The Cyclist (32 page)

Auguste drove on, ready to turn towards Sarlat and then Pèrigueux.

‘What is the weapon?’

‘A British sub-machine gun. They drop them to us with parachutes. Good for killing close up, but no accuracy.’

‘I have two German rifles in the back.’

‘Not much use to you in the back, my friend.’

‘Pierre, how come you are here? I thought it would be someone else.’

‘Well, it isn’t. Not pleased to see me?’

‘There is no one in the world I would rather have with us,’ Auguste said and he meant it. ‘I just got the impression you would send someone.’

‘No. They refused, my friend. When I told them who you were, they refused to risk their lives for you. They know about the Vichy police and they felt there was no reason to risk themselves for you.’

‘But I...’

‘Yes, I know. They wouldn’t help anyway.’

‘How can we cross the border without their help?’

‘They wouldn’t help you, I said. They will help me. There is a boat moored already. We just have to be in the right place at the right time.’

‘I have those papers with me. I would give them to you and take my chance with Odette and Zara, but we would not find the boat without you.’

‘No, that’s true. So how shall we do this?’

‘I planned to drive to Lyon. From the hills south of Lyon, we can travel on foot. Two or three weeks,’ Auguste said.

‘If we can get closer in the car it will cut the time down.’

‘I know, can we risk it?’

‘We will have to see. North of Lyon would be better. What did you do with Brunner? I heard he had an accident?’

‘Not exactly. We fought over a gun. I killed him.’

‘We Jews have a saying: “Don’t be wise in words, be wise in deeds”. You were wise this time, despite all the things you said about why you wanted him dead.’

‘You will never understand. I think I have lost my soul for the sake of justice. I am a murderer.’

‘We are all murderers. Joshua was the biggest murderer of all. Men, women, children, whole cities. I don’t think he went to hell.’

‘He was doing God’s work.’

‘And you weren’t? God had a choice. He could have brought down thunder and lightning to save his poor sinner, Brunner. He didn’t. You killed a sadistic German murderer. From the bloody cross on Calvary to the hell-camps in Poland, there is a lot of blood spilled. Hell will be overcrowded if He sends people with your qualifications to that place. Don’t worry, my Catholic friend, I’ll vouch for you to Saint Michael.’

‘Saint Peter, Pierre. Saint Peter.’

‘Whoever. You Catholics! You make anyone famous into saints. The Romans did the same. They made their Emperors into Gods. You make your heroes into demigods. What’s the difference?’

‘Pierre, we are driving into danger, do you want to have one of your religious discussions as we drive?’

‘No. It’s fine. Let’s head towards Lyon and then see if we can get any further. We can have no defined routes without my brothers-in-arms on our side. If we make the border, their boat will get us to Switzerland and then it is all good.’

‘Good? I don’t know what I will do when I get there. I have no references and no backing for any policing jobs.’

‘Auguste, we have another saying: “Make sure to be in with your equals if you’re going to fall out with your superiors”.’

Pierre’s booming laughter came as a pleasant relief. Auguste wondered when he had last heard that sound. He realised it was a sound accompanying his transition from childhood to adolescence and then into adulthood. He knew he loved this man. He felt complete in his company and he believed they could make it now. They drove on in silence and the children slept.

2

They drove north towards Periguex. Snowdrifts hampered them because the tiny unmade roads undulated with deep dips in places. They had to get out at times to push the car. The overriding thought in Auguste’s mind was, when would they have to walk? He had brought good warm clothing for all of them and Pierre was used to living in the cold outdoors. Some of the time he questioned whether the entire episode, from Claude’s death onwards had gone awry. He had killed four men. Two inadvertent deaths and two shots fired in self-defence, but it ate away at him all the same, as he pushed the car, as he munched his bread, as he cuddled his family.

Using small roads, they drove through Tulle. It was a large market town reminiscent of Bergerac. The town square, submerged by snow now, but tree-lined and no doubt cobbled, Auguste imagined, like home. Balconies peered out at them from grey and yellow houses, with peeling render and missing slates. Pierre guided them. He seemed to know where the roadblocks were and at first they made good time, but a military checkpoint at Ussel drove them north on more small winding roads in the direction of Thiers. Auguste wanted to head south of Lyon but Pierre insisted they head north first; he indicated the roads Auguste wanted to use would be impenetrable and swarming with Germans. By dawn, they were still driving and still undetected. The border became a distant mirage to Auguste. Even if they arrived there, he had no idea what they might find. It could be swarming with German troops, SS soldiers, or SD.

‘Here, see the farm?’ Pierre said.

He pointed to a light in the distance, shining like a far off beacon.

‘The last farm I stopped at, the farmer telephoned the Germans. He betrayed me.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes, it was the barn where you killed Linz.’

‘You went there?’

Pierre laughed. ‘It was the only place I could think of.’

‘You are such a novice, Auguste. I’m surprised you survived to get that far.

‘Oh, stop it. I do well enough.’

‘The farmer, Gaillarde, is a collaborator. We picked his barn because we knew it was isolated and we knew he would have informed on us if we gave him the chance. We tied him and his wife up first before the attack. It was Josephine’s idea. She thought there was a chance the Germans would suspect them of complicity. And you went back there. It’s a mad world and someone up there must be looking after you.’

‘Well, he sent for the Germans. I hit him.’

‘I would have killed him.’

‘Perhaps, I’m sick of killing. Sick of death.’

‘Hah. You should run with the Maquis. Then you would see killing, my friend.’

The car drew to a halt outside the farmhouse. It was at the apex of a triangle of buildings and outhouses. The tiled roof had moss growing on it and the whitewashed walls looked like any other farmhouse in Saone-et-Loire. Auguste realised all his plans had changed since they picked up Pierre. They’d skirted Lyon to the north and headed so far in that direction according to his map they were near Digoin.

Pierre got out and walked to the door. Moments later a rugged looking man wearing a beret and leather jacket opened it. Auguste heard muffled conversation and Pierre signalled for the others to enter.

He had just emerged from the car when Pierre said, ‘The farmer is a sympathiser. He said to put the car in the shed over there.’ He indicated a dishevelled outhouse, with a gate hanging at an angle and looking as if it would fall off at the slightest touch.

He left Auguste to hide the car and entered the farmhouse.

Auguste did as his friend indicated and rejoined his family. The farmer was friendly and hospitable. He would not allow them to sleep in the barn and his wife arranged bedding for them all upstairs. This was a different welcome from the last one. Auguste remained distrustful but he wanted to believe in these people.

By late morning, Auguste and Odette found themselves alone in a darkened bedroom, the shutters closed and a sense of quiet content pervading the room.

‘Did you sleep?’ Auguste said.

‘Yes, did you?’

‘I slept better than for a long time. No nightmares about Brunner or the SD. Do you think we are safe here until nightfall?’

‘Pierre said they have passwords used by the Maquis. He identified the farmer using a coded phrase. He thinks we are safe.’

They washed, using the basin and jug standing on the table in the corner of the room and together they descended the stairs. The farmhouse kitchen reminded Auguste of home but the memory caused pain, he knew, after all, he could not return until the war ended, if at all. Upstairs the children slept still and neither Odette nor Auguste had the heart to wake them.

Pierre came in then.

‘Well, it seems there are plenty of wandering German patrols in this area. We have been luckier than I had hoped. We may get a clear run to the border north of Geneve, rather than south if our luck holds.’

‘I wish I had your faith, Pierre,’ Auguste said.

‘If you had my faith you would be Jewish not Catholic.’

‘Very funny. Are you never serious?’

‘No. Seriousness makes me cry. I don’t blubber in front of the goyim. So I laugh a lot.’

They ate and went outside to examine their gear. They knew they might have to abandon the car at any time if they were spotted.

‘You’re sure the boat will be there?’ Auguste said.

‘Yes. We can drop Odette and Zara at the bridge near Le Crèt. We head north from there along the Rhone for about a mile before the next bridge. It should be there, hidden in the trees.’

‘You know the way?’

‘I’ve heard it described. The thing about the Maquis is you can trust them. We fight together and we die together. It is a close bond. Many are young men who escaped being sent to Germany to their work camps, others are like me, yellow star men. Some are communists. No one cares and we are all equal.’

‘You are going back?’

‘No, my friend. I will never go back to that place. The people didn’t protect me. They never lifted a finger. Only the Maquis.’

‘You won’t miss it?’

‘Me? No. I will make a new life. There are Jews everywhere. We stick together. Anyway, it was Murielle’s memory keeping me there. I miss her even now.’

‘Naturally, my friend.’

They went through their provisions and gear in silence, each with his own thoughts. Auguste began to hope they would drive all the way to the border. But was the border safe? He had never been there and he knew nothing of the river where Pierre said the boat lay hidden. He realised he needed Pierre now. It was as if throughout his childhood and adolescence he had needed this man. Now that dependence escalated. He relied on his friend for his life and for that of his family. If anything happened to Pierre, there would be no border, no boat and no escape. The tension of that thought held him like a stanchion. His back ached, yet all he wanted then was to be on the road, to face what was to come and fight for the chance of deliverance for Zara, for Odette.

When dusk fell, they set off once more on the road to
Le Crot. They hoped they would be able to make their way south-east afterwards, and head towards the border.

At the small town of Blanzy, they saw another roadblock, more by luck than design and so had to turn once more to the north, passing through Montsauche. By three in the morning, they stopped in Dun-Les-Places, a small village in Burgundy, far off their course. It became clear they would not reach the Rhone during this night.

Chapter 28

1

The village of Dun-Les-Places was no more than a crossroad with a group of houses stretching in each direction. Close to the centre they had built a church. It rose fifty feet into the air above the road. A small railing-protected churchyard separated it from the road and the spire looked to Auguste like a huge concrete pillar, reaching up to the sky. The wooden doors stood open even at this hour and he stopped outside, looking into the church. He could see candlelight and the chancel looked well lit, warm and welcoming. Three or four people emerged and he wondered if he had missed a Saint’s day with a midnight vigil. He wracked his brain for the date but now he came to think of it, he had no idea whether it was still February or March. He was about to ask Pierre but felt foolish, as if the simple question would give him away, making him look stupid. He thought better of it and said nothing.

Pierre said, ‘The village priest is one of us.’

‘He’s Maquis?’ Odette said from the back.

‘Yes, non-combatant but one of us.’

‘You think he will shelter us?’

‘Yes, of course, though we might have to sleep in the church.’

Auguste said, ‘It will be a first time for you then?’

‘Hah,’ Pierre said and got out. Minutes later, he emerged from the church and when they had hidden the car, they entered the church through the front door.

The priest, Père Jean, welcomed them.

‘We have an all night vigil in honour of St Romanus of Condat. He was buried near here. You may know?’

‘No father I had not heard.’

‘Perhaps his life as a hermit in the Jura made him obscure, but the two lepers he healed came from here and so we do this on the last day of February every year. Come, you will of course, be welcome in my church.’

He had grey, thinning hair and a round smiling face. His eyes were wide, brown and sharp. Auguste thought he looked like an old, greying owl.

Père Jean showed them to a corner of the church and pulled pews together to make a sleeping place for the children. When they had settled them, Auguste and Odette prayed.

‘Do you wish to make confession?’ the priest said.

Auguste looked at him with curiosity.

‘I did, only a few days ago,’ he said.

‘But if your undertaking is dangerous it may be wise.’

Odette nudged him in the ribs. He stood then and Père Jean showed him to the confessional. Auguste went through the first stages of the ritual mechanically. He had no strong wish to comply and he kept asking himself why he was doing this.

He sat in the confessional in silence at first. The priest, no doubt used to hesitant penitents, spoke first.

‘My son, what sins do you wish to confess?’

‘Forgive me father I cannot wade through many small venial sins when greater ones weigh heavily on me. I cannot think what to say.’

‘Then begin with the worst and we will gravitate to the minor.’

His confession was slow at first. With each sentence, the story became clearer in his head. The words became easier to speak and within minutes, he felt he had told all there was to tell about Claude’s death and Brunner’s murder. He told the priest everything, the places, the circumstances, even the expression on Brunner’s face when he drew the German pistol. He left nothing out.