The House with Blue Shutters (35 page)

‘Go on.’

She moved back to the staircase, but one of them blocked her way. He followed her into the bedroom and stood behind her as
she fumbled for the trousers and shirt René had draped over the chair. She caught a glimpse of him in the glass and saw he
had his gun out. It was pointing at her.

One of them spoke French. He asked her for her husband’s papers.

‘He’s the mayor,’ she said stupidly.

‘Tell the priest,’ said René in Occitan.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing.’

The man struck René across his face with the end of his pistol. Madame Larivière watched as her husband’s mouth bloomed red.
Then they said something in their own language and she felt herself being pushed outside, a hand on either arm. René was climbing
into a car, trying to keep one hand to his bleeding jaw. Behind her she could smell burning, she was too frightened to look
back. ‘It has begun,’ she thought. As she was marched along the road in her nightgown she said
the Hail Mary to herself, and though the stones hurt her bare feet she was determined not to stumble, in case it looked as
though she was afraid. It was only when she saw where they were taking her, saw the faces gathered inside, that she tried
to struggle. But the faces were watching her, then she tried to make it look as though she was shaking off those black arms
so as to make her way into the church alone.

Normandy. Everyone knew they were going to Normandy. The Americans would be there. Karl thought he would write to his parents
in the train if he made it, but now he sat on his cot and awkwardly scribbled a letter to Ursula, clutching a candle in his
left hand. His wife. Willi had been right of course, but he couldn’t really say he had any feelings for her, or the child,
beyond a sense of duty that seemed increasingly abstract in all respects. The thing he would do now was for Oriane.

Willi collapsed on his cot without even bothering to undress, and in a few minutes he was snoring. Karl waited a little while
more, then moved out into the darkness without bothering to try to be quiet. It would look better if it seemed as though he
was going for a piss or a last cigarette. It took him fifteen minutes on foot to reach the
Mairie
. He wondered if the women were watching him from where they had been rounded up in the church. The lads outside were smoking
in a huddle, giving a desultory glance now and then to both the locked
doors. He caught a little of their conversation. Normandy, Normandy.

Karl explained that William Aucordier, the idiot, was wanted at the chateau. They didn’t question him, just went inside and
in a few minutes the boy was marched out between them, still clutching his violin. Karl spoke in French, ‘Hello, William.
Don’t worry. Oriane is waiting for you.’

When he heard his sister’s name, the boy’s grey, tear-stained face became radiant with a smile and he took Karl’s proffered
hand trustingly, though Karl tried to twist his own features into an expression of disgust for the benefit of the watch.

At the bridge they took the track that led around the hill, making their way slowly past the shrine to where the path led
up into the chateau wood. The frogs splashed and sang around them in the brook and Karl shone his torch cautiously from time
to time, anxious not to slip into the teeming slimed water. He had the key in his pocket. As they moved into the thicker cover
of the trees, Karl heard the sound of a motorbike somewhere on the other side of the hill. He pulled William down next to
him in the prickling scrub, close enough to smell the sweat in his jacket, praying the boy would not make any of his stupid
noises. But William seemed to think they were playing a game, he lay silent with his ear cocked to the ground and it occurred
to Karl that this peculiar musician could hear things that other people could not. They breathed for ten minutes or so in
the leaf mould.

Just as Karl was about to move on, there was an explosion of life from the direction of the house. He heard cars starting
up, whistles blowing the reveille, though it was still the middle of the night. There must have been a message then, on the
bike. New orders? Karl thought of Bloch, of the gun they had found in William’s case. If something had happened, he could
shoot William now, make something up, get away with it. Then, distinctly, the sound of boots marching towards them. He scrabbled
desperately further into the undergrowth, thorns tearing at his face and hair, and clapped a hand over William’s mouth as
a dull moon of torchlight appeared beside them. He held his breath as the party came past, six of them.

‘This Nadl’s got something to do with it, for sure.’

‘We’ll have him.’

‘They’ve gone for the other one too. Larivière.’

‘Bastards.’

So they were heading for Murblanc, the farm where the old man had lived.

Whatever was happening, Karl saw that it was imperative he get back to be seen and counted. He hardly waited for the sound
of the men to die away before dragging William up and almost sprinting the last steep stretch to the abandoned bridge. His
hand was so wet he dropped the key twice before he got the door open. At the last minute he grabbed the violin from his arms,
trust him to start plucking it or some idiocy. He wanted to throw it in the bushes, but if it was found nearby it would be
too risky. He would hide it, then break it into pieces when he had time. Now he had to get back to the house.

He scrambled out of the woods at the back of the stables and bent over with his head between his knees to catch his breath.
There was a mirror in the stall the division had converted into a shower-room, he should try to tidy himself
up before anyone saw him, he was all over scratches, and his hair was full of moss and leaves.

Karl was splashing water on his face when he saw Willi in the mirror behind him, spooky in the lamp light.

‘Christ, you made me jump, mate.’

There was something strange about Willi’s eyes.

‘What you got there? Mate.’

Karl knew it was all done with before he began to turn around, so when he did he was not surprised to see the end of Willi’s
pistol, hovering a hair’s breadth from the fabric of his tunic. The violin lay on the slippery flagged floor between them.

‘It’s that girl, isn’t it? The one with the kid? Her brother?’

Karl nodded slowly. Perhaps there was a chance of sympathy.

‘You don’t know what’s happened, do you?’

‘There was a message?’ Karl replied.

Willi lowered the snout of the gun. His face was twisted with contempt. ‘Your barmy pal has just got the fucking Toulouse
train blown up at Monguèriac, see? There was a group of them in it. It was full of our lads.’

He raised the gun. ‘I should shoot you, you cunt.’

Karl thought of protesting, that he didn’t know, how could he have known, but he knew Willi. Their friendship was dead, and
the only reason Willi refused to let his own anger get the better of him and blow Karl’s head off right here was because he
believed in honour. Karl had never gone in for all that, had even teased Willi about his old-fashioned code, but it occurred
to him now that he would be allowed to die like a gentleman. There was nothing to be afraid of.

‘Put it down then. You know you don’t need it.’

Willi put his hand to Karl’s face. Karl flinched, expecting a blow or even a caress.

Almost tenderly, Willi hooked his hand into the pips on his collar and pulled. ‘And you won’t be needing these.’

‘There’s a letter, on my bed. Could you see to that? Please, Willi?’

Willi smiled, a gentle, faraway, cruel smile. Then he saluted, banging his heels together.

‘Come.’

So they walked together side by side across the dark patch on the cobblestones where William had helped the Marquis to pour
away his wine.

The sound of the bells of Castroux church counted von Scheurenberg through the night. The quarter hour struck with an extra
ring for each fifteen-minute section of what was left of his life, the hour sounded deeper. It had seemed pointless to undress
and lie on the bed, but if he did not he knew he would sit out the night with his cigarettes and the brandy bottle. Bernd
was bad enough without a hangover. So it was precisely half past two when Hummel came in with the news of the explosion on
the Monguèriac line. It had happened at midnight, a motorcyclist had just arrived. Suddenly, he felt truly sleepy on top of
his exhaustion. The cruel bed now looked the gentlest, most inviting place in the world. If he could just close his eyes.
Instead he rubbed at them roughly, splashed water on his face and lit a cigarette, opened the window. The air was cool now
and he had seen enough night skies here to know where the constellations hovered above the landmarks in the valley, circling
slowly, raptorlike, as the year moved around. There was Orion right above him.

‘Sir, excuse me, sir?’ Hummel was hovering in the doorway, undismissed. Von Scheurenberg pulled himself together, like an
actor about to step out into the lights. He cleared his throat and began the barking of orders.

René had been left alone for some time, he heard the church bell strike two, then three. He wished he had a cigarette. There
had been commotion, engines and running and whistles and it occurred to him that he might escape in the confusion, but he
had refused to try the door and, as the time wore on, it became a strange point of honour, that he would remain here of his
own free will. It was locked anyway, because he heard the key turn before a hugely obese man lumbered in, bulging out of his
uniform. His fat fingers fluttered delicately on the gilt doorhandle.

‘Tell me about Monguèriac.’

‘Monguèriac?’

‘Please, Monsieur
le Maire
, you know what I am talking about.’

The fat man spoke French well, though his accent should have been comic. René had been surprised to find himself in this warm,
pleasant room, he had imagined some medieval dungeon concealed in the cellars, dripping with slime and rats, but they were
on the first floor of the chateau, in what he thought might once have been Madame La Marquise’s sitting room. The room had
a deep bow window and retained an air of femininity, with its pale green walls and cream tiled fireplace. The grate was filled
with a dusty oriental fan that must have been left over when the family scarpered. René had had ample time to study the little
Chinese figures on the
silk, busy in their pleated world. The fat man was crammed into a delicate white love seat upholstered in an apricotcoloured
fabric. He looked ridiculous in this place, with the dawn just beginning to show through the long window behind him, but the
quietness of his voice and the faint scent of lavender made him even more menacing.

‘Then tell me about the gun we found in the barn.’

‘Please believe me, sir. I really don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘Do you know William Aucordier?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he?’

‘At home, I should think.’

‘No.’

‘Then I have no idea.’

‘Very well.’

The fat man heaved himself unselfconsciously to his feet. René heard the painted wood crack, released from the strain. The
fat man waddled towards the door and held it open. René was incredulous. They couldn’t be allowing him to go. Up a little
twisting flight of stairs the space opened up into a long hall, dim in a single oil lamp. Réne could see paintings on the
walls, Greek-looking people twined with hints of flowers. The fat man indicated another door at the end and René walked into
a smaller room that had been made into an office.

‘Open the shutters, please. You see the village?’

‘Yes.’

‘All the women and the children are in the church. The men are in your little
Mairie
, with a few exceptions.’ He pulled a list from his pocket and read slowly. ‘William Aucordier,
Laurent Nadl, François Boissière, Marcel Vionne, Jean Charrot, Nicolas Dubois. Where are they?’

‘I don’t know. I was asleep. I don’t know.’

The fat man made a show of looking disappointed. He looked back into the passage and beckoned to the two men who had pushed
René up the staircase. He spoke to them and turned to René. ‘I have told them that Monsieur
le Maire
needs a little help refreshing his memory. When you remember, just say yes. They’ll stop helping you then.’

Von Scheurenberg was furious. Bernd’s zeal was turning the whole situation into a farce. There was the mayor in the drawing
room, the women in the church, shenanigans in some disused barn, and now
Unterscharführer
Sternbach was holed up in the cellar, confessing to a dreary little love affair. Like some absurd boulevard comedy. He vaguely
remembered the pregnant girl going quietly up and down the stairs with her laundry basket. She had pretty hair.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ he snapped at Hummel, welcoming the fury into him. ‘Get the girl, see if she’ll talk. Leave
it to Bernd, shoot the pair of them if you have to. Just get rid of it.’ It was odd, Sternbach’s behaviour, he had been a
fine translator and a good Panzer man. But he had Cahors on the line, it seemed they would have to swing around and use the
roads as far as Limoges. How long? He stared irritably at the map in front of him, trying to calculate extra time the lost
days would add to his life.

Oriane thought that things might have been different if she hadn’t had to take Jacky. His little body was warm against her,
tied in her shawl, one little soft arm escaped and his fingers played curiously with the fringe. She cupped her hand around
his head as she stood in the cold stone room, looking at Karl. Karl’s face was scratched and his hands were cuffed behind
his back. He stood still with his head bent, his eyes on the ground. She had known something was wrong when William hadn’t
come home, but she had believed that Laurent was with him. Then William had been found at the dance with a gun and Karl had
tried to save him. It was perfectly clear and made no sense.

Karl had tried to save him. She didn’t dare speak to him, and he kept his face down. His thick hair looked wet, at the parting
she could see the reddish tinge where his scalp had burned in the hot sun. Later and later and later, when she remembered
that, it was all there was. He would not look at her. She felt no wish to reach out to him, to touch that hair, which she
had filled her mouth with, to hold up his child to his eyes that were already gone. Before everything else began, she needed
to see his blue eyes. She stared at him pointlessly for a while, then one of them touched her arm and led her back to the
passage, past a wooden door. She thought she could hear someone moaning. Was this where they had taken Papie?