The Lavender Keeper (3 page)

‘A new work camp?’

‘It may well be a work camp but it is also a place of death.’ Jacob held up a hand to prevent Luc jumping in. ‘Just a fortnight ago I saw an article smuggled into Paris that ran in
The Telegraph
about mass murders of Jews at Auschwitz. It’s a respected British newspaper and the news had been sent by the Polish Underground to its exiled government in London. The Nazis are now killing Jews systematically and in the tens of thousands. They’ll begin with the old, the infirm, the very young, the sick, the needy – making sure the fit and the young work until they can’t work any more, and then they’ll be exterminated too.’

Luc stood, bile rising in his throat. ‘Stop, Papa!’

‘Pay attention! This is not hearsay. This is fact. Genocide is underway.’

They faced each other; Jacob angered in his despair and Luc simmering with rage at the fate befalling his people.

‘Jacob?’ enquired a new voice.

‘Ah, Wolf,’ Jacob said, turning with a smile to greet his old friend as he crested the hill.

Despite having one leg shorter, Wolf was tall and heavily built with a knitted waistcoat straining across his round belly. He was the opposite in looks to Jacob Bonet, with thinning, wispy hair that had once been a reddish-gold escaping from beneath the straw hat he habitually wore. Like Jacob, Wolf wore a loosened tie and an ironed shirt, now slightly dampened and unbuttoned at the collar. He was breathing heavily at the effort of climbing the hill but he gave them both a broad grin. ‘Heavens, Jacob. Is that really you?’ he wheezed as he limped towards them.

‘It is,’ his father replied, standing with difficulty. ‘Here, let me bid you a proper welcome.’

The two men embraced and stood back to look at each other, Wolf much taller, his eyes glistening with emotion.

‘The years are taking their toll, my friend,’ Wolf admitted, clearly shocked. ‘Beware the evening breeze coming down from the Massif. It will blow you over.’

‘You worry about yourself, old man!’ Jacob said gruffly, with obvious affection.

Wolf kissed Jacob’s cheeks. ‘It gladdens my heart to see you.’

‘I wondered if we’d make it here in one piece.’

‘All the women are well?’

Jacob nodded. ‘For now, Wolf, for now.’

Luc helped them both to sit side by side.

Wolf glanced over at him. ‘How are you, my boy?
Alles ist gut?
’

‘I don’t want to speak German!’ Luc retorted. ‘I don’t ever want to speak it again.’

‘Listen to me,’ Jacob growled. ‘Speaking German might save your life!’ He turned to Wolf. ‘Has he been practising?’

‘Practising? Luc can curse like a local.’

His father frowned. ‘How come?’

‘He slips down to Apt all the time.’

‘I didn’t see any soldiers there.’

‘They come and go,’ Wolf said. ‘They prefer L’Isle sur la Sorgue for obvious reasons.’

Luc hadn’t seen L’Isle sur la Sorgue since just before war broke out across Europe but he knew from his own family trips that the town was beautiful. It took its name from the pretty River Sorgue, whose tumbling, chilled waters fed a spring that traditionally attracted the wealthy on holiday. Now the town was full of loud, hard-drinking Germans on leave.

Heaven alone knew how Jacob had got the family down
south without running into bother with soldiers or how he found enough petrol, but Luc didn’t dare ask. Even tucked this far away from Paris, he knew how hard it was to cross from the German Occupied Zone into Vichy France. Money still carried some weight, no doubt.

‘Have you spoken with German soldiers directly?’ asked Wolf.

Luc shrugged. ‘I listen a lot. When I speak I mix French in to make it clumsy. I sound like anyone else from around here.’

‘Good,’ his father replied. ‘You’ve never introduced yourself? None of them know your name?’

Luc felt bewildered by the intense questioning. ‘No. I have no desire to be friendly with the Germans. Why are you asking?’

‘I’m trying to save your life,’ Jacob replied.

Luc’s gaze fell. As true darkness closed in, the tiny village below began to illuminate itself. Beyond that the larger town of Apt sprawled like a star-dusted piece of velvet. He loved it here; the longest he’d ever left was to do his obligatory military service six years earlier. Unlike many of the other young men, the time away from home hadn’t given him a wanderlust; if anything, it had intensified his passion for the lavender fields of his home.

‘Don’t worry about me, Papa. Let’s just concern ourselves with Maman, Saba and the girls.’

His father’s next words were so chilling that Luc could barely take them in.

‘It is, I fear, too late for them … for us,’ Jacob replied in a soft voice. ‘But not for you, Luc.’

He regarded the two older men. His father had fought bravely for the French Legion during the Great War, and Wolf, with his crippled body, had fought on the other side, only to relinquish his German citizenship after the defeat and flee to France. They were
both survivors. How could they adopt such a beaten attitude?

‘Too late?’ he finally repeated. ‘We can hide, we can—’

‘We can try, but it will always be different for you. The time is now,’ Jacob said, unnerving Luc. ‘I … I have something to confess.’

Luc blinked. Of all the things his father could have said, this was the most unlikely. ‘Confess?’

Jacob realised his pipe had gone out, muttered a low curse and began the slow process of relighting the tobacco. There was silence, save the puffing sound of Jacob sucking on the pipe expertly, drawing air through the bowl until the leaf caught and began to smoulder again. Soon the mellow, comforting aroma of his tobacco filled the air around them, combining with the cooking smells of the village, and Luc felt a momentary sense of peace.

Luc reached into his pocket and took out a stub of candle that he habitually carried; Jacob tossed him the matches and soon they were weakly illuminated, the tiny flame giving his elders an ethereal glow. He hadn’t imagined it – they both looked hesitant … no, fearful.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

They appeared to sigh as one.

‘What?’ Luc repeated. It was a demand now as he felt a strange fear penetrate his chest.

‘Luc,’ his father finally said, ‘my beloved and only son.’ He felt his throat tighten. The air felt thick with tension and an owl hooted mournfully from somewhere nearby. ‘We have lied to you.’

The two old men talked haltingly, and as one paused or hesitated, the other would take up the story. They punctuated their tale with affectionate reassurances, sharing long-secret memories of 1918, a year, Jacob said, in which two wonderful events had occurred – the Great War ended and Luc had come into their lives.

They talked until Luc vaguely registered the bell tower chiming the hour again, but his thoughts were swirling, his life suddenly a mess. Beneath the familiar sound of their voices, Luc tried to gather his wits but realised he was sitting in a vacuum of thought, hearing words but unable to truly absorb them.

‘Luc?’ Jacob asked.

The bell finished its sombre toll at eight. Saba would be tutting over her stove by now.

‘Luc?’ his father tried again. He sounded anxious.

A storm was gathering in his mind; he could feel it beginning
to pound at his temple. He ground his jaw, dreading asking the question. Nevertheless he was compelled. ‘What is my real name?’

Jacob hesitated.

Wolf answered for him. ‘It is Lukas.’

Luc grimaced, closed his eyes. How could three letters of the alphabet turn his world on its head? And how could those same three letters change a simple name he liked into one that had instant connotations of evil?

He drew a deep breath to steady himself. ‘And my real family name?’

Wolf cleared his throat. ‘Ravensburg.’

Luc stood abruptly and walked away, no longer thinking, only reacting. If someone had just plunged a knife into him, it couldn’t have hurt more.

He was German.

Did it all make sense now? His fairer looks, his bigger build? So was this the reason his father had insisted on him learning the language until it was so ingrained he sometimes dreamt in German?

‘Who knows this?’

Jacob gave a small cough. ‘Your mother, grandmother, Wolf, obviously. Your sisters know nothing, other than that you are adopted. I cannot disguise that from anyone.’

Wolf rushed to continue. ‘Your birth parents were good people. Your father was a man called Dieter; he was younger than you when he was killed at the Front in 1918. Your mother, Klara, was younger still but she loved him. I knew her briefly – she was beautiful and fragile, and terribly weak during your birth. She lasted barely days, but long enough to fall in love with you.’

‘The heavens are certainly having fun at my expense,’ Luc said darkly.

‘Don’t talk like that, son,’ Jacob said.

‘Son? I’m no son of yours,’ he said, shaking the large yellowed German birth certificate Wolf had produced. ‘I’ve been a pretender all of my life!’

Luc had his back to them both, staring out across the valley, beyond Apt, looking west to Avignon to where he knew the Germans gathered in numbers. He thought of their strong bodies, their sense of invincibility, golden hair and shining teeth, their smart uniforms and polished boots. He thought about how one of the Apt girls on a trip with her parents into Avignon had spoken of the men in black: paramilitary soldiers of the Schutzstaffel, strapping German SS in smart uniforms with distinctive insignia on their lapels, armbands, shoulders.

The shock was now giving way to anger and he had a momentary vision of himself killing faceless but laughing men in uniform; he couldn’t tell if they were soldiers or local
milice
– they were all the enemy; all responsible for this pain.

It seemed Wolf understood; he was as much a father to Luc as Jacob was, and had always been able to read Luc’s heart. As if listening in on Luc’s bleak thoughts now, the old man reached out to touch Luc on the arm.

‘There are ways to strike back.’ He gestured at the document in Luc’s fist. ‘You look German, you talk and swear like one, you
are
German,’ he emphasised, touching the birth certificate. ‘Use that to help yourself … to help France.’

Luc turned to look at him, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

It was Jacob’s turn. ‘Listen to me, Luc. Look at me!’

Luc’s gaze slid unhappily to his father’s face.

‘I can try to understand how this feels. If we could have spared you, we would have. What does it matter where you came from? You are French in your heart, you are Jewish in spirit and—’

Luc cut across his father’s words like a blade. ‘And I possess the killing soul of my kin!’

A slap echoed around, bouncing off the tiny natural amphitheatre that the rock face provided. The sting of it arrived seconds after, and it was only then that Luc realised that Wolf had struck him. There was passion in the blow.

‘Don’t you dare! Do you think your true father had a bad soul? I read his letters – he was just a young, lovestruck youth, doing his military service, obeying his orders and dying for his country. He didn’t want to kill. Few soldiers do. Dieter wanted to be with his wife, his son. And the woman who brought you into this world? God forgive you for tarnishing Klara’s memory. She was a young, frightened mother alone, and she begged me to make sure I taught you to think of her kindly. She wanted you to know that she loved you more than her own life. She was eighteen, Luc! She knew she was dying but I never once heard her grieve for herself. Her thoughts and prayers were only for you and for the soul of Dieter.’

Luc swallowed and looked down. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in Wolf’s eyes. He didn’t want to think of these young strangers as his parents, loving him, their dying thoughts of him.

Wolf’s anger wasn’t spent. ‘Do you think I have a killing soul, Luc? I am German. Or have you forgotten?’

Luc kept his eyes down, shamefaced.

‘Your conceit astonishes me. This filthy, ugly war is not about you!’ Wolf continued. ‘People are dying all over Europe.
Your story is but one among millions. But you are that one among millions who may survive this war because of your parentage, because of the Bonets who have raised you and loved you and given you their name. Don’t you dare spit in their faces now! They didn’t tell you this for fun, but for your own protection.’

Wolf turned away, wiping his mouth of the spittle that had flown from it with a trembling, liver-spotted hand, and Luc saw him, perhaps for the first time, for the seventy-six-year-old man he was.

Luc glanced over at his father. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’ Jacob asked, sounding surprised.

‘For not being your real son.’

Jacob looked up, his eyes misting, and Luc’s heart felt close to breaking as he watched his father struggle laboriously to his feet, waving a helping hand away from Wolf. He limped to Luc, gazing up to look him in the eye.

‘You are my real son – real to me, to your mother, a grandson to your saba, a brother to your sisters.’ He held out his arms and Luc, without thinking, wrapped his father into a hug and wept.

Luc let Wolf and Jacob go ahead of him as he took a detour. He’d promised his grandmother some lavender, and he ran to the nearest of their fields to snatch some purple-headed stalks. The night was balmy and Luc was treated to wafts of perfume. The fields were telling him that it was just days now before he would need to prepare for harvest.

There would be far fewer workers to help this year, and Luc had heard that the Germans might be calling up able men from France to assist the German war machine. He grimaced
at the thought, while his cheek was still warm with the sting of Wolf’s slap.

He went back over what the old men had finally revealed, after nearly a quarter of a century of secrecy. During the Great War, Wolf and his wife, Solange, had lived in Strasbourg, close to the German border in Alsace. Wolf had been too old to fight at the Front, and his limp prevented active service anyway. He was a linguistics professor at Strasbourg’s university, where he taught amongst other languages, Old Norse. As easily as changing clothes, Wolf had swapped from speaking German to French in his everyday dealings.

Despite his position, Wolf wanted to distance himself from Germany. He decided to leave Strasbourg once the war had ended. Just before departing, he and Solange had come across the heavily pregnant Klara Ravensburg, alone and in labour, trying to make it into France from her village in the Black Forest; she too was running away from Germany, a country that she blamed for killing her beloved Dieter. The day after the war ended Klara had received the full devastating news of Dieter’s accidental death. He had died in friendly fire just hours after the ceasefire. ‘Her mourning was just beginning while people were still drunk in the streets from celebrating,’ Wolf said in his gentle voice.

With Klara’s mother long dead and her father and brothers all killed at the Front, her heartbreak pushed her over the brink. In a stupor, without any belongings, she had walked out of her village and just kept going.

It was just chance and good luck that she’d collapsed in front of Wolf’s wife. ‘Solange took her into our home, bathed her, dried her, even hand-fed her – for she could do little for herself – combed her hair and sang her off to sleep,’ Wolf had explained to Luc.

A baby boy was delivered amidst the chaotic and celebratory atmosphere of the Armistice. Luc was born on a chilly, drizzly, late November day in 1918 as Europe began to fully grasp that the Great War was over. Klara died soon after from complications.

Wolf and Solange left Strasbourg three days before Christmas, planning to head far south into the warmer climes of France with the baby. As Luc recalled the story, he was struck by the madness of their plan. A middle-aged couple, winter, a newborn? What was in their heads? But the Armistice made people reckless, full of hope for a brighter future.

‘I was moving on instinct,’ Wolf had admitted. ‘You were not our child but no one cared during that time. No one wanted someone else’s newborn, few questions were asked … Everyone just assumed you were our grandchild. I had to get Solange and you away; I wanted you raised as a Frenchman without any attachment to Germany.’ Wolf shrugged. ‘And it all worked out – at least for nearly twenty-five years. Now, it’s your German heritage that may save you.’

Tragedy had struck soon after the fledgling family left Strasbourg. A week after they fled Solange was dead also, knocked over by a bus when Luc was but weeks old.

Until this evening Luc had always believed that Wolf had found him in a barn in eastern France. Clearly his mother had abandoned him, and that had always made it easier to accept his adoption. And yet, in his quiet moments, Luc had wondered at the details. He’d stopped asking questions in his teens, though, as it became obvious the only story he would get was the one he had already been told.

Now Luc had learnt that the old man had walked away from his prestigious university and brought with him a baby.
Wolf had put as much distance as he could between himself and his past, filled with grief for his wife and Luc’s mother.

Fate had brought Wolf together with a grieving Jacob and Golda Bonet, wealthy French, travelling with their dead infant daughter back to Provence in the depths of the January winter of 1919. Pity and kindness had been shown for the grandfather and grandson, and it was in that train carriage that Wolf had broken his silence and admitted the truth to the Jewish couple. A pact was made, a new baby came into the Bonet family, and Luc’s heritage was hidden as a new background was fabricated.

Wolf had decided that Luc had a better chance of a normal life within a younger family, but he couldn’t bear to be parted from the baby. And so he’d stayed on in Provence, working at the university in Avignon and retiring to a hamlet not far from Saignon. Luc had never known a time without his beloved Wolf.

But how could Luc hold a grudge against his family, the people who had shown him such love, and especially in his greatest hour of need? Luc looked at the lavender in his hand; his saba would be waiting. And this was a family reunion. He was the only son; he needed to defend them. ‘
Warian
,’ – protect, in Old Frankish – he murmured to himself, and then raised his eyes to the heavens. Wolf had taught him well – now he even thought in different languages.

Germany had killed his real parents. It would not have the parents he loved also.
Over my dead body
, he thought to himself.