The Lavender Keeper (40 page)

In the morning, life would seem different. She knew it. And by the morning Paris would be free.

Kilian stared at Luc with a narrowed gaze. ‘What do you mean,
find
Lisette?’

‘She’s disappeared,’ Luc said. ‘I think she’s trying to find us.’

‘Us?’

‘She believes we’re together. I came to find you in case …’

‘You thought she might come here?’

Luc shrugged. ‘I tried your hotel and your offices.’

‘Well,’ Kilian said. ‘Lisette is charmed. She will be safe, I promise you. She’s far too sensible to run through the streets of Paris.’

Luc agreed. Lisette could be counted on to be cautious. Even if she had run away, he didn’t believe she would be skittering through the streets.

Kilian cast him a glance and strode by him.

‘Where are you going, Colonel?’

‘I told you, for a drink. You’re welcome to join me, but don’t try and stop me.’

‘It’s dangerous tonight, Colonel … to be German.’

‘Can’t change who I am. Neither can you, my friend. You’re as German as I am. Come, let’s both salute the end of the Reich; the end of this devil-inspired reign, and the end of the mad Austrian who brought this down upon us all.’

‘You were part of it,’ Luc said accusingly.

‘Yes, I was. Come walk with me, as we talk.’

It was clear Kilian’s mood was unpredictable. In spite of Luc’s jealousy of the time Kilian had spent with Lisette, he didn’t want to see the man die. He fell in step.

‘You’re right,’ Kilian continued. ‘I am part of it. I never liked it, but I was a man of duty. I am a soldier.’ He gave a choked laugh. ‘Sounds so pathetic now.’

‘Don’t expect my sympathy,’ Luc said.

‘I’m not asking for it. I don’t believe any of us deserves it. However, some of us tried to change how it was.’

‘And failed.’ They had reached the Tuileries. Twilight was upon them, but the smell of smoke still hung in the air. Paris was not burning as Hitler had hoped, but bonfires of joy were flaring around the city as German flags and uniforms burned in celebration. The moon was out, bathing the gardens in a haunting light. And it was a balmy evening. Summer did not care whether war raged or peace prevailed.

‘Kilian, this is not a wise place to be.’

‘Scared?’ the colonel asked.

‘Only for you.’

‘Don’t be. I’m armed, remember.’

Luc wasn’t impressed. A pistol against an angry mob was no defence. He watched as Kilian removed his boots. ‘What are you doing, Colonel?’

‘Beneath this extraordinarily pleasing moonlight, I plan
to feel the warm summer grass beneath my feet and try to remember happier times in Prussia, when life was simple.’

‘You can’t blot out what your country is responsible for.’

‘Oh, but I can try, Ravensburg. I have to try.’ Kilian took a slug of the calvados and offered the bottle to Luc. Luc shook his head.

‘Oh, come on. A sip between the vanquished and the conqueror.’

‘I did nothing.’

‘You won her, Ravensburg. I was no match for you.’

Luc hadn’t realised they were discussing Lisette. He watched the colonel, normally so neat and smart, now dishevelled and barefoot, walking around the grass swallowing his second slug of brandy.

‘She loves this, you know.’ Kilian waved the bottle. ‘Calvados. Make sure you always order it for her.’

‘No. It will remind her of you.’

Kilian offered the bottle again. ‘Come on, Ravensburg. Let’s drink to Paris, to saving the city from Hitler’s flames.’

Luc reluctantly took the bottle. ‘All right, I’ll drink to that.’ Kilian looked delighted as Luc swallowed the shot, the apple brandy burning. It was powerful. He’d drunk calvados with his father in Paris, a memory that prompted thoughts he couldn’t examine now. He watched Kilian swig from the bottle.

‘You plan to get drunk?’

‘Thoroughly.’

‘Is that how you want the world to see Colonel Kilian tomorrow – drunk, bleary-eyed, staggering around?’

Kilian just gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Let me offer you some more.’

Luc shook his head and Kilian swung around, yelling something into the night, before swigging again from the brandy. No doubt he’d been drinking all day, and it was catching up with him. He was swaying now.

‘Had enough?’ Luc asked.

‘No. I can still think.’

Luc sighed and looked around. There were bursts of gunfire audible, but they seemed to be a long way off. The sounds of celebration were drifting across the Place de la Concorde from the Champs Elysées. Soon people would be out and about, leaving the safety of their neighbourhoods for these more salubrious areas, normally frequented by the Germans.

He could almost imagine the column of triumphant French, British and American troops arriving, being kissed by the women and cheered on by the men. But even amid this happiness, Luc thought of all of the tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of men, women and children who’d perished – including his own family. France should be weeping for the loyal citizens it had lost – in battle and in the camps, from Drancy in Paris through to the Polish work camps. He shook his head to clear those thoughts; there would be time enough for that scrutiny.

When he looked up, Kilian was dancing, moving slowly on the grass with his eyes closed.

‘Come on, Colonel,’ Luc said.

‘I’ll never dance again,’ Kilian slurred. ‘I’ll never hold a woman again.’ And as he turned around to say something else, Luc caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed Kilian just as a small band of youths rounded a bend in the gardens. It didn’t take much guesswork to see that they were looking for trouble.

‘What have we here?’ one asked. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, with a baby face and floppy dark hair. He was waving a revolver.

Luc scanned the eight or so lads. The boy with the gun was the eldest; most looked younger and very unsure of themselves. Their nervous glances kept darting to their leader.

‘All right, lads. No trouble, eh?’ Luc said in a strong voice, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed.

‘It’s a Nazi!’ one of them yelled.

‘No, no, you’ve got it wrong,’ Luc said. ‘Do I look Nazi? I’m Maquis!’ He’d taken care that morning to put on his maquisard pin, shaped as a double cross. ‘Look,’ he said, flicking back his collar to reveal it. ‘I am French, like you.’

‘We’re talking about him!’ the boy with the gun roared.

‘Him? Don’t be daft. He killed the owner of that uniform earlier today. He’s celebrating. Look, we stole this bottle of brandy from one of the hotels. Want some?’

The leader faltered, not quite convinced, but it was obvious he was interested in the liquor.

‘Give them the bottle,’ Luc urged Kilian.

The colonel seemed to come out of his hazy thoughts and realise what was occurring. To Luc’s horror, he withdrew his pistol, cocked it and levelled it at the boys. ‘No one gets my calvados,’ he said – in German.

The group reacted as one in instant alarm. Luc could see the leader’s hand trembling.

‘Do you even know how to shoot that thing?’ Kilian asked in French.

‘He’s a Boche!’ the leader screamed.

‘Yes, I am, boy,’ Kilian snarled. ‘But he is not. My companion here is exactly as he says. He is a loyal Frenchman.
He is a brave maquisard who has captured me, and probably brought me here to kill me.’

‘Is that right?’ the youth asked Luc.

Luc could see the other boys backing away. He knew there was fire in Kilian’s eyes and his pistol was trained straight on the boy’s heart. He wouldn’t miss, either, despite being drunk.

‘What’s your name?’ Luc asked the visibly shaking leader.

‘It’s Didier,’ someone answered for him.

‘Put the gun down, Didier,’ Luc requested, gently. ‘I’ll explain everything.’

‘Did you lie?’ Didier demanded. ‘Are you Maquis and is he German?’

‘Didier,’ Kilian said, suddenly reasonable. ‘Let me prove it.’ He turned towards Luc and without another word, fired his pistol at him.

Luc found himself on the ground, so shocked he couldn’t speak. His eyes were on Didier, who looked equally stunned.

‘Now, Didier,’ Kilian continued. ‘Are you ready to use that or are you a coward, like all the other French who let us take over your country?’ Luc couldn’t believe Kilian was baiting the boy.

‘Kilian, don’t!’ he tried, wincing from the sharp pain that now ripped through his torso. He wasn’t even sure where he was shot. He didn’t care.

Kilian wasn’t listening. ‘Just a bunch of cringing cowards. And now you’re letting the British and the Americans rescue you. You can’t even fire a gun when you’ve got—’

A shaking Didier pulled the trigger and Luc yelled in despair as Kilian dropped beside him. Immediately the group of youths ran off into the night, perhaps as shocked as he was.

Luc looked around frantically for help. There was none.
The moon had gone behind a cloud and no one walking on the path might even see the two bodies on the ground.

Luc understood now that he’d been shot in the shoulder. There was blood and pain, but his mind was on Kilian. Would Lisette blame him? He dragged himself across the rough path to where Kilian lay silent.

‘Kilian.
Kilian!
’

‘Ah, but that hurts, doesn’t it?’ the colonel groaned.

‘Why did you do it?’ Luc demanded.

Kilian laughed weakly. ‘I’ve been wanting to shoot you since I saw photos of you kissing Lisette.’

Luc grimaced. ‘Well done.’

‘I’m a good shot. You’ll be fine. And it served its purpose.’

Luc did a quick scan of the colonel; in the ghostly moonlight the blood looked ominously dark. There was too much of it. Kilian was dying.

Luc pushed an angry hand through his hair, lost in frustration and increasing desperation. He had to find help. ‘You got yourself shot deliberately. We could have—’

‘Shut up, Ravensburg, and listen,’ Kilian ordered, breathing with difficulty now. ‘Let me say what I have to. I doubt there’s much time.’

Luc became quiet.

‘Everything’s easier this way. I don’t have to face being taken prisoner or going on trial …’ He sighed. ‘A bullet is so much cleaner and I have to tell you, Didier wasn’t a bad shot.’ He coughed. ‘I think it’s done the trick.’

‘Listen, Kilian … Markus—’

‘I said, be quiet. You’re going to have to love her for both of us, because heaven knows I don’t go to my death happy that she’s yours. But I know that she’s with the one she loves. She
chose you.’ He winced, gave a groan. ‘I need you to …’ He began pawing at his pocket but his head fell back, exhausted from the effort of holding pain, shock and death at bay.

‘What?’ Luc said, putting his ear closer to the dying man’s mouth. He reached to where Kilian was gesturing and dug inside the blood-soaked jacket. He felt paper and realised it was an envelope, which he slid out.

Luc cradled Kilian’s head on his uninjured shoulder. They lay side by side, like mates – more like brothers, in truth, for they were so similar.

‘Already addressed,’ Kilian struggled to say. ‘Send it for me, when this is all done.’ He grabbed for Luc’s shirt front. ‘Promise me,’ he urged in a growl of pain, his pale eyes haunted in the low light.

‘I promise.’

‘Now, give me a final swig of that calvados. Let me die with the taste of someone I love on my lips.’

Luc reluctantly tipped a small dribble of the brandy into Kilian’s mouth.

‘Thank you,’ the colonel whispered, as he ran his tongue over his lips. ‘
Bonsoir
, Lisette,’ he breathed. ‘So much prettier to say farewell in French, don’t you think?’

The question died with him as Kilian’s eyelids closed. Luc lay with him a little longer beneath the soft moonlight among the gardens, choked with emotion.

Lisette woke to the sounds of cheering. She was disoriented at first, and then realised she was still in the Hotel Raphaël; she’d fallen asleep on Kilian’s bed and slept deeply.

There was no indication that anyone had disturbed the room through the night. Kilian’s jacket was still lying across her, like a blanket. She stood, made an effort to clean and tidy herself in his bathroom. When she emerged she looked presentable, and the frock she’d been wearing didn’t look as creased as she’d feared. She looked in the mirror and pinched her cheeks, but even she could see how slight she’d become. The good food and good living of her weeks away with Markus had not lasted, and the weight had fallen off her since she’d returned to Paris. Dark circles had appeared beneath her eyes, and her cheekbones stood out starkly. Markus would be appalled at the state of her, but in truth she looked no different to the other famished people of Paris.

Lisette took a deep breath. It was time to go. She didn’t
think she’d ever see Kilian again, but she’d accepted that long ago. Now she had to find Luc. She needed to return to places he knew. Montmartre, perhaps? She couldn’t face going back to Bastille and Sylvie right now.

Yes, she would go to Montmartre. She wanted to go to Sacré Coeur – the place where she felt most at home in Paris. She could leave a note on her old apartment door. Luc would find it – if he was looking for her. And he would come to her at the church.

At least it was a plan. And it was one that comforted her in her fractured state. But this was no longer about SOE or a mission. It wasn’t even about the war. It was simply about her heart. Life had become complicated, and she had compartmentalised her life, but she needed to realign now. And the voice in her head was right. She had chosen. Lying in Kilian’s hotel room, beneath his jacket, with his smell on her and his sheets beneath and the memory of him engulfing her, Lisette knew she had to let him go. He was her mission, and she
did
love Markus. She hadn’t expected to, certainly hadn’t wanted to, but he was a force, and in a different life they would have been more than lovers. Markus loved her, that could not be denied.

A small sob escaped her. She hated herself, and she hated London for turning her into this person. Markus was such a good man. If he’d been born British, he would have been hailed an Allied hero.

For the first time since that day more than twelve months ago when Captain Jepson recruited her, Lisette felt ashamed. Until now it had always been about striking back at the enemy, sabotaging the machine from within. Except Markus was the enemy. She felt the tears on her cheeks and hurriedly swept them away. No tears!

If only she could tell Markus that what they had shared hadn’t all been a lie. Could she ever explain it properly? Yes. She would like to tell Markus of her love for Luc – an equally good man. Luc he had stolen her heart before she and the colonel had met. But it was too late now. Too late for recriminations and apologies.

She hung Kilian’s jacket back in the wardrobe, straightening it carefully and lingering for a moment in farewell. She would never see him again – she was sure of this. Lisette held the sleeve against her cheek before giving it a kiss.

‘Goodbye, Markus,’ she whispered, then she closed the wardrobe door and left his room.

Armed Germans moved around in the lobby. They were likely preparing to surrender their weapons and themselves, but not to an angry band of trigger-happy men. She wondered how many of those French outside had joined the Resistance once they knew that the Allies were close. She wondered also at how many were former collaborators, now looking for protection in the ranks of the brave.

She wasn’t concentrating as she walked quickly through the lobby, keen to remove herself from the gathering Germans. She stepped out the door and was shocked when one of the men pacing outside yelled, ‘Her!’

Lisette looked up, startled.

‘She’s one of them,’ the voice said.

‘One of their whores!’ another called out.

She stopped dead, watched the angry men approaching. ‘What?’

A man gripped her arm. He was old but he was strong. Unshaven and jeering, he stared at her. She could smell liquor on his breath but he didn’t seem drunk.

‘Hello, whore,’ he spat in German.

She opened her mouth in dismay. ‘I’m French,’ she explained.

‘Worse! Slut!’

‘Shame on you, whore!’ came the catcalls.

No amount of protest or explanation was going to change anyone’s mind. She was dragged down a side street, aware of a small crowd of people following, jeering, calling her names. Not all men, either. Women and even children were among the mob.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded.

No one answered her. And she simply wasn’t strong enough to twist away. Even if she had kicked and fought her way free from the older man, there were ten, twenty others who’d grab her. Lisette knew that to struggle now would be to invite a beating; it was wiser to cooperate. It would pass.

She became slightly disoriented as she was roughly pulled along, and saw that she was being directed towards another mob, far larger. There was a carnival atmosphere, lots of clapping and cheering, and she was pushed through the crowd until she emerged to see a small line of women waiting with their heads bowed. Lisette felt a sharp twist of fear at the sight.

She had no one to shield her. These strangers would vent their rage, and they would have fun doing so. The women knew they could not escape that rage, in the same way that a tethered goat knows there is no escape from the blade.

Luc had stayed with Kilian for a few hours. He was surprised at the deep despair he felt that the colonel had given his life so cheaply and so deliberately. He told himself he should be thrilled, and yet all he felt was sorrow; it reminded him of
how he’d felt kissing his grandmother’s cold face, how he’d looked upon Wolf’s ruined body and accepted another loss. He didn’t want it to feel the same, but it did.

Luc gently unclasped Kilian’s stiffening fingers from the Walther P38 handgun. He checked the chamber. It was empty. He hung his head in fresh dismay. So Kilian had left the hotel with only one round in this gun. Luc felt sure that it had been intended for Kilian himself, but instead he’d shot Luc to save Luc’s life. Kilian had needed the young French boy to pull that trigger.

Luc straightened Kilian’s arms and took the trouble to pull back on his socks and boots as best he could. He even straightened the man’s hair. He didn’t want to think what would happen to the body if it were discovered by French freedom fighters, but that was no longer his concern.

He looked at the bloodstained envelope in his lap. It was addressed to someone called Ilse Vogel, which he could now just read beneath the lightening sky. Luc tucked it into his pocket; he’d post it as promised when the inevitable madness died down. It was the least he could do.

He slipped Kilian’s pistol into his trousers, beneath his shirt. He checked the colonel’s pockets; there was some money, a single cigarette and a lighter with his initials engraved on it. Luc dropped the lighter and money into his pocket with the letter. He didn’t like the idea that Kilian’s corpse would be looted, even though he wanted none of the man’s possessions.

‘Despite what you thought, you were a formidable adversary,’ he said quietly to Kilian’s still face, his heart heavy. He sensed that the world had lost a good man. Once again he was struck by how much Kilian reminded him of himself in appearance. He sighed, squeezed Kilian’s hand and then stood.

He’d all but forgotten about his own bullet wound until now, but the exertion of standing had awoken it. The bleeding had stopped but it was still very painful. He took off his shirt with difficulty and assumed that the bullet had passed cleanly through his shoulder. No bones seemed to be shattered. He touched the pouch hanging from his neck and smelt a faintest waft of lavender. His seeds had survived this long, and if his grandmother was right, they still protected him … even from bullets. He would need to get the wound cleaned and dressed; it might even require stitches. But for now he ripped his shirt tail to form a makeshift bandage.

‘Goodbye, Colonel,’ he said softly in German.

Luc took off and didn’t look back, running out of the Tuileries through all the haunts once again, just in case he stumbled across some lead on Lisette.

As he approached the Hotel Raphaël he noticed crowds of people loitering outside. His sleeve was grabbed by a man standing in the leeway of the building.

‘Excuse me.’ The man looked nervous.

‘Yes?’

He glanced at Luc’s shirt, still damp with his blood. ‘I … er … I work … worked at this hotel,’ he whispered.

Luc frowned. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Some hours ago, you asked me about the young lady.’

Luc hadn’t recognised the man out of his uniform. It was the concierge.

‘After you left, she came.’

Luc’s eyes widened. ‘She did?’

The man looked around furtively, and Luc pulled him back behind a corner of the building. ‘What can you tell me?’ He started digging in his pockets for money.

‘No, no,’ the man protested. ‘Perhaps you should get to a hospital, sir.’

‘What about Mademoiselle Forestier?’

‘I did see her last night – she was looking for Colonel Kilian.’

Luc’s jaw tightened. ‘Where did she go?’

‘Up to his room. And I think she must have stayed because I saw her again this morning, but … but—’

‘What?’

‘They took her.’

Luc stared at the man quizzically.

He pointed. ‘Not that long ago. That’s what everyone’s waiting for here. Either to see Germans dragged out, or their whores and collaborators.’

Luc’s expression clouded, like a gathering storm. He understood.

‘Down there,’ the man said, pointing again. ‘They’re teaching a lesson to all the French women who associated with the Boches.’

Luc ran, following the sound of a jeering crowd.

Lisette refused to weep. It didn’t win her any sympathy, but this was not a crowd in the mood to show compassion anyway. She’d discovered that the girl next to her was a waitress who worked in a café popular with the Nazis.

‘I was friendly, yes,’ she whimpered to Lisette, ‘but I’m married,
mademoiselle
. I have a baby. I needed tips.’ She dissolved into tears. The woman behind her was far less emotional.

‘Hooligans,’ she said. ‘You see that man with his blade?’

Lisette nodded, watching it being waved around.

‘He’s a collaborator. I know Remy Jocard. He’s spent years
sliming up to the Nazis, passing on information, fingering people to the Gestapo – most of them innocent. He’s a pig! And look at him now, pretending to be offended by us. I cleaned their hotel, that’s all I did, trying to keep body and soul together for my family.’ She spat at her feet.

Lisette gritted her teeth. There were calls from some of the men to strip the women, run them through the streets with swastikas painted on their breasts. Still others were calling for calm.

It was Lisette’s turn to be paraded in front of the crowd. The young mother had just been led away, her humiliation complete. But Lisette, at least, deserved the crowd’s contempt. She had fraternised with a German colonel, accepted his gifts, become his lover; if only she could explain that she was a spy. Lisette was shoved roughly to the centre of a makeshift stage and she didn’t resist. There was nothing to be gained. Besides, she felt too weak to fight back. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She wasn’t sure whether the crowd was moving or whether she was swaying; Lisette felt a sudden light-headedness. She didn’t want to faint. Not now. Not yet.

She wasted no time. ‘This man’s name is Remy Jocard. He is a collaborator! I know, because I’ve seen him fraternising with the Nazis,’ she yelled loudly, happy to lie on behalf of all the other women.

The man grabbed her and slapped her. ‘Shut your filthy mouth, Nazi whore!’

The blow hurt but she managed a sneer even though she was now dizzy. ‘Boche-lover!’

The crowd murmured.

‘I’ll do you properly, bitch!’ he threatened.

‘You’ll do her fairly, Jocard, or perhaps you’ll be answering
to this same crowd,’ a new voice said. It was an older man, and as Lisette watched him she realised it was the maître d’ from the magnificent restaurant at the Ritz. She nodded at him, remembering how he’d enjoyed her praise.

And so it began.

Lisette was forced to sit on a small bench. This was a merciful relief. She clutched her bag close to her belly as she heard the dislocated sound of scissors hacking roughly at her shoulder-length hair. Her tormentors threw some of the dark lengths into her lap and the crowd cheered. She looked forlornly at the hair that her father had loved, her mother had plaited, that Kilian and Luc had caressed.

And now a new sensation began. Lisette felt the barber’s blade begin to scrape against her scalp. Her remaining hair fell away in chunks around her, looking as dead as she felt inside. Jocard was rough and she felt the sting of the cuts he carelessly inflicted.

The trauma continued and the only way she could escape was to go inside her own mind. As though separating herself from this scene, she felt her spirit dislocate. She could see herself sitting on the bench, her eyes downcast, her lips thinned and resolute. One man held up her chin so the crowd could see her face, while Jocard shaved off her hair in clumps. She watched it all from a distance.

‘You wouldn’t want to draw any more blood on this girl, Jocard,’ her supporter warned.

Jocard mumbled beneath his breath but she didn’t feel the blade slice into her scalp again as the last of her black hair fell away and the crowd – most of them, anyway – laughed and cheered at the newest
femme tondeur
in the popular justice sweeping France during the liberation.

Lisette let her breathing slow and deepen as best she could and let her mind transport her to a field of lavender. The bees buzzed around her, the stalks tall and strong, their purple flowers level with her face. She could smell their perfume.