The Cyclist (3 page)

Passing through a gateway, he drew up outside a white-rendered farmhouse. It was a large building, wooden steps leading up to the porch, a pine rocking chair soaking in the rain on the left and a pile of logs on the right of the heavy wooden door. Raindrops dripped from a mature clematis plant, growing at the end of the porch and a dog barked somewhere inside. He knocked.

Presently, a man his own age opened the door. It creaked as it came ajar.

‘Huh, it’s you,’ Pierre said.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Being discreet? You wouldn’t want anyone to see you visiting a Jew would you?’

‘No secret. My car is here. Everyone knows my Citroën even in the dark.’

‘Yes, you’re the only one who can afford gasoline.’

‘Well?’

‘Come in then.’

Auguste entered a large room, the floorboards creaking underfoot. An intricately designed Turkish rug quietened his footfall as he approached the middle of the room. Royal Danish china decorated the dresser on the opposite wall and some matching plates adorned the wall above. To the left was a French window, the door open a crack and Auguste could see the muddy green grass falling away to a stream a hundred yards from the doorstep. Memories of two boys fishing in summer sunshine came into his head.

No fire burned in the grate and the illumination depended upon a small oil lamp set on a low table in front of a chaise-longue. Portraits hung on the walls adding an air of family history to the room. He noticed little of this, for he was familiar with this room. The roots of half his childhood memories were here, after all.

‘Wine?’ Pierre said.

‘You have wine?’

‘Yes. No law against it, is there Inspector?’

‘No Pierre, no law. I just wondered how you could afford it.’

‘Homemade. Have you forgotten?’

‘No not forgotten, just...’

‘What do you want?’

‘You broke the curfew this afternoon.’

Pierre frowned. He was a tall, dark-haired man, broad in the chest and muscular. His face seemed created around his nose, with wide-spaced eyes and a broad balding forehead. Auguste pictured him laughing and could almost hear the deep cavernous sound in his head. He had not heard it for years.

‘Come to arrest me have you?’

‘Don’t be silly. I came to warn you, that’s all.’

‘Warn me? Like you warned me to register at the police station? Like you warned me to wear this?’

‘The yellow star is as distasteful to me as it is to you. You know that.’

‘No I don’t know that. You’ve forced so many others to wear them they must be a favourite decoration for you and your German friends.’

‘I didn’t come for this.’

‘And what did you come for then? To gloat?’

‘What did you do it for? This cycling I mean.’

‘A man has to have some courage. He has to fight sometimes, not just capitulate, cooperate and collaborate like you.’

‘Pierre, however much you want to fight them, you can’t. Think of Monique. If the Germans had taken you today, you would both be beaten and shut up in Drancy with wrongdoers and criminals.’

‘This isn’t why you came,’ Pierre said, pouring a glass of dark red wine. He proffered it to Auguste who took it, sniffed and sipped.

‘Nice,’ he said.

‘It’s filthy stuff. All I have. I haven’t tasted a good wine since the year Murielle died. What did you come here for?’

Auguste paused and stared into the half-empty glass. He felt abandoned. He felt like a man alone in a hospital bed, surrounded by strangers, and all of them wanted him to die but he was refusing. He was a stubborn man. Looking up, he saw the candlestick on the mantel, nine candles. The photograph of a young woman in its silver frame, smiled back at him. It tugged at his memory. All those years.

‘Pierre, help me. What can I do? If I refuse an order, they will throw me out, maybe even try me for treason. Odette; my little girl.’

‘You come here bleating for absolution. You come here because you want me to say, “Don’t worry Auguste, we still love you! Don’t worry Auguste, it will be all right”. Well we don’t love you. It won’t be alright. The Germans plan to exterminate every Jew in Germany, Poland and France. And you? You close your eyes. You talk to me about workers’ camps and good conditions. You’re a fool.’

‘Brunner told me...’

He knew it sounded lame. He knew telling his old friend an SD officer reassured him, was of itself, a kind of proof. It demonstrated the truth of what Pierre said and the emptiness returned.

Auguste said, ‘Where is Monique?’

‘I sent her to Murielle’s mother in Beynac. I couldn’t witness the treatment she receives here any longer.’

‘And then you break the curfew?’

‘What have I to lose? Will you arrest me?’

‘Of course not. I came to warn you.’

‘Very well, you’ve warned me. I won’t do it again, Assistant Chief of Police.’

‘No. Not that. I received a memo from Lyon today. It requires all Jews to be interned in Drancy.’

‘So it has begun.’

‘You knew?’

‘You Nazis are all so predictable. Every Jew in France has known since last year when they rounded up the Paris Jews. What did they call it? The Vel’d’hiv round up? Thirteen thousand men, women and children. Where are they now?’

‘I don’t know. They were deported to work camps.’

‘And now all Jews go to work camps. It’ll get a bit crowded won’t it?’ What do you think they will do with all of us?’

‘I came to warn you Pierre. Nothing more. You must take Monique and go. Switzerland maybe. You can make a life there, they are neutral.’

‘With no papers? With a nine-year-old? You’re mad.’

‘The papers may not be a problem.’

‘Not a problem? Maybe not for you…’

‘I can get you papers. Letters of transit.’

‘You would do that?’

‘Yes, of course. We are old friends.’

‘And the others you round up? Will you do it for them too? Maybe I should refuse?’

‘Don’t be a fool. I’m offering you life.’

‘So you admit it then?

‘What?’

‘You admit the prospect of death for me and my child?’

‘I have no proof.’

‘Wake up Auguste. Can’t you smell the blood on the wind? The stink of death, borne on a tide of hatred and prejudice.’

Auguste said nothing.

Pierre raised his glass to his lips; his brown, sharp eyes levelled at Auguste.

‘That’s all?’

Auguste said, ‘I will return tomorrow. If I can get the papers, you must promise me you will go. First to Beynac and then avoid Sarlat, there is a garrison there. It may take you three weeks walking. Use the papers at the border. If you keep under cover, take plenty of food and hide your yellow star, you have a chance.’

‘Suppose I choose to fight?’

‘You will die. We’re overrun with German soldiers and secret police. They have informers everywhere and there is no resistance. Be sensible. Think of your family.’

‘And what about the families of all the others? These internment camps are like funnels—huge amounts go in but there is only space for a few. What do you think will happen to them if they don’t fight?’

Auguste put down the glass. His fist clenched, his jaw tightened.

He said, ‘Pierre, do you remember the day when those boys tried to take our fishing rods?’

‘What?’

‘Do you remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘There were six of them. Older than we were. You wanted to fight. I pulled you away. It is the same. The time for fighting is over. We have lost the war and the Germans occupy our country. We have to cooperate or die.’

‘In my case cooperation is death.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t know if what you say is true but if it is, then what I’m suggesting must make sense to you.’

‘I will consider it.’

Auguste smiled for the first time since entering the farmhouse. It was a thin transient smile but real enough.

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pierre...’

‘What? Forgotten your way out?’

‘I just wish things could be different. Between us I mean.’

‘As long as you serve those killers, how can it be?’

Auguste shivered as he descended the wooden stairs. He suspected Pierre was right. He was a police officer however and there was no proof. He spent his whole working life seeking proof. Without proof and evidence, life was nothing to him. It had been as basic as examination to a doctor or the law to a judge. But if his friend was right, there would be a thousand other men like Pierre out there and he would be responsible for their internment. Was it possible the German State wanted them all dead? Rational thought said no, but inside he wondered. The thought made him clench his jaw until it ached.

Chapter 2

1

It was still dark when he awoke. He lay with his forearm under his head and his body wrapped around Odette. His left arm lay as if from habit, on her hip. He felt his erection and knew he needed to empty his bladder but he enjoyed the feeling of closeness and nuzzling into her, he stroked her hair and cheek. He did not intend to wake her but he felt gripped by a strange loneliness; he needed her. His drowsy mind kept replaying his talk with Pierre. The conversation droned on and on in his mind. He puzzled over the fate of his friend and his daughter. He wished he could change things, but like any man, he felt encumbered by his family, his responsibilities. He dared not take a risk, dared not gamble with their world; it was the world of the only people whom he loved, who would suffer if he did anything to cause official disapproval.

He looked at his watch. The glowing dial told him he was half an hour early. Sleep would not come back and he sighed, perhaps too loud.

‘What time is it?’ Odette said, her hair a sleepy mist on the pillow.

‘Half past six. Go back to sleep.’

‘How can I go back to sleep with you making such noise and prodding me with that thing. Go to the toilet.’

‘Sorry. I’m just worried.’

‘Look, I have a busy day. I need to sleep,’ she said.

‘I saw Pierre last night.’

She turned, sleep dissipating.

‘Pierre? Is he alright?’

‘Yes. He’s sent Monique to Beynac.’

‘Well she’s better off there. This place is getting worse.’

‘He wants to fight the Germans, the police, even me.’

‘Fight?’

‘I don’t know what he means. I’m going to try to get them papers.’

‘Papers?’

‘Yes, letters of transit. If I can get Brunner to sign them they will get Pierre and Monique across the border to Switzerland.’

‘You realise how far it is? Are you giving him our car?’

‘No. They will have to walk, sleep rough, avoid police. Lyon wants all the Jews interned in Drancy.’

She sat up. ‘I give up. I can’t sleep now. Drancy? All the Jews? What in the love of Christ for?’

‘Pierre thinks it is so they can kill them. I don’t believe it. It surely isn’t possible?’

She said nothing. The first dull light of a February dawn began to bring the floor and walls back into their lives and Auguste got up. He felt dizzy as he stood up and he wrapped himself in his dressing gown to keep out the cold.

He heard a pattering of small feet and the door burst open. Framed in the faint early morning light, stood Zara, his little girl. With her auburn hair swirling about her shoulders and her nightdress flowing behind her, she ran towards him.

‘Papa, I had a bad dream.’

Auguste gathered her up in his strong arms and smoothed her hair with his hand. He clutched her tight.

He said, ‘Ma fleur, my little one. A bad dream. There, there.’

She was silent. He held on to her as a man might hold onto a lifebelt in a stormy sea. He felt the love within him, heavy, scary, laced with insecurity. He treasured it. It was as if without it, he would be nothing.

‘There, there. It was only a dream. What was it about, my little flower?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Then it has gone—pouf! No need now to be frightened. You get into bed with Maman, it is too cold to wander about without your gown.’

She smiled up at him, her face now visible in the breaking dawn light. Her brown eyes wide and clear, the freckles he could not see but knew were there. He put her down and she skipped to the big bed, slipping under the covers as if she had a right to be there and he had not.

Auguste smiled to himself as he found his way to the toilet. He wondered how long he could keep all of them happy. The police in Lyon, the Germans, his family. Now he had Pierre and Monique to think of too. He wished it would end. It was impossible to be of any help to the ones his men arrested and took to Drancy. It was his job to co-ordinate the uplift, not to stand in its way. Perhaps they would demote him if it went wrong, but there was nowhere for the Jews to go even if he disobeyed orders. They were all known and registered, curfewed and kept ignorant without even a radio or telephone. The consequences of his refusal to cooperate filled him with fear.

He knew the answers. The feeling of entrapment threatened to overwhelm him. He washed and began shaving. The act of running the razor over his face cleared his thoughts and he resolved to have the transit documents drawn up as soon as he reached work. Getting them signed and stamped remained a difficult and delicate matter but he had a good working relationship with Brunner, despite his dislike of the man and he was sure he could persuade the SD Major to sign the papers.

Breakfast was a meagre affair. They had bread but no eggs or milk. Coffee had long since been replaced by roasted chicory and even for a senior policeman, obtaining white sugar was an impossibility. If the foodstuffs did not exist, no influence would produce them. They had butter and a little buttermilk from a nearby farm and the honey was a rare treat. Nothing seemed to be available anymore. In Paris it was worse, shelves were empty and even bread was hard to find, according to his friends there.

Bergerac had been the main exporter of geese and ducks for many years but no one could afford to buy such things now. The German devaluation of the franc depressed the economy to rock bottom and the occupying German army took almost everything, paying either nothing or a pittance.