Max, entirely unaware of her distress, casually flipped open the side window of the Kubelwagen and poked his head out into the driving rain. Despite the ringing wet headscarf and the hunched and timorous attitude, he sensed immediately that it was a young woman whom he was addressing.
With one hand held up to shield himself against the downpour, he shouted across to her. ‘Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît?’ He hesitated for a moment, nonplussed by her lack of a response. ‘On ne vous veut pas de mal, vous savez.’
When Lucie finally raised her head, Max was startled at the anomalous effect her badly broken nose had on her otherwise unblemished features. It gave him an almost physical jolt, as if a foreign object had unexpectedly been inserted inside his flesh and thumbed beneath his sternum. Her terrified eyes glowed unnaturally brightly in the dead light imparted by the storm, and Max felt a ludicrous urge to reach out a hand and comfort her, almost as if it ought to be he who should apologise for nature’s dirty tricks. Instead he found himself self-consciously modifying the tone of his voice, as if he were preparing to address a brave but irretrievably shell-shocked soldier during a routine visit to the infirmary.
‘Please come into the car with us, Mademoiselle. We’re going all the way into St Gervais. You can’t possibly stay here. This wind will carry you away.’
Lucie dropped her gaze. Her face seemed strained and pale and prematurely aged in the storm’s fractured light. When she realised the import of Max’s words, she shook her head vehemently, her hair, lashed by the wind and rain, exploding in rats’ tails from beneath her scarf.
Paul Meyer chose that moment to lean across from the driver’s seat and address Max, gruffly, in German.
‘Can’t you see she’s pissing herself with fear? She’ll never get in. Why not let me drive on?’
Even though she did not understand a word of what had passed, Meyer’s parade-ground growl had a predictable effect on Lucie – she huddled even closer to the stone wall at the back of the shrine, her hands crossed over her chest in a mute gesture of self-protection.
It was this fawn-like movement of helpless entreaty that, ironically, persuaded Max that he should continue with his appeals to her common sense. He and Meyer weren’t the monsters she took them for, after all. It was utterly and entirely unreasonable of the girl not to respond to their well-meant addresses. Couldn’t she see past their uniforms, and their foreignness, to the fact that they meant her no harm? If she could not, then it was up to him to enlighten her as to the transparency of their intentions.
‘Come, Mademoiselle. We shan’t eat you. It’s at least another two kilometres into town, and you will catch your death of cold before then. I categorically refuse to abandon you to the elements.’
Lucie sat silently, her head inclined towards the ground, and refused to look him in the face.
For motives that he was unable to explain to himself either then or later, Max threw open the door of the Kubelwagen and stepped out into the road. The girl was attractive, it was true. But then again, the broken nose, and the fact that no one had bothered – or could afford, more probably – to have it fixed, surely freed his actions from any hint of prurience? He was a German officer, and she a female in distress. He couldn’t simply abandon her to the elements. In such a situation, her age and the sum of her undoubted charms were irrelevant.
Deprived of the shelter afforded by the car, Max now found himself perilously close to being overwhelmed by the power of the wind, which threatened to unbalance him until he was able to take its measure and steady himself against the side of the vehicle. Thrusting the door shut behind him, he stumbled towards the tiny shrine, crossing himself automatically as he did so. Lucie’s panic-stricken eyes widened briefly as she caught the furtive movement of his right hand, and then, just as swiftly, closed down on themselves again.
Once he was safely inside the protection of the shrine, Max dropped into a crouch to compensate for his height. ‘Mademoiselle. Please. We intend you no harm. I swear it.’ He glanced surreptitiously at the statue of St Gervais. ‘You are heading into town, are you not?’
Lucie shook her head, rigid with fear. She knew that if she allowed these two German soldiers to force her inside their vehicle, they would take her away to a nearby barn and rape her. Hervé had told her about the black-uniformed foreigners who had been infesting Montauban and the surrounding area for the past few months, and her recent experience had simply reinforced her anxieties.
Max, after his first largely agreeable shock of revelation, was belatedly taking in Lucie’s threadbare clothes, her mud-encrusted clogs, and her painfully inadequate waterproof jacket. Why on earth was he bothering with her? The girl was little more than a peasant, fresh off the farm, and he a major in the Waffen SS. Was he really so susceptible to the lure of the feminine?
He had thought of himself as more or less immune to the Call of the Siren in recent years, and now look at him, crouching here in the sheeting rain trying to persuade a complete stranger to climb into his car. The thing was absurd. He most certainly wouldn’t have put himself out for a man in a similar dilemma.
Max glanced impatiently at his watch. He was already running half an hour late for his meeting with the mayor… well, let the bloody man wait. It would simply serve to soften him up that little bit more.
‘Are you coming, Mademoiselle?’
Lucie shook her head. A lock of hair fell across her face and she nervously brushed it back from her eyes. She looked across at Max entreatingly, rather as a dog will gaze up at the new owner who intends to beat it into submission.
Meyer chose his moment with care. Shunting himself with some difficulty all the way across to the passenger seat, he made a foghorn out of his hands. ‘Major, she daren’t go with us, can’t you see? They’ll recognise her in the village and come to all the wrong conclusions. Think how the same thing would look back at home.’ He felt sorry for the broken-nosed girl and her dilemma, but his wound was playing him up again, thanks to this pig-wet weather, and all he wanted was his lunch, some beer, and the chance to stretch out in the back of the vehicle and get a little rest.
Max straightened up from his crouch. God, had it really come to this? Even farm girls turning sick with fear at the sight of him? Then the force of Meyer’s image struck home – he found himself visualizing Bettina in a similar situation with an invading Russian soldier, and all the colour drained from his face. He stepped abruptly back into the maw of the wind and gave Lucie a small bow followed by a curt semi-formal inclination of the head.
‘Good day, then, Mademoiselle. Of course I won’t insist.’
With one final glance at Lucie – who was staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses – he retreated to the relative warmth of the Kubelwagen, the after-image of those extraordinary blue eyes still hovering at the edge of his consciousness.
Meyer squeezed back onto his own seat. He shook his head dolefully.
‘All right, Paul. You can stop glaring at me like that. You’re perfectly correct. It was an absurd idea, pulling up like that. Drive on.’
Meyer shunted the Kubelwagen quickly into gear before Max had the chance to change his mind.
Max cast a single backwards glance at the huddled figure, then switched his attention to the road ahead. He set about preparing himself a papirosu, his mouth pursed in concentration.
Meyer looked across at him. ‘They’re not like the ones in town, these country girls. Believe me, Major, if we’d taken her with us, someone would have seen. Then she’d have got hell from her family. We’re poison to them. I’m surprised you haven’t realised that yet.’ He hawked loudly, getting into his stride. ‘It’s bad enough that you insist on travelling without an escort. Let alone picking up stray petticoats from beside the road. One day the terrorists will ambush us, you wait and see, and this time they’ll know to use someone just like her as bait. Then you’ll find out how civilized your beloved Frenchmen are. With all that tinsel you have plastered across your
chest, you’d make one hell of a prize.’
‘Is your wound bothering you?’ Max raised a quizzical eyebrow at Meyer. A half-smile was playing across his face.
‘Of course not…’ Meyer cut short his well-rehearsed litany of protestation. ‘How did you guess?’
‘You become irritable.’ Max blotted the damp off his face with a handkerchief. ‘Then you conveniently forget that I am your commanding officer and you start nagging me, just like you do the men.’
Meyer double-declutched before the next gradient. ‘And who else is there to do it? That new rabble they’ve given us are either in frozen awe of your record, or would like to see you guillotined. Tell me I’m wrong?’
Max shook his head. ‘Of course you’re not wrong. I’m not that much of a fool. But you shouldn’t be here to tell me, Paul. You lost a kidney in that Popov clearing, and God knows what else besides. You need another three months of convalescence at the very least. You’re not doing yourself, or me, any good out here, and I can’t afford to lose you permanently. All I’d have to do is sign a piece of paper and you could go home on extended leave.’
‘The invasion is coming. Then you’ll be pleased you’ve still got me around to nag you.’
‘The invasion?’ Max moistened the edge of his papirosu, his mind still on the girl. ‘What do you think you, or I, or even the entire division, will be able to do about that? You said it yourself the other day. We’re under strength, our new recruits are woefully inadequate, and most of them can’t even speak German anymore – they’re either from Hungary, or Romania, or, God protect us, from the Alsace. And the NCOs, with the notable exception of you and Hausser, have had virtually no front-line experience.’ He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, the corners of his lips curling. ‘And, to cap it all, our so-called combat-hardened veterans are so relieved to have survived the Russian front that they are now intent on turning themselves into Kaiserschmarren, seduced by the constant food, the pox-ridden Toulouse brothels and the good weather.’ He flicked his head ironically at the howling gale outside, as if he half expected to catch the elusive fragrance of the girl on its wings. ‘Today being something of an exception, of course.’ He tossed the papirosu angrily out of the window. ‘God, even tobacco tastes foul in this wind.’ He glanced across at Meyer, the beginnings of a leavening smile on his face. ‘I presume, by your silence, that you do not intend to take me up on my suggestion of sending you home?’
Meyer hawked demonstratively, considered spitting, then, just as abruptly, changed his mind and swallowed.
La Bonne Auberge
Max’s Kubelwagen drew up with a grumble of tyres onto the newly cobbled esplanade outside the Mairie. The mayor and two of his councillors were clustered under the portico, gazing gloomily out into the rain.
When he saw the Kubelwagen, the mayor straightened his sash, unfurled his umbrella, muttered something under his breath to his companions, and began to pick his way reluctantly down the steps. He looked like an unjustly condemned man, forced against his will to finally vacate the dock.
Max flipped open the side window and stuck out his head. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Tell me. Is there a restaurant in this godforsaken place?’
The mayor, flustered at the kiboshing of his carefully prepared introductory speech, and not a little taken aback at the unflattering portrayal of his bailiwick, gave a grudging nod. ‘Yes. Just down the road from here. But they won’t be expecting us, you know.’
‘So much the better. We’ll surprise them then. We can hold our discussions in the warmth, over food and a decent bottle of wine.’ For some reason Max felt an unexpected rush of vitality and good humour suffusing him despite the incessant battering of the rain. ‘I have a question for you, Monsieur le Maire. How well do you know your Shakespeare?’
The mayor stopped in his tracks, his eyes fixed warily on Max’s medals. ‘My Shakespeare? You mean the Englishman, Shakespeare?’ He grimaced nervously, not entirely sure what was expected of him – even anticipating some kind of a trap. ‘I’ve heard of him, of course. He wrote Macbeth, didn’t he?’
‘Excellent. Excellent. Then you’ll understand exactly what I mean when I say, “Lead on, Macduff!”’
Meyer shepherded his vehicle through the narrow village streets in distant pursuit of the mayor and his now bemused entourage. Every time Max looked away, Meyer clicked his teeth disapprovingly. It was a very long time indeed since he’d seen his commanding officer behaving in such a flippant manner, and it disconcerted him.
A few minutes further into the journey he grunted a more or less inaudible ‘It looks like we’re here’ in response to one of the councillors’ semaphored directions. He reversed the Kubelwagen neatly up in front of the restaurant, with its boot well clear of the curb for a quick getaway, then shifted in his seat expectantly, his expression instantly lightening. ‘I can smell the beer already.’
‘This is France, Paul. Not Bavaria. They drink wine in France.’
‘Then they can stew me in it.’
The narrow unprepossessing building with its almost non-existent sign, LA BONNE AUBERGE, was squashed between a milliner’s shop, AU CHIC PARISIEN, and a store sporting the now faded emblem, CHEZ MONTAGNÉ – SABOTS ET GALOCHES (TISSUS + CONFECTIONS). A pale and insubstantial face from inside the restaurant peered briefly through the net curtains, and just as abruptly withdrew itself.
The mayor, breathing heavily following his unaccustomed exertions, was mopping at his face with a handkerchief. ‘It’s in here, Major. In here. I’m sure Madame Léré will be able to find you a table.’
‘I’m sure she will, too.’
The mayor hesitated for a second, as if reality had just handed him an unexpected clout on the nose, then disappeared inside the vestibule. A cacophony of barked chairs and raised voices accompanied his entrance, followed by a sudden intense silence.
Meyer decided that he might as well go with the flow. ‘Don’t worry about me, Herr Sturmbannführer. I can forage for myself. Then I’ll keep guard at the door in case of undesirables.’
Max grinned. ‘I shouldn’t overdo the guard duty, Paul. Just get them to rustle you up something tasty from the kitchen, and take it easy. I won’t be long.’
‘Zu Befehl, Herr Major!’
Max was accustomed by now to the electrifying effect his uniform always had on a roomful of unsuspecting Frenchmen, many of whom had never encountered a German soldier in the four years since the signing of the Armistice. There was a hidden aspect to his nature which rather enjoyed the coup de théâtre, and subsequently his ability to subvert expectations with his well-modulated command of the French language. Today, he chose to use this capacity to the full.
‘Please continue with your lunch, Gentlemen. The mayor and I have chosen to combine business with pleasure, and we shall, if we may, join you.’
Out of the corner of his eye Max could see the mayor’s expression hovering between relief and terminal embarrassment. His councillors began to encourage a group of diners from one, now magically empty table, to another, soon-to-be overflowing one. Nobody objected.
Max sat down facing the door, with his back to the wall. He threw his cap down onto the banquette, and then surreptitiously slipped his pistol underneath it – there was no reason to invite trouble, after all. He caught sight of Jeanne Léré peering at him through the kitchen hatch, and beckoned to her with his finger.
‘Come, Monsieur le Maire. I’m famished. Let’s order lunch straightaway. Our business can wait for later, don’t you think?’
* * *
It pleased Max to have all the wealthiest and most influential men in the town listening in to his conversation with the mayor – this way he could rely on a more or less impartial trail of gossip circulating around the community, rather than one filtered and manipulated by the mayor himself. Over their extended lunch he made a constant point of keeping the man on his toes – of playing hot and cold with him. One moment flattering him and affording him face, the next raisi
ng his voice and laying down the law, so that those at the nearby tables could not fail to hear what was being said.
Max was perfectly well aware that he had only to bark out an order or a requisition and it would have to be accommodated. But he had learned long ago that people were far easier to control if they fancied that they had some power over their own affairs, even if, in reality, they hadn’t.
It was for this reason, too, that he had decided to enter the town alone, without an escort, avoiding the fanfare and seemingly aggressive backup of tanks and infantry. All that would come later. For now, all Max wanted was the mayor’s grudging acceptance that the town would not stand in the way of Max’s plans for his Battle Group, and, that it would accept the presence of the Battle Group as a form of benefit, rather than simply as an imposition.
To this effect Max laid out the financial advantages that would accrue for the town – supplies, entertainment, domestic services and so forth – on the understanding that no acts of terrorism or black marketeering occurred within the borders of the commune. Should such an act or acts occur, then all arrangements would be off, and Max would have to behave appropriately. Did the mayor understand him clearly on this?
Beyond their table throats were cleared, and eyes cast themselves about the room as if searching for some miraculous alternative to the presence of this black-clad German warrior with his confident eyes and masterful manner, his chest full of medals, the demonstrative holster strapped to his waist, and his virtually unlimited power over every aspect of their everyday lives.
‘You people do yourselves well.’ Max was mopping up the last of his poule au pot with a thick slice of pain de seigle. ‘I would have given my right arm for a meal like this in Russia.’
‘In Russia?’ The mayor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘You were in Russia?’ Stories of the brutalities inflicted by both sides at the Russian front had filtered back, over the years, even as far as the Ségala.
The Occupation Secret Page 7
