Hervé snorted. ‘Would you believe me if I told you no?’
Max permitted himself a fleeting smile. ‘There’s a wash-hand basin in the corner of the guardroom. I suggest you use it.’ He turned on his heel and walked out of the cell.
After a moment’s bemused hesitation, Hervé followed him, reeling from one side of the corridor to the other, his knees flexing spasmodically, like a marionette’s.
‘Here’s a towel. Wet it and press it against your face.’
Hervé began to laugh, but stopped himself just in time. ‘Why all the loving kindness, all of a sudden? Ah. I understand. You don’t want to alarm the firing squad.’
Max took out his pistol and laid it on the table. He sat down in front of it. ‘You can sit over there when you are finished.’
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer!’
Hervé snapped his heels together and tried to throw out a parody of a Hitler salute. One of his legs wouldn’t respond to his message, however, and he was forced to clutch at the wall to prevent himself pitching forwards onto the floor. When Max didn’t react, Hervé shrugged and staggered across to the basin. He soaked the towel, squeezed out the excess water, and held it to his face.
‘Ah.’ He tipped back his head. ‘Shit.’ He fingered his gums, surreptitiously testing for more loose teeth. ‘You ordered them to do this, I suppose? To soften me up?’
‘No. I had no knowledge of any of it.’
Hervé managed a half-hearted laugh, one hand still cautiously steadying his jaw. ‘Do you know something? I never once thought that you did. That’s curious, isn’t it? Given our respective positions. But I’ve been watching you, mon Général. All your music playing, and your letter writing, and your lovemaking. You can learn a lot about a man’s habits via a pair of binoculars.’
Max leaned forwards, his body tensing. ‘For how long? For how long have you been watching us?’
Hervé shrugged. ‘It hardly matters anymore, does it? For I shall doubtless be taking whatever I’ve seen with me to the grave.’
Max forced himself to relax. He slid back into his chair, as if he were settling in for the duration. ‘So. Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?’
Hervé sighed. ‘Ah. That.’ He eased himself into the chair opposite, still clutching the damp towel to his face.
‘Well?’
‘I might have hit her.’
‘You’re talking nonsense.’ Max began rolling a cigarette. ‘The range from the church tower to the library is no more than ninety metres. And you’ve clearly hunted all your life. You could have taken out my eye, no problem at all.’
‘The rifle wasn’t sighted in.’
Max threw Hervé the finished cigarette and began rolling another one. ‘Not good enough.’
‘It’ll have to be. It’s all you’re getting.’
Max raised his head. Then he laughed, and tossed Hervé the box of matches. ‘You must know I can’t do anything for you. I would if I could. Will you believe that at least?’
Hervé lit his cigarette. The hand that held the match was shaking. ‘Why do you care what I believe? I’m a dead man. You don’t have to worry your head about me any-more.’
‘Did the Maquis order you to kill me?’
‘Ah. Now we have it. You’ve softened me up. Shown me a little false kindness. And now you’re getting ready to call in the heavy-duty boys again. To get what you really want out of me.’ There was a nervous catch to Hervé’s voice.
‘No. If you tell me here and now that this thing was personal, I shall believe you. But I want to hear you say it.’
‘And then you’ll let me go?’
‘No. I can’t do that.’
Hervé closed his eyes. He exhaled unsteadily through his nose. ‘So whatever I say, it will make no difference? I could simply lie?’
‘Of course. It’s your right as a prisoner. Just as it’s your fate to take the consequences if your lies are found out.’
‘There aren’t any Maquis here. They are all further north. In the Quercy.’
Max snorted. ‘I know very well that there are bands of Maquis up on the Causse. What do you think I am? An idiot?’
‘Hardly that.’
‘What I am asking you is between us. Between men. If you tell me that you intended to kill me purely on account of Lucie – if you say this to my face – I will believe you.’
‘Why should I care what you believe?’
‘But you do, nevertheless.’
Hervé sucked deeply on his cigarette, his eyes drifting away, his face wreathed in tendrils of smoke. ‘Ah, that’s good. So good. You roll a first class clope, I’ll give you that much.’
Max permitted himself a further fleeting smile. ‘Three godforsaken years on the Eastern Front. I had plenty of time to practise.’
Hervé glanced up in surprise at the unexpected note of intimacy in Max’s voice. ‘I’m amazed you survived. From what I’ve heard of the conditions out there.’
‘I was lucky.’ The expression in Max’s eyes belied his words.
‘So was I… or so they tell me.’ Hervé ran his fingers down his disfigured face. ‘And I never even got to fire a shot in anger.’ He snorted ironically through his nose. ‘Still haven’t.’ He rocked forward unexpectedly, his battered hands settling on the table within easy reach of Max’s pistol – almost as if he were challenging Max to radically extend the borders of their newfound intimacy and finish him off.
Max’s eyes never strayed from Hervé’s face.
Hervé was sweating heavily now, despite the chill of the guardroom. ‘Do you really care for her? Tell me that much, at least.’ He tried to spit out a loose piece of tobacco, but his numbed lips wouldn’t obey him. He brushed the tobacco roughly away with his sleeve. ‘Or is she just an amusing piece of froth to pass the time with before you’re sent back to the front?’
Max watched him, never moving towards the gun, his expression steady. ‘No. She’s hardly that.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ Hervé sat back. ‘Not a girl like her.’
Max raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that why you didn’t kill me when you had the chance? Because of her?’
‘You were unarmed. I’m not an animal. I wanted to kill you face on. So that you’d know why it was done and by whom.’
‘Do you still want to kill me?’
‘Throw me your pistol and find out.’
Max smiled. ‘I think you’ve answered my question. All my questions.’
‘And now you’re going to toss me back to the wolves? Is that it?’
‘Probably. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Thanks.’ Hervé’s tone hovered uneasily between sarcasm and sincerity. ‘Thanks for being so bloody honest.’
‘They won’t touch you anymore. I promise you that much. And I’ll have food, and wine, and a bed brought in. And someone to patch up your face.’
‘Will there be reprisals on account of what I’ve done?’
‘Reprisals against what? Against whom? Nothing happened. No shot was fired. I have no wish to alienate the town any further than is strictly necessary.’
Hervé hunched his shoulders. His tongue played nervously across the unfamiliar gap in his front teeth. ‘And Lucie? Will I ever see her again?’
Max hesitated, considering. His blue eyes drifted across Hervé’s battered features as though he were searching for the answer to some elusive question only he had the key to.
Hervé stubbed out his cigarette on the tabletop, his expression masked – aware of the intensity of Max’s gaze, but not wishing to acknowledge it.
‘Lucie can do the patching up. Will that suit you?’
Hervé subsided a little in his chair. ‘Thanks.’ He gestured roughly towards his face, a fractured smile briefly transforming the wreckage of his features. ‘You see, despite everything that’s happened, I was rather counting on starting a brand-new career as a matinee idol film star once the war is over.’
The Execution
7 am: Monday 5th June 1944
‘You. Eberle. Attach the prisoner’s hands. Then bring him outside.’
Meyer busied himself checking the loads in his pistol. It was a pleasant morning – fresh and invigorating. A good morning in which to be alive. A morning when a man should be out catching trout for his breakfast, not driving to an execution.
‘Are we taking him to Montauban, Herr Sturmscharführer?’
‘A little closer than that, Schütze.’ Meyer slipped the Luger back inside its holster and buttoned the flap. ‘Make sure there’s a shovel in the back of the Kubelwagen. But don’t be too obvious about it.’
Eberle’s face erupted into a grin. ‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmscharführer!’
Meyer stepped out into the street. He craned his neck in both directions to satisfy himself that no one was approaching, then glanced back inside. ‘Are you ready?’
‘We’re ready.’
‘Get him into the car, then. And keep him pinned down while we’re driving through town. It’s market day. I don’t want to start a riot.’
Eberle prodded Hervé unceremoniously out through the door with the point of his Schmeisser. ‘Go on, you. Into the back seat.’
Hervé shuffled forwards, squinting into the sunlight.
‘Now get down. That’s it. Onto the floor with you.’ Eberle jabbed Hervé with the toe of his boot. ‘You’d better get used to the position, Bursche. It’s downhill all the way from here on in. At least as far as you’re concerned.’
Hervé was grateful that he didn’t understand German. He curled himself into a ball on the floor-pan, tucking his head as far away from Eberle’s boots as he could possibly contrive.
Meyer eased himself into the driver’s seat. ‘The spade?’
‘Secured and in place, Herr Sturmscharführer.’
‘Good. Lucky it’s not winter, eh? Wouldn’t want the bastard to have to exert himself.’
Eberle laughed. His boots were resting comfortably on Hervé’s back. ‘Any chance of getting my shoulder straps back after this?’
Meyer glanced into the driving mirror. ‘If you keep your nose clean. And stop chasing the local skirt. Then maybe.’
‘Thank you, Herr Sturmscharführer. I’m very grateful. It will never happen again.’
‘I’m sure it won’t.’
Meyer followed the main highway out of town. Ten minutes later he diverted onto a side road, bearing north. He craned his neck around to check that the route was still empty behind them.
‘Why don’t we just shoot the filth here and get it over and done with?’
‘Too close to St Gervais. I don’t want anyone knowing about this. Anybody digging him up. As far as the town is concerned, he has been sent to the SD in Montauban for further questioning.’
‘You hear that, Terrorist? Nous allons vous fusiller. That’ll teach you to play war games with grown-ups.’ He gave Hervé another poke with his Schmeisser. ‘We look after our own in the SS.’
‘Okay. You can let him up now.’ Meyer was scanning both sides of the road.
‘Come on, filth. Get up. Sit over in the corner there. Yes. That’s it. Take a good look around. Make the most of your remaining moments. That’s if you can still see out of that eye I gave you.’ Eberle was clearly relishing the fact that Hervé couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
Hervé fell gratefully back onto the canvas seat. So this was what von Aschau had meant when he said they wouldn’t touch him anymore? Serve him right for taking the word of a German. For letting himself be gulled. ‘Can I have a cigarette?’ he said in French.
‘You can have my elbow in your teeth.’
‘Eberle, give the bloody man a cigarette. Everyone’s entitled to a last cigarette. It might even stop him pissing himself.’
Eberle backed away to a far corner of the rear compartment and felt around in his pockets. ‘You’ll owe me for this one, Terrorist. I shall enjoy pulling the trigger on you.’ Eberle appeared to take a rare pleasure in mangling the French language, as if it was beneath his dignity as an occupier to bother with the incidentals of an alien grammar. He flicked the cigarette onto Hervé’s lap, and threw his storm lighter after it. ‘Watch how you use it, Frenchman. You wouldn’t want to burn yourself.’ Eberle slapped himself on the knee, inordinately pleased with his attempt at a witticism. ‘Did you hear that one, Herr Sturmscharführer? I told him to watch out in case he burned himself. But his face already looks as if someone has played a blow-torch across it.’
‘For God’s sake, Eberle, leave the man alone.’
Hervé scooped the cigarette up in his ligatured hands and brought it to his mouth. Then he flicked back the lighter and lit it.
‘Taste good, Scarface?’ Eberle lowered his voice to a whisper, so that Meyer wouldn’t hear him.
Hervé ignored him. He turned to look out of the window. Secretly, he felt like weeping. Was this really how life ended? With strangers poking fun at you? As he watched the fields flash past him, he found himself, through long force of habit, measuring them for their worth as pastureland. He shook his head at his own stupidity. No more farming, Najac. No more ploughing. No more anything. You’ve reached the end of the furrow.
He glanced up at the tree line, and from there to the bare rocks and scrub above it. A buzzard was circling in a wind eddy about fifty feet from the ground. It was keening for its mate. Hervé watched it soar, flapping its wings occasionally to give itself way. How he yearned to be up there with it, unencumbered by the world’s stupidities.
He drew deeply on the cigarette. His last cigarette. His last view of open countryside. At least they would be burying him in his own earth. At least he would have that.
He imagined the sangliers trotting above him, with their marcassins following. He imagined a fox burrowing near him. A badger rooting for acorns. Woodpeckers chipping away at nearby trees. Snakes slithering across his covering turf.
He was satisfied. He’d seen Lucie again, thanks to the German. Now his only wish was that the Schleuhs would end it quickly and with no more pain.
‘We’re nearly there.’
Hervé felt Eberle tense up beside him, but he refused to look at the man, as if acknowledging his existence would only concretise the inevitable. He no longer recognised the country they were driving through. By his estimate they had covered nearly twenty-five kilometres since their departure – the bastards certainly weren’t leaving anything to chance. No villages that he knew of nearby. No farms. It was just a wilderness out here, with brush forest, juniper bushes, fragments of rock and a river running through the valley bottom. Ideal place for a grave. No one could ever possibly find it.
His thoughts meandered back to his last meeting with Lucie. Her hands bathing his face. Her tearstained eyes taking in the ruin of his features. She was so beautiful. Such a good person. Why hadn’t she chosen him? And why the German? It was beyond his comprehension. What had she wanted that he couldn’t offer her? A uniform? A handsome face? Now her own people would turn on her. It was a tragedy.
‘Get out of the car, asshole. Raise your hands above your head. Start walking.’
The sergeant-major was carrying a spade. Good. At least he’d have a few more minutes of life, then, while they made him dig his own grave. He must use them. Must think. Not switch off. Could he get away? Not a chance. He was still half crippled from the beating Eberle and the other soldier had given him two mornings before. They’d pull him down in no time. Probably take their own sweet time shooting him. Enjoy it. He knew all about these Germans and their sadistic games. Best just to accept what was going to happen, and let them get it over with as quickly as possible.
Meyer glanced about himself. ‘You see anybody?’
‘No, Herr Sturmscharführer. The place is empty as the grave.’
Hervé looked up. A single magpie flew past him. What did his mother always say? ‘One for sorrow, two for joy.’ He glanced bleakly around for the magpie’s mate, but she was nowhere to be seen. He bowed his head
three times in the age-old response to a magpie sighting, all the while damning himself for a superstitious fool.
‘Get digging. Chose your own spot. Somewhere with not too many rocks. We don’t want this to take all day.’
Hervé stood in the centre of the clearing. This was as good a place as any, he decided. He spat on his hands and began to dig. The soil was good here. Lots of humus from rotting trees. At one point, as he stopped to rest, his eyes were drawn to a distant glade, its outline briefly lit up by the sun – a battered oak tree, larger than the others, presided over it, surrounded by burnt soil. Truffles under that come autumn, he thought to himself. Black as the souls of the damned.
‘Aren’t you finished yet?’
Hervé hacked away at a root.
‘Come on, Najac. It doesn’t have to be luxurious. It’s a one-off. We’re not thinking of renting it out.’
Hervé sucked in his breath. He tossed the spade down at the edge of the pit, almost carelessly, as if looking after tools no longer mattered to him anymore. He was standing inside the hole, with half his body protruding above the surface. The hole was maybe three feet deep. He glanced down into the shadows at his feet where he had dislodged a rock. A fat brown worm was wriggling out from underneath it. You wait your turn, he told it silently.
‘Eberle. Back to the car.’
‘But I thought you wanted me to shoot him?’
‘I’m doing that myself. I don’t want any witnesses to this. What you don’t see, you can’t tell. Do you get my drift?’
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmscharführer!’
Hervé couldn’t understand what the Germans were saying, but it seemed that the sergeant-major wanted to kill him alone, without the other man watching. Another minute. Another precious minute of life.
Eberle trudged back towards the Kubelwagen. Meyer changed his position and came to stand behind Hervé, with his back to the retreating man. He glanced swiftly over his shoulder. Eberle disappeared out of sight around the edge of the trees.
The three spaced shots echoed in Hervé’s ears, and he fell to his knees, his face in the dirt, his hands stretched out in front of him, groaning.
The Occupation Secret Page 26
