to do with those.’

‘And the schoolteacher?’ I asked. ‘What will he do?’

‘He has no more problems since he met with an accident on the road home. It was necessary. I’m sorry I couldn’t have tipped you off, but there was no possible way.’

The streets of Fontainebleau are almost deserted, the restaurant is half-empty. No one pays much attention to me. The bar,
le zinc
, is polished.

‘Matthieu, I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a bed for the night. I find I’m really quite tired.’

‘A little supper, madame? An omelette perhaps?’

‘Yes, but in the room. Let me eat it alone.’

Fayelle has his reasons for not having pointed the finger at my husband at the end of the war. Some of these reasons are bound up in his dealings on the
marché noir
, some in the actions of his wife’s father and brother, some, too, in what we had to do. The carpet of the past is a useful thing and it often hides so much.