The Lavender Keeper (6 page)

As the first vat of water began to simmer in the Cygnet, Luc noticed Gitel watching him closely. ‘Gitel, do you understand how this works?’

His sister grinned sheepishly before admitting, ‘No. But why don’t you teach me?’

‘This clever piece of equipment is an essentier,’ Luc said. ‘As pressure builds in the top half where the flowers are now steaming, they yield their precious oil, which will shortly be carried in the vapour.’

A few workers nearby began to listen. They all looked hot already.

‘The steam will force its way into here,’ Luc said, tapping the barrel, ‘where there is cool water and a coiled tube.

‘The steam, arriving into this barrel and passing through the cool water via the coiled tub, can’t help but turn back into liquid. Any moment now it will drip out of the condenser’s spout into this small pot at its base, as a blend of water and oil.’

Gitel’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and just at that moment – as if on cue – the first drips of the precious liquid plopped into the pot.

Amid a cheer, the workers gathered to take a break, sip some much-needed water and watch the first of the season’s essential oil arrive. Luc dipped his fingers into the oil’s surface and rubbed his thumb through the glistening liquid.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrance – heady, velvety, powerful.

At midday Luc called a halt and everyone settled beneath the few trees nearby that acted as a windbreak. They offered welcome shade to enjoy the food laid out – ham, paté, a goats’ cheese omelette and fresh bread, washed down with watered wine or cider. Strawberries from Ida’s garden were a treat. For a while, even Jacob seemed to lose his furrowed brow and Luc allowed himself to believe that Provence, with its bright colours and its plenitude, might just give his father hope for the future.

It had been a long day, more than twelve hours in the field, when Luc finally called a halt. The workers straightened for the last time, wincing as they stretched their spines and massaged tired muscles.

‘We’ll do the top field tomorrow,’ he told them as his father entered the final tally in the accounting book against the last man’s name.

The family watched the workers all drift away down the rocky hillside towards the village.

His father sucked on his pipe. ‘A very good day. I’m impressed, Luc.’

Luc nodded. ‘I don’t even need to know the tally to see it. At this rate, we may fill four pots from the fields, and Saba will have enough of her precious aromatic water to daub on all the people and animals of the village.’

Wolf smiled. ‘I have to admit – and I don’t care what you say, Luc – last winter, Ida’s lavender oil surely helped
my rheumatism, and old Philippe’s horse was cured of that strange swelling on his leg.’

‘Well, watch out. She’s got fresh supplies now. She’ll be using it for everything from indigestion to lack of energy.’

‘That little boy of the Rouens’—his fits and seizures are less frequent.’

‘He could be growing out—’

‘The lavender water might also work. You shouldn’t be so sceptical.’

Luc put up his hands in mock defence and tucked a spray of lavender into his shirt pocket. ‘I’m not, Wolf. The power of the lavender has been drummed into me since I was old enough to understand.’

Laurent’s breezy voice called to them. ‘Messieurs, the ladies are ready.’ He pointed to the cart laden for its descent into the village.

‘Thank you, Laurent,’ Jacob said, and gathered up his writing materials. ‘See you at the house,’ he called to Luc, linking arms with Wolf and carefully making his way to the cart.

‘I can help you with the equipment if you want. What can I do?’ Laurent offered.

‘Hold this,’ Luc said, pointing to the neck of the Cygnet. ‘We have to dismantle this first.’

They were so engrossed in the task that they didn’t see Fougasse arrive back with Caesar ten minutes later.

‘Hello, Bonet, Martin.’

They both looked up. Luc wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Fougasse.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks for bringing the donkey back, but we could have done that.’

‘I know,’ the baker replied. He gave the donkey an apple core. ‘A good day?’

Luc nodded. ‘An excellent yield.’

Fougasse looked out across the valley. ‘On a day like today one could pretend we aren’t living in the madness.’

‘After listening to my father, I can honestly say
we
aren’t living in the madness. Paris is the crazy place.’

‘Yes, you’re right there.’

Luc paused, unsure whether to continue. ‘Did you want to talk with me, Monsieur Fougasse? It’s just that—’

‘Both of you, in fact.’ The baker sighed softly. ‘It is a delicate matter, Bonet.’

Luc felt vaguely unnerved. There was something in Fougasse’s steady, dark gaze that made him feel unsure.

‘May we sit, Monsieur Bonet?’ Fougasse said, gesturing at a rocky mound nearby. ‘Best we’re not seen,’ he said, looking back down the hillside to the village.

Laurent sat, intrigued, but Luc wasn’t so sure. ‘What’s this about, Fougasse? As you can see, I’m really—’

‘Sit, Bonet,’ the older man said. It was not an invitation.

Luc sat down slowly. ‘It is harvest time, Fougasse. Every minute seems to count.’

‘I understand.’ The baker seemed uninterested in Laurent and only had eyes for Luc. ‘I will take only a little of your time. I hope I am not wrong, but I sense anger and patriotism in you.’

‘For France, you mean?’ Laurent replied while Luc stared, astonished. The baker’s remark was unexpected.

‘Of course,’ Fougasse replied, rubbing a dark, unshaven chin but not taking his hard gaze from Luc.

‘Monsieur Fougasse, we are French! We are patriots! We hate the Boches.’ Laurent dropped his voice. Habit had taught him to only think these thoughts, not say them, and he looked
guilty at saying words that carried all manner of punishments.

Luc cut him a disapproving glance. ‘Your point?’

The baker blinked at last. ‘I am Maquis.’

Laurent gasped, but while Luc was surprised he was not shocked. It made sense that this man was an active resister when you looked at his life. He was single and self-contained, he never said much, and while he was friendly enough to all in the village, Luc knew him to be private – secretive, in fact. He was a strongly built man but known for his gentle voice and seemingly meek ways. Looking at him now, though, there was little that was meek about the baker.

Fougasse was taking a dangerous risk in declaring himself. Resisters rubbed shoulders daily with collaborators throughout the country but nowhere was the secrecy more pronounced than in the country. In the villages of France the resister would offer warm salutations to the collaborator from the neighbouring hamlet, perhaps even break bread or share a drink with him. Neither would know each other’s persuasion, and secrecy became paramount if you were a resister.

Clearly Luc and Laurent’s willingness to plug up springs, fell trees, and hamper the German soldiers and French police had caught the attention of these men. The secret group of renegades had formed initially to avoid any so-called voluntary work in Germany but had soon become part of the active resistance. In the Luberon it was difficult to be found if you knew your way around the hillsides. The locals knew the foothills and goat tracks better than they knew the main roads of the towns. These men became ghosts – rarely seen in the villages, barely heard from at all.

Men were disappearing all over France to join these renegade groups but in the south-east they were called the
Maquis, after the scrubby terrain of their region. To belong was to be a maquisard, and to wear the badge of French patriotism. The group started out as loose collections of a few individuals in the hills, but increasingly it was becoming more organised. Luc felt his heart lift with pride each time he caught a rumour about another act of sabotage against the Germans. Sometimes they were petty and simply held up proceedings by a few hours; on other occasions they stopped the Germans from following through on orders. Killings were rare but not unheard of.

A thought flashed in Luc’s mind. ‘The note was from you!’

‘Note?’ Laurent repeated.

The baker nodded ruefully. ‘I shouldn’t have. It was incriminating, but I felt very proud the day you stopped the fountain flowing. It made my heart sing to think Fritz drank from the same water as our horses, our donkeys, our cattle.’

‘It was more of a prank,’ Luc admitted.

‘Clever, though.’

Luc shrugged. ‘I’d seen how all our girls smiled coyly whenever the German soldiers looked their way … and they are always looking their way,’ he said, sounding disgusted.

Fougasse gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I enjoyed the prank. And the second time you sent them back where they came from.’

Laurent grinned. ‘I wanted to make it more dramatic but Luc said we had to keep it fast and simple, right?’

Luc nodded silently while Laurent continued. ‘Luc knew of a tree that was dying. He said if we pushed it over, it would look real, as though it had simply fallen. Took three of us to get it down in time.’

‘Effective,’ Fougasse said. ‘And clean. No one suspected anything.’

‘You’ve been keeping close tabs, Monsieur Fougasse,’ Luc remarked. ‘And yet I have not been aware of you.’

‘Sometimes it is because of our visibility that we are invisible,’ he replied cryptically.

‘Out in plain sight, eh?’

‘Exactly. For me it works.’

‘You don’t trust anyone,’ Luc said.

‘I want to say no one, but I trust you enough to reveal myself.’

‘Why?’

‘Why trust you? Or why reveal myself?’

Luc’s eyes crinkled at the edges. ‘Both.’

‘I know your families well, and apples don’t fall far from their trees.’ He gave a slight incline of his head. ‘I fought alongside Jacob Bonet in the Great War. He was a good man, a brave man. He looked after us youngsters.’

How many times had Luc heard similar tales?

‘He saved my life once. I have never forgotten it, though we never speak of it. So now I am obliged to save yours.’

‘Save my life?’ Luc asked, amused.

Fougasse didn’t reply. The answer was in the set of his jaw.

Luc took a breath. ‘Why reveal your secret?’

‘I told you: to save your life. Or at least try. I can protect you more than your father can.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Luc felt wearied after a long day and keen to spend time with his family, have a bath, drink some wine.

‘Become a maquisard – both of you,’ Fougasse said bluntly. ‘We need fit young men who refuse to bow to the Germans or to Vichy’s new rules and regulations.’

‘Us?’ Laurent said. ‘What can we do?’

‘Stand against those who oppress us. If we’re meek, our enemies don’t even need to kill us; we make ourselves their slaves. Have you any idea of the scale of the German requisitions? It’s not just food. It’s equipment, and horses will be next. They’re stealing our very livelihood. Without our animals, how do our farmers plough their fields to grow the food? Paris is starving but almost everything we grow is being sent to Germany. Meanwhile French babies die.’

The baker sighed. ‘Forgive me. I do not mean to lecture. But this is important. Especially for you, Luc.’

‘Why Luc?’ Laurent asked. If he was offended, it didn’t show.

Fougasse raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s his appearance. What’s more, I presume you know he speaks German.’

Laurent’s expression became guarded. ‘We are lifelong friends. Of course I know! I should like to learn how you do, though.’

Fougasse turned to Luc. ‘Your father has told me everything.’

Luc rounded on him. ‘What do you know?’ he growled.

‘I know about you.’

‘What’s he talking about, Luc?’ Laurent asked, a confused look on his face.

Luc pointed at the baker. ‘Monsieur Fougasse, your secret is as safe with me as I trust mine is with you. But I do not need saving. I can look after myself, and what’s more, I have a family to take care of.’

‘It is too late for them, Bonet.’

‘What?’ Luc said, abruptly standing. ‘Too late? What are you talking about?’ He suddenly became aware of three strangers who had appeared behind him. His eyes widened at
the beekeepers’ nets they wore to hide their faces. ‘Who are you?’

Fougasse nodded unhappily, and at his signal the strangers pounced on Luc and Laurent. There wasn’t even time to yell. Big, hard hands clamped across their mouths and they were forced onto their bellies.

‘I ask your forgiveness, Bonet. This is not how I would wish to conscript you,’ Fougasse said. ‘But I have no choice, if I wish to save your life as I promised your father I would.’ And from his pocket he produced Luc’s birth certificate. ‘This is all you need from your home. I deeply regret that you cannot help your family but I am acting on your father’s orders. We do not hold your ancestry against you, but now is a very good time to prove your patriotism to France.’

Luc roared his anger but the hand on his mouth muffled all sound.

The church pealed the hour. Eight. The cicadas began to tune up, and above the drone of a lone bee, Luc could hear the voices of village children playing and a vehicle groaning up the makeshift road.

Luc stopped struggling. A car?

‘Hush now, Bonet. Let your eyes tell you everything you need to know.’

Below them Luc saw a van rumbling into Saignon village.

He twisted beneath the men and glared at Fougasse.

‘That is Landry and no doubt someone from the SS,’ the baker said, his face leaden with regret. ‘They have come to arrest your parents, sisters and grandmother.’

The callused hand pressed even more firmly over Luc’s mouth.

Fougasse continued. ‘Somebody from the village contacted
the authorities in Apt and reminded them that a Jewish family had returned to Saignon last week, fleeing from Paris. The snitch even suggested that the family was inciting hatred against the Germans.’

Laurent managed to speak. ‘Rubbish! The Bonets are important to the village. No man would do such a thing.’

Fougasse shrugged. ‘No man, maybe, but a woman perhaps,’ he replied. ‘Catherine Girard has brought this on your folk.’

Luc bit his captor’s hand and his mouth was released. ‘Prove it!’ Luc snarled.

‘Take the other one,’ said Fougasse curtly, with a nod to his companions.

Laurent, struggling, was carried away. One man remained. Luc was shocked to see he carried a revolver.

‘I regret this,’ Fougasse said. ‘I am doing this because your father asked me to. Come, you need to bear witness. Can I count on you to remain silent?’

Luc nodded.

‘If you give us away, we are all dead, Bonet, including your friend. You do not want our blood on your hands.’

Luc stared grimly back at Fougasse, who seemed satisfied with Luc’s silence.

They moved quietly and swiftly to a point where they had a clear view past the fountain to Luc’s house.

Men had spilt out of the van. Among the uniforms of the French police, Luc could see a different uniform; it was the colour of a grey dove but worn with boots that were impressively tall and shiny.

‘Gestapo?’ Luc wondered.

‘Worse. SS,’ Fougasse confirmed. He pointed to the rooftops.
Luc frowned. ‘Follow me. It’s the only way we can get closer. Are you sure you can do this, Bonet?’

Luc stared at him, his jaw working, his expression intense.

‘I have to trust you to be silent. To reveal us is to give our lives uselessly to a German bullet.’

‘That’s my family!’

Fougasse regarded him, his expression not without pity. ‘It is too late for them now.’

Luc couldn’t respond. His mouth was open, his eyes felt glazed. He was suddenly unable to move.

‘But you can avenge them,’ Fougasse finished.

Luc’s knees buckled. He crouched; he needed to think, needed to have a plan. He needed a gun, damn it! But the baker was well ahead of him.

‘Don’t even consider it now,’ Fougasse warned. ‘I promise you, I would have warned your family, but we only had moments. I would sooner kill you myself than break my oath to your father. Now, this is a tragedy, I know, but this is your reality. Your family is going to be taken away and there is nothing you can do about it other than get yourself killed and probably me and a few others in the bargain. Hear me … you cannot save them. But you can get your revenge.’