The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  It was the last town on the road before they would reach Lyon; from Mâcon it was a short run down to the city. There he would be in the hands of Cigale; she had the contacts, she knew the ground. He would be no more than a passenger until they crossed the Pyrenees into Franco’s Spain where he would join up with the Americans waiting on the border – eager for whatever it was Kasha had in his possession. He was just a minder from here on in; it would be left to others to guide them. He only had to protect Kasha and make sure he got there safely and alive – though from what he had seen of the man he seemed to be in little need of protection.

  ‘Stop here!’ Cigale suddenly shouted from the back of the car, where she sat squashed between Kasha and one of the résistants. With an instinct of self-preservation Grainger slammed on the brakes and skidded the car to a halt. Cigale wriggled across the legs of Kasha, who looked anxiously out of the side window searching for whatever threat she had seen. She opened the door and slid out onto the road, then ran obliquely across to the far side. Grainger could see a truck coming towards them, but otherwise nothing. A bit further on in front of them a horse was dragging a heavy cart. There was a man on a bike but he seemed to pose no threat. He heard the click of metal on metal as the résistant sitting in the back cocked the breach on a machine pistol; the one next to him stiffened and looked around suspiciously. The tension gave way to cool anticipation.

  Attention turned to the building into which Cigale had disappeared. There was silence. Then Kasha let out an explosive ‘Ha!’ Cigale emerged, clutching a bundle in her arms. She clambered back across Kasha and settled herself in, squashed between him and the résistant, her face bearing a broad grin. ‘Boulangerie,’ she said, opening up a folded sheet of cheap brown wrapping paper. ‘We should eat as we go. It’s better than taking a risk stopping at a café.’ She handed out the pastries and pieces of baguette. Grainger let out a small sigh of irritation but said nothing. He put the car in gear and moved off.

  *

  At Perrache terminus the Paris–Lyon express arrived on time. It clanked along the edge of the quai, slowing as it reached the end of the tracks. As the iron rails resisted the inertia of the huge driving wheels, each one the height of a man, the sound of metal on metal squealed like a tied pig bound for the abattoir. With a final shudder it lurched to a halt, a cloud of steam gushed from under the engine, shocking the unwary who stood too close and who now jumped back to avoid the hot vapour. Towards the back of the train, where the first class carriages and the Wagon-Lits were hitched, away from the noise and the pollution of the engine, Schreiber surveyed the scene through the window. It was not an attractive sight. High above, the glazed canopy of the shed was streaked with filthy stains driven across it by soot-laden steam. The quai was strewn with unwanted wrappings and discarded newspapers; all around there were feral pigeons scavenging the ground, scuttering about, half hopping, half flapping as they avoided being trodden under the feet of travellers. In Berlin this would never be tolerated, he thought to himself; there would be somebody responsible for keeping things tidy – orderly. This, he mused, was why the French had been rolled up and defeated so easily. He viewed them as disorganised and anarchic, insolent to those who had led them, an insubordinate rabble that was disinclined to be reformed.

  He got down from his compartment and made his way through the throng, kicking aside an old newspaper that clung truculently around his ankle like some persistent dog snapping at his heels. He reached the main concourse and headed for the Brasserie de la Gare where he knew he would find a telephone. Somewhere in the city the girl was hiding, of that he was sure.

  ‘So, Becker, do you have any news for me?’

  ‘I do, Kriminalinspector. We think the girl is still hiding in the city.’

  ‘Do we know where?’

  ‘No, but the SD has someone looking for her. Our own informant doesn’t know where she is right now. You should go to the Prefecture; they are expecting you. They may know more by now.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No, there is more. I have been talking informally to a contact in the Abwehr. They say Kasha was a double agent – he was working for us as well as the British; but more importantly Kraus was his handler.’

  Schreiber was silent for a moment; this was something he had not expected. He waited to let the information form in his brain. ‘Interesting,’ he said, then added, ‘Which hotel am I in?’

  ‘The Perrache Terminus; it’s close to the station. It’s a commercial hotel – I hope you approve of it, sir.’

  *

  A short distance from Lyon Grainger pulled the Citroen off the road and onto a gravel-strewn verge. Below he could see the city sprawled out along the banks of the Rhône in the early afternoon sun. Everyone got out of the car and stretched their cramped limbs. Grainger walked carefully to the precipitous edge and took in the road that snaked away below him, tracing it with his eye, looking for anything that might trap them – suspiciously parked vehicles or road blocks. There was nothing; the route was deserted for as far as he could see and he went back to the others. Cigale was standing close to Kasha and again Grainger noted the hint of an air of intimacy in the juxtaposition of the couple. It made him wary; emotions could get in the way of rational decision making – they were dangerous.

  ‘Where is this place?’

  Cigale moved away from Kasha and went to look down over the valley below and out towards the city. ‘That’s La Mulatière down there.’ She pointed to a spot in the distance where a small community sat beside the railway tracks that clung to the edge of the river. ‘I’ll drive from here; I’m on home territory.’

  As they entered the city Grainger was struck by the seeming normality of life on the streets – the absence of field grey; there were no German uniforms. There were gendarmes but mostly they seemed to be directing traffic. People were going about their business with a relaxed air; there was food in the shops and traffic on the roads.

  ‘You should wait here,’ Cigale announced as she drew the car to a halt in an empty side street. ‘I’ll go ahead to see if it is all clear.’

  Shortly after she left two men appeared at the end of the street and walked towards the car – but it was nothing and they passed on by without a glance at them. A man and a woman then came from the opposite direction, but they too ignored them. A few minutes later a youth ambled by. He stopped as he reached the car and loitered by the passenger door for a moment. He pulled out a cigarette, then tapped on the window; Grainger wound it down slowly. ‘Got a light, monsieur?’ he asked politely in French.

  Grainger handed him a box of matches; the youth struck one and lit his cigarette. As he returned the box he tilted his head sideways and looked directly at Kasha. ‘Cigale has sent me. When I get to the top of the street follow me. Wait till I am out of sight before you start. Turn right at the end and walk for about five-hundred metres – you will see a church. The door is open; go in and pray. She is waiting for you.’

  Grainger looked about questioningly, indicating the two résistants who had come down with them from Paris. ‘What about us?’

  ‘Stay here, I will come back.’ With that he casually walked off up the street. Kasha waited until he was out of sight then hauled himself out of the back seat and, after a quick glance about him, made off in the direction he had been told. They watched him reach the end of the street and disappear round the corner, then waited in silence. The street was eerily quiet and they were the only car parked there. After twenty minutes or so Grainger began to feel uneasy. They were exposed just sitting there at the kerbside and the thought entered his mind that perhaps he should move the car. He let another ten minutes pass and had decided to start the engine when a figure appeared at the end of the street and the youth returned. He opened the rear door and got in. ‘I am Mathieu. I will take you to a safe house. You will be able to rest and prepare for the next step along the route.’

  ‘What about Kasha and the girl?’

  ‘They will stay with
the priest tonight. Tomorrow we can arrange a meeting.’ He looked across at the résistants. ‘These two will make their way south. We don’t have need of them here and besides they are wanted elsewhere.’

  Just off the Boulevard des Belges in the 6th arrondissement Mathieu tapped on Grainger’s shoulder. ‘This is it, we’re here.’

  They had arrived in front of a large elegant stone mansion in the style of the belle époque. It was elegantly fenced with a high barrel-barred screen in wrought iron topped with ornate spikes designed to keep out unwanted visitors. Mathieu got out and opened a pair of heavy gates; they were panelled in fretted sheet steel, which kept the garden private from the eyes of those passing by. He ushered the Citroen inside, then closed the gates and bolted them shut, finally turning a key in a substantial box lock. For now they could relax.

  He led them up wide stone steps to the front door and there paused as he rang the bell: three long rings, then two short and finally one long. They waited. After less than a minute there was the sound of bolts being drawn and the door swung open. Another young man stood looking at them and from his features it was clear to Grainger the two were related.

  ‘This is my brother, Paul,’ Mathieu announced as they passed across the threshold and into a cavernous, high-ceilinged hallway.

  Paul embraced the two résistants as brothers in arms; to Grainger he simply offered a hand to shake – they were strangers and would remain so. A substantial crystal chandelier was hanging overhead to illuminate the room but barely half the bulbs were live and the light it shed was dull, throwing shadows into the corners and across a collection of dark oil paintings that adorned the walls. The place had seen better days, but this was war and people had learned to do with less and get by on what was available. Light bulbs were now a scarce commodity.

  Paul was clearly the older of the two brothers, only by three years but there was experience written in his face that the younger boy lacked. The war had matured him. He had been called to the army at the declaration of hostilities and though his time had been short and he had seen little of the action when the armistice came, what he had experienced had been brutal. It was enough to change him, to bring him to manhood. He had seen battle and come under fire; he had watched men die and learned to accept it. The experience had brought with it an air of confidence yet to be found by the younger brother.

  ‘Follow me,’ he directed them. ‘I’ll show you your rooms. There is a charcutier close by; Mathieu will bring us something to eat.’

  A short while later Mathieu came with sausage, fish pies, cheese, some pickled cucumbers and bread, which he set out on a big polished dark-oak table spread with a white linen cloth and napkins in silver rings. The family had been well-to-do bourgeoisie, and it showed.

  ‘We need wine,’ Paul said with authority, and invited Grainger to accompany him to the wine cave. They descended the steep steps leading down to the cellar under the glow of a single bulb, which gave enough light to read the labels but not so much as to disturb the wine.

  ‘This is a very fine collection,’ Grainger noted out loud. ‘My father would be envious. He is very fond of a fine claret.’

  Paul nodded. He’d had a good education and his English was better than Grainger’s French, so they stuck with the former. ‘My grandfather laid down the basis for this.’ He waved his arms generally along the racks, then, stopping at a point where the bottle shapes changed from high-necked Bordeaux to the sloping elegant curve of Burgundy, he pulled out a bottle, examined it and, satisfied, moved on. When he came to a rack containing Beaujolais he plucked another bottle from its resting place. ‘This will do for the others; they will be happy with something simple.’ He looked at the other bottle, Vosne-Romanée. ‘This will be good for us.’

  ‘Why are the others so sullen?’ Grainger asked as they climbed back out of the cellar. ‘They’ve hardly said a word since Paris. I have no idea of their names.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘They are résistants. It is dangerous to give out names. There are informers; people get betrayed. If you don’t know a man you can’t give him away – even under torture. Besides, they are from the south. They speak in Catalan, a dialect even I find difficult. I doubt you would understand it at all.’ He paused and grinning added, ‘They are peasants, they will be happy to drink this good Beaujolais.’

  ‘This is the best of what they had,’ Mathieu said apologetically, glancing doubtfully at the spread. ‘I’ll go to the market early tomorrow – we can do better than this.’

  Grainger pulled up a chair. He thought back to the stale scotch egg in the pub on the road to Horsham and smiled. ‘Looks okay to me. I’ve eaten a lot worse.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul responded through a broad smile, ‘but you are English and everyone knows the English can’t cook.’ Mathieu grinned and translated it for the two résistants, who elbowed each other and laughed.

  At the end of the meal the résistants retired, leaving Grainger and his hosts to talk. ‘We have a fine cognac if you would like a digestif,’ Paul offered. ‘We should go to the salon and throw some more wood into the stove. It will be more comfortable there and we can talk.’

  ‘All right,’ Grainger said once they were comfortably installed, ‘what’s the plan? I am in your hands.’

  ‘Father Guillaume wants us to keep you here for a few days while arrangements are made for the journey south. We need to find a guide to get you over the Pyrenees. These things can’t be rushed; it would be dangerous. These things take time.’

  Grainger sipped at the cognac and looked around at the plush drapes and the stuffed sofas. ‘Can’t complain at that I suppose. I’ve had to hang around in worse places.’ But inside he was uneasy. Stopping too long in one place he knew was dangerous; it upped the chances of discovery.

  Paul stretched out his legs and pushed himself deeper into his chair. ‘Tomorrow I shall cook and show you what good French cuisine is like.’

  ‘He excels in the kitchen,’ Mathieu exclaimed with enthusiasm for his brother. ‘He should open a restaurant, here in Lyon, it is the centre of the world’s gastronomy; he would be famous.’

  ‘Tell me about Father Guillaume,’ Grainger said, changing the course of the conversation. ‘Where is he in all this? He seems to have a lot of say in what goes on around here.’

  The other two looked uncertain and glanced at each other in a way that signified the question might be awkward. After a short lull Paul pulled himself up straight and said slowly, ‘I don’t know too much about him. We met him when our father sent us back here from Avignon. The priest at Saint Saviour introduced us – he used to take confession for our family when we were here. He was our first contact when we arrived.’

  ‘Father Guillaume helps those on the run to escape to Spain,’ Mathieu cut in. ‘Most of the churches are safe; the gendarmes don’t like to interfere.’ He laughed. ‘They probably fear for their souls, as so they should.’

  ‘We run errands for the father, look out for people who need help and take them to him.’

  ‘What happens after that?’

  Both young men shook their heads. ‘We don’t know,’ Paul admitted. ‘We don’t need to know – it would be dangerous.’

  At midnight a chiming clock on the mantle sounded the hour with twelve delicate high-pitched ‘tings’, and the three retired.

  Grainger woke when it was still dark. There was a noise in the corridor outside his room. For a moment he lay there listening, not sure if it had been imagined in a dream; but no, there it was again. Someone was moving along the corridor. He heard a door close and then there was silence. It must be one of the résistants, he reasoned and, turning over to find a comfortable position, fell back into sleep.

  As he lifted out of his sleep the first thing he caught was the smell of coffee. He quickly washed and went downstairs. He was not disappointed; there was fresh bread and pastries piled in a basket on the sideboard and fresh fruit too. ‘Things are better here than in the north,’ Grainger remarked, picking up a
n apple. Mathieu poured out the coffee and offered it to him.

  ‘It’s not as good as before the war but we can still get most things. Occasionally we go short but not often. Father Guillaume has asked to see you today,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘He wants to go over the plans.’

  *

  The day following his arrival in the city Schreiber took a bus to the 3rd arrondissement where he found the Prefecture of the Rhône department. The administration was housed in a grandiose baroque building dating from the previous century.

  He mounted the steps and, crossing a wide expanse of marble floor, presented himself to a fonctionnaire seated at an ornately hand-carved wooden desk with gilded cappings and large lion claw feet. The fonctionnaire was young, perhaps in his early 20s; he was stiffly dressed with a starched white collar and a dark grey suit. He looked dismissively at the man in front of him, who seemed to him to be a foreigner, possibly a refugee, even Jewish perhaps; there were plenty of them in the city. They had started to turn up in ’39 when the German forces had begun to press east. A trickle at first, but then with the fall of France that trickle had turned into a flood. Now their numbers swelled daily. He shrugged very slightly and raised his eyebrows at the man in front of him. Schreiber had experienced this before and ignored it. Instead he pulled the oval disc of his authority out of his coat pocket and let it drop onto the desktop. The fonctionnaire looked down at the brass medallion with a number inscribed on it. Recognising it for what it represented, his demeanour changed.

  ‘Kriminalinspector Schreiber. I am here to see the Prefect. Please let him know I am here.’