Stranger at the Gates (6 page)

He was happily married with three sons, and a daughter who was still in high school in St. Paul, and he believed with the simplistic passion of an early Christian in the rightness of his country's cause, and the sanctity of its way of life. He was as completely different from the English Colonel as it was possible for one human being to be from another. The Colonel was tall and thin; his knees stuck up through his well-creased trouser legs, his hands were long and bony at the wrists, with nervous fingers always fiddling with buttons or the buckle of his Sam Browne belt. His face was gaunt and patterned with freckles; he had sandy hair which was receding, and short-sighted eyes covered by horn-rimmed spectacles; he plucked them off and waved them about when he wished to emphasise a point. They were whisked off his nose and began making circles in the air, as the Colonel leaned towards the General. ‘You mustn't think about it, you know,' he said. ‘Once they've gone, there's nothing one can do.'

‘This man is different,' Heidsecker said. ‘You know his reasons for volunteering? I damned nearly didn't accept him.'

‘With respect, sir,' the Colonel said, ‘they made him the best possible choice. We can't afford to fail in this mission. Too much depends upon it.'

‘Everything depends upon it,' the American corrected gloomily. ‘If our guy doesn't get through …'

‘Then we'll send one of our chaps,' Fairbairn said. ‘I'll have plenty of candidates for you.'

‘You don't mind sending your people in, do you?' Heidsecker asked him.

‘No,' Fairbairn said mildly. ‘I suppose I don't let myself think, of them as people. I look at the mission, I weigh up its importance, and then its chances of success. I don't allow myself to get involved. This sort of work would be impossible. Think of when it is a charming young lady …' He laughed, which made the General positively dislike him.

‘In fact, I think your man was one of the toughest characters I've ever come across. We should be drinking to his success, you know.' He raised his glass, and reluctantly the General did the same. ‘He must be nearly there by now—probably landed. I know that part of France, it's very pretty.'

‘I doubt he'll appreciate it,' Heidsecker remarked. The Colonel's attitude of callous irony was irritating him into remembering the difference in their rank. There was a short silence, while Fairbairn accepted the rebuke. Heidsecker sucked at his cigar; the Colonel made peace by striking a match for him.

‘There are so many damned “ifs” to this whole mission,' the General said suddenly. ‘For something as vital as this, the whole plan seems plain crazy. Supposing the Comtesse de Bernard has changed her attitude—all we have is the word of some village priest …'

‘As a Presbyterian,' the Colonel said, ‘I don't exactly rely on Roman Catholic priests as a source of credibility, but in this case, this priest has done some very useful work for us. I'm sure the lady hasn't changed her mind and gone over to the Germans. She'll help our man. That cigar isn't drawing very well—let me get you another …'

‘No thanks,' Heidsecker said. ‘You know what he said when I wished him luck—Come back safe and sound, that's what I told him. He looked me right in the eyes. “I don't give a damn about coming back, just so long as I get in and do the job.” And he meant it too. He doesn't expect to get out.'

‘Oh Lord.' Fairbairn looked pained. ‘Not false heroics, I hope? That's awfully dangerous—he didn't seem that type to me.'

‘He isn't,' the General said. ‘But if you had his motive, would you give a damn about what happened to you?'

‘No,' the Colonel said. ‘I don't suppose I would. But I find it difficult to visualise; I'm not a man of action.'

The General's next remark astonished him. ‘I'm not a blood and guts commander,' he said quietly. ‘I mind like hell what happens to my men. I have to admit that this guy is a certain loser. But it's not just him. There's a much greater responsibility involved. What about the French?'

‘The French?' Fairbairn's voice squeaked. ‘What about them?'

‘If we succeed,' Heidsecker said, ‘what the hell do you think the Germans will do to those civilians? Or hasn't that occurred to you?'

‘It hasn't,' Fairbairn admitted, ‘and now that you mention it, sir, I can't say it worries me. There'll be the usual reprisals.'

‘Not for this,' the General said. ‘Not if our man gets through and does his job. God knows what they'll do to them. I tell you, Colonel Fairbairn, we're going to have a terrible responsibility for the consequences.'

‘Sir,' Fairbairn said with what he hoped was patience, ‘at any moment the weather may change and our invasion fleets will set out. Hundreds of thousands of Allied and American lives depend upon that man we sent out today and whether he can get through. Whatever happens to the French civilians, whatever the cost to them or anyone else, the invasion depends upon it!'

‘Women and children,' the General said. ‘It'll be on our heads.'

‘No,' the Colonel said. ‘It won't. If we fail, we could lose the war. We must think of nothing but the success of this mission, General. The consequences are no concern of ours.' He raised one finger to the club waiter and ordered the General a large Scotch and water. With ice. The subject was not resumed between them.

‘What do you want?' Louise de Bernard was brushing her hair; she turned as the door opened and she saw her husband standing there. He never came to her room except in an emergency. The last time his father had been taken ill during the night.

‘What is it?' she repeated. He came inside and closed the door. He didn't move towards her. ‘I want to talk to you.'

‘All right.' She put the brush down and got up from the dressing table. ‘Come in.'

In the last four years his hair had become quite grey. She remembered how thick and black it used to be. He looked tired and unhappy. She stifled an impulse to be gentle, to ask him to sit down. Their ways had parted. There was no going back.

‘Minden told me something tonight,' he said. ‘There's been an alert; it was a single plane. It may have dropped enemy agents here.' Louise looked at him. He saw the bitterness in her eyes.

‘God help them then,' she said. ‘After what happened to the last one. Why have you come to tell me?'

‘Because I know you,' he said slowly. ‘I know how you feel about what happened before. I have to be sure you won't do anything foolish.'

‘Like helping them? With you in the house how could I—I'd be sentencing them to death!'

‘Recriminations are no good,' her husband said. ‘I know you'll never forgive me, but that doesn't matter now. What does matter is to prevent another tragedy. I don't want people shot as hostages for some reckless British plan to sabotage or kill Germans round here. I won't stand by and see it happen. I just want your promise that you won't get involved in anything. I'm trying to protect you too.'

‘I don't want your protection.' Louise stood up. ‘We had this two years ago, when that poor devil came here and the Palliers sheltered him. Was it you who gave them away, Jean? I've asked myself that question and I've never been able to believe you!'

‘You know I didn't. You don't choose to believe me.'

‘The night the Palliers were executed you had the German commandant to dinner here,' she said. ‘That was the night our marriage finished. Two of your own villagers were dragged away and put against the wall and shot in front of everyone. And you did nothing to save them. You say I've never forgiven you. In God's name how could you forgive yourself?'

‘He would have shot more,' the Comte said. ‘He was talking of fifty hostages. You judged me, Louise, because I disappointed you. You turned me out of your bed and you've kept me out for two years because I didn't behave as you expected! You wanted heroics, didn't you? A grand gesture, flouting the German commander, and fifty people lying dead in the square instead of two!'

‘How do you think that Englishman died?' she asked him. ‘What do you think they did to him? That Nazi, sitting here with his feet under the table, you eating and drinking with him. Oh no, Jean, whatever your reasons, there was no excuse. As for asking me not to involve myself, you're wasting your time. My country's at war with these brutes. And I'm an American. You've collaborated. You've given the example to St. Blaize and they've followed it. To think I used to be shy about coming from the States! I was so proud of France and her great traditions! God, what a fool I was. If you've finished, then please go away and let me get to bed.'

‘Paul and Sophie,' Jean said angrily. ‘And Papa. Would you sacrifice them? Would you see your own children and my father dragged off to some concentration camp to be murdered? Is that what you wanted me to do? Was that the price of being loved by you?'

‘You've gone all the way with them,' she said contemptuously. ‘You declared yourself the first time they came to this house. And then you stood by when that old man and his son were butchered. I've never asked you—what did you and that German talk about over dinner that night? It must have been a charming conversation!'

‘We talked about the future of this village,' her husband answered. His anger had gone; a dull despair was in its place. ‘We talked about whether the wholesale murder he proposed was really necessary to teach the people to collaborate. I convinced him that it wasn't. I lost two lives and saved many more. And we are all alive and safe, with our homes still standing. That counts with me, Louise. Whenever I walk through St. Blaize and see the people living and working in peace, the children playing, everything normal, I thank God. And I collaborate. You can despise me if you like.'

‘Believe me.' She turned to him. ‘Believe me, I do. From the bottom of my heart. Now you've delivered your message from your friend Minden, will you please go away? I want to go to bed.'

He didn't answer; he went out, closing the door behind him.

Louise stripped off her dressing-gown, turned off the light and pulled back the curtains. It was a brilliant moonlit night outside. She opened the window and the cold air made her shiver. If anyone had been dropped they wouldn't have a chance unless they reached the woods at Chemire. If they ventured into the village asking for help, the people would give them up. Someone had denounced the unknown Englishman who came one similar night two years ago, and with him had died the two Palliers, father and son. Was it her husband Jean? The informer had never been found but the German commander who ordered their execution had been her husband's guest that night. She shut the window and pulled the curtains.

What had happened to the man she married—why had she never seen the flaw? It was a question to which there was no answer. All she could remember were her mother's arguments against the marriage. ‘He's different, he's a European. He doesn't think or feel like us.' And it was true. When total crisis came their priorities had been light years apart. When he left to fight in 1939 she had hoped she might be pregnant, to carry part of him with her in case the unthinkable happened and he didn't come back. But there was no child and she had thanked God for it. Everything in her, her traditions of pride and independence, the fierce American preoccupation with justice and liberty rose up against the rational acceptance of a loathsome enemy and an ignominious defeat. He might learn to live with the Nazis, but she never would.

And yet she ate the food that Minden gave them, used his petrol coupons to drive their car, tolerated him, albeit with hostility. Collaboration was insidious; fighting alone was not as easy as she had imagined. Little by little the corruption of the spirit spread, gaining in little ways over her resolution. She felt weak and filled with self-disgust. The Allied invasion was coming and yet everyone she knew regarded it as doomed. If they were right and the armies of the free world perished, then the future held nothing but darkness and oppression and men like Jean would be responsible. For a moment she had pitied him, seeing the signs of strain, noticing the grey hairs. But she could never afford to forgive him or to try to understand his attitude. If she weakened, she would become a traitor to herself, to her own sense of what was valuable in human life.

She thought of the aircraft which had passed over them that night, its engines throbbing with the distinctive note so different from the German planes. No bombs had fallen; the noise had died away. Enemy agents. Somewhere out there in the cold, clear night, a man or several men might be stranded in a hostile countryside, hoping for shelter. And there was nothing she could do to help them. She turned over, fighting back tears. It was useless to cry; in spite of her conversion to Catholicism she hadn't prayed for years. God was deaf, or dead. Tomorrow would be like all the other days. Routine, helping Marie-Anne with the cooking, looking after her father-in-law and the children. Paul and Sophie. Régine was coming for the weekend; she had forgotten about her. Jean's sister was nineteen, a student at the Sorbonne who lived with an aunt in Paris and occasionally got home to see her family. Louise had never liked her, even when she was a child. She was cold and secretive, resentful of the newcomer whose attempts to win her confidence had failed. Like her brother she was very dark and slight, with a face that was too pale and set to be attractive. The disease of collaboration had been mortal to her. She was passionately pro-German.

If she was fond of her brother she concealed it, only with the children and her father did she show any feeling. She loved the children, and for this Louise tried to tolerate her and avoid a confrontation. And her devotion to her father was a contrast to her indifference to everyone else. She adored the old Comte, and spent most of her visits sitting with him in his room. He was prematurely senile, and Régine was the child of his own age.