Left shoulder must have a bullet still in it – she guessed. Grating against bone, probably against (or in) bone it had smashed. On the other hand, the throbbing pain in front – the front of the shoulder, so to speak, not far above that breast – suggested an exit wound. And a bullet would have gone right through, surely – fired from such close range.
Taken smashed bone with it, maybe?
A woman’s voice then, shouting at the dog to shut up. And the older man’s as he came across the yard with her. ‘Like to get the van in under cover right away, Thérèse. Into your barn there? Be light soon, and if they had a spotter plane – which as you’d know they tend to do—’
‘All right. Then get the girl out. You’ll be staying a while – right?’
‘A few hours, only. If we may stay that long?’
‘Leaving her with me, then?’
‘Please. And bless you… God knows what, otherwise. She’s going to need – as I said, a bit of looking after. Could still be a bullet in her, incidentally.’
‘I suppose she’s – you’re sure of her, who and what—’
‘All we know is the Boches had her on a train heading east, when it stopped she made a run for it, and they shot her. Good enough credentials, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You’d better get the van inside.’
‘Yeah.’ Voice raised, calling across the yard: ‘Luc – van goes in the barn. Back it in, leave room behind the doors for getting her out, uh?’
‘Bien sûr.’ Rosie heard him repeat as if to himself as he got back in, ‘Bien sûr, mon commandant…’ The van swayed under his weight, and a door was pulled shut. Rosie thinking commandant – major. French military – presumably. Unless that had been sarcasm. One knew nothing, except that one was in the hands of total strangers. This one’s voice quietly again: ‘Not awake back there, are you, by any chance?’
‘Yes. As it happens…’
‘Ah. Great.’ Then – leaning out, she imagined – ‘She’s conscious, spoke to me!’
‘Straight back now…’
Reversing… Telling her, ‘You’ll be all right now – whoever you are. Madame Michon’ll look after you, you can count on that.’ Heavy bump – over some kind of step or sill, perhaps a drop from brickwork on to dirt. Invading waft of manure, horsepiss, chicken-shit. Perfume – compared to the reek in the cells at Fresnes. The bump had jarred her shoulder, she’d let out a squeaky gasp. Head wound didn’t seem so – noticeable. Her head hurt internally, and the shoulder – whole left side of her torso – throbbed with pain, but she felt the week-old whip-cuts in her back more than she did that bullet-graze.
Thirsty…
He’d switched off. Pitch-dark in here: still was outside, as far as she knew. Seeing nothing, living through one’s ears. But the other one had said daylight was coming. Well – on the floor of a closed van…
Rear doors opening. The woman’s voice: ‘All right, you inside there?’
All right?
She reminded herself: Yes – compared to Edna. Maureen. Daphne…
Lise?
Vision of her body in that river. Lise’s short, dark hair just awash, like weed floating…
The woman had waited for an answer, hadn’t had one, tried again now, asking in rather gutturally accented French, ‘Ready for these two to bring you in?’
German accent?
‘Yes. Please. At least—’
‘Michel?’
‘Here we are.’ A hand by way of warning on her foot as he leant into the back: and the Gauloise smell. A cigarette mightn’t be so bad: but you’d need a drink first. The man was saying – addressing her, she realized – ‘My colleague here will do most of this, mam’selle. He has two arms: regrettably I mislaid one of mine. One question, though – forgive me, but we’re – curious, you know… Who are you – and from where? Résistante, no doubt?’
‘I’m an agent of SOE in London, “F” Section.’ Whispering. ‘If that means anything.’
‘Means plenty. But – you’re French?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the train you were on?’
‘I think we were going to Ravensbrück. I and others. We’d been in the prison at Fresnes.’ She paused. ‘And you?’
‘We are from the Third French Parachute Battalion, detached to work under the command of Etat-Major of Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur. Liaison with Maquis groups – in preparation for when this area becomes a battlefield. Which can’t be long delayed now – please God. We wrecked the train ahead of yours – an exercise, mostly to show them how it’s done – and some who were in the woods to observe what might happen when your train arrived reported there’d been shots fired. So – when the coast was clear, as you might say—’
‘I owe you my life, anyway.’
‘To pure chance – and our curiosity…’
‘There was another girl trying to escape – the other side, the river. I was creating a diversion for her, nothing else. I suppose your friends didn’t see any – shooting in that direction, or—’
‘No such thing was reported.’
‘How did you get the chains off my wrists?’
‘Chains?’ In the dark, vaguely the movement of a shrug. ‘There were no chains. I suppose – I’d assume the Boches – if you were unconscious, as you were when we found you—’
‘Then they’d have seen I was alive.’
‘Obviously did not. Now – Luc will be as gentle as he can.’ In a lower tone then, aside: ‘We gave her a shot of morphine when we picked her up. She was mewling like a cat.’
‘Poor creature.’ The woman… ‘Listen – I’ll go up, see to her bed – in the attic, Michel.’
He’d grunted: ‘Luc – you come here, I’ll go the other side…’
* * *
Faint light overhead – she thought. The pain was – bearable. Except at certain moments… The dog whining now instead of barking: the rattling of its chain reminded her of similar sound-effects when she and the others had been clanking under close guard through the Gare d’Est in Paris. About – twenty hours ago? Hours, or years?
She was being carried through a low doorway into a farmhouse kitchen. Yellowish glow of an oil-lamp, the stooped and burdened Luc throwing a hunched shadow as he edged in sideways. Doing his best: she knew he was. There was an odour not only of lamp-oil but also – she thought – bacon. Having had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and not having been fed anything like adequately for about three weeks before that, she found herself acutely sensitive to that aroma, had her thoughts on it almost exclusively while they were first clumping up a narrow staircase and then manoeuvring her up a ladder – near-vertical, awkward ascent via a small trap-door into roof-space lit by another lamp – hurricane lantern – on an old chest of drawers near the head of an iron bedstead. The woman had been waiting for them, was helping Luc. Mutters of ‘Easy does it’, ‘Careful, now’, ‘Oh, mind that beam’… Feather mattress, Rosie discovered, as they eased her down on to it. And cool. Shoulder burning hot and pulsing. The cold smoothness of a rubber sheet or mattress-cover, and for a few seconds then a view of the older man’s strong, darkly unshaven face. Big nose, and as the light was striking across his face, wide-set dark pits for eyes. Stiff crewcut hairstyle. Burlier than Luc. One-armed? She hadn’t seen, or thought of it, and he wasn’t in her field of view now, but that was what he’d said, or implied. A paratrooper with only one arm? She supposed it was possible. Well, he’d said it. In any case that was only one surprising detail in all that was happening around her, to her.
If it was happening…
Maybe it was going to be OK, not having said goodbye? One day, a chance to say hello?
Luc’s voice through a wave of dizziness: ‘I’m sorry – I was clumsy—’
‘No. Weren’t at all. I thought it would be bad, but—’
‘You’re very kind, but—’
‘And now you can kindly leave her to me.’ The woman, cutting in. Rosie had barely seen her at all yet, she
was no more than a rather bulky, womanly presence. Strong, thick arms and a smell of farmyard. ‘Both of you. Except – Luc, bring me a jug of warm water, please? From the stove, you’ll see a big enamel jug – under the tap, probably.’
‘OK…’
‘If I could have a drink – anything, water or—’
‘Of course!’
‘Were you cooking, when we arrived? That smell of bacon? Is there any possibility—’
‘Sounds like famished as well as thirsty!’
‘Yes.’ Thérèse – head down close to Rosie’s, and a hand on her undamaged arm – ‘How long since you had anything to eat?’
‘Oh – days. Prison food then, so—’
‘Luc, wait.’ He was on the ladder, halfway down it. She told him, ‘There’s a pot of soup on the back of the stove – she’s right, bacon in it – and bread in the corner cupboard. And we’ll need a spoon for the soup. Fill a bowl from the iron pot – bowls are on the shelf.’
‘Don’t want your hot water yet, then?’
‘Put it on so it’ll be heating, yes. But the soup up here first – please.’
‘D’accord…’
‘Better not fill up with water. If soup’s what you want anyway. Unless you really want water first?’
‘Soup – lovely…’
Moving shadows, scrape of boots on plank floors, soft spread of lamplight – too soft for her to have seen more than Luc’s general outline, when he’d been on the ladder there – at no distance at all, and facing this way, towards her, but still no more than a dark shape. Civilian clothes, she thought – rough, working clothes. All right – working with the Maquis, dressed as labourers – cultivateurs, whatever. She was exerting herself to ward off recurrent spells of dizziness and keep her mind from blurring. There’d been a square of pinkish dawn light, a small window in that end wall, but the woman had just gone to it and hung something over it. Returning, telling Rosie that she’d provide a more substantial meal after she’d bathed and dressed her wounds; she only felt it was important to get sustenance of some kind into her, and the broth happened to be available right away. Should have thought of it before. Rosie’s thought was that she might well have had a glass of water by this time: she could imagine it, the cold, clean taste and the trickle of it down her throat. Things seemed to be happening very slowly: she warned herself, Seem to be, but maybe aren’t… Acceptance was the order of the day: compliance and gratitude for huge mercies. Michel joining in then – behind her somewhere, she’d thought he’d gone down but he hadn’t – expressing agreement with the idea of food as the priority, and adding that he had a first-aid kit in the gazo, its contents including morphine – ‘If it should be needed.’
‘Probably will. There’s a large exit wound, at least no bullet to dig out.’
‘Can you handle whatever does need doing?’
‘Yes. That’s to say, some, but I’ll have help—’
‘A doctor?’
‘Too far – and not safely. No – our sage-femme—’
‘That’s good. Fine. But we also have a powder I’ll leave you, what they call a sulphur drug. It’s a new thing – miraculous for healing wounds, really magical. When you have the wounds cleaned, Thérèse, you just sprinkle it on – or in – and it forms a crust, under which—’
‘Lend us a syringe – hypodermic – can you, as well as the morphine? Michel, listen – you and Luc must be hungry too. Help yourselves down there, if you want. Otherwise – when I’ve got this done… If you’re still here by then, of course. D’you have far to go?’
‘Well—’
‘You said – what, a few hours—’
‘Two hours, say. Then we’ll arrange for ourselves an alibi with the Destiniers, I thought. We’ll have fixed that old tractor that’s always giving up the ghost, and be heading back north. If we’d been spotted as we were going – at this hour especially – we’d have been coming from the scene of the night’s action, d’you see.’
‘Sooner not know or see… Can you bear to remain upright as you are, child – for a little while?’
She could – with her right hand grasping the bedhead railing. In fact it was a less uncomfortable position than any other. Whatever she did, her shoulder wasn’t going to stop hurting: shoulder, also her front here above her left breast. Exit wound: and like a pulsing spear right through… What she couldn’t do was keep her thoughts off the other women prisoners: visualizing them in some stinking cattle-truck, hour upon hour of utter misery before the halt at Fürstenberg and from there – cattle on the hoof, then, driven…
To the abattoir.
Lise among them? If the guards hadn’t killed her, only recaptured her?
‘Listen – would it be easier lying flat? On your face, I mean?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She must have groaned, or something – muttered to herself… She explained, ‘Thinking about friends who—’
‘Lean against me. Here. That’s it.’ A snuffle of humour: ‘Plenty of me to lean on – huh? But my dear, listen – try not to dwell on – whatever, any of it – or them. Thinking about them now won’t do them any good – only weaken you… Save it for when you’re stronger. I’ll tell you – here’s what we’ll do now. You hearing me? Fine. Soup first – to warm you, warm your heart. It’s good, I promise. We don’t do badly here for food, we’re very fortunate and there are tricks to play, of course. Have to, or they’d swipe the lot, we’d starve. Mind you, we’d be lined up and shot if—’
‘Where is this place?’
‘East side of the Vosges Mountains. A place called Thanville isn’t far – and further south a larger centre, Sélestat. And to the northeast, Strasbourg.’
‘Right on the Boche border.’
‘Close enough to it. But to them, Alsace is part of the bloody Reich now, they’d tell you that’s the former border.’
‘Southwest of Strasbourg… Close to the Natzweiler camp, are we? Struthof-Natzweiler?’
‘It’s not far.’ She wasn’t looking at her.
‘Extermination camp.’
A sigh… ‘So one is told.’
Shaking her head. Rosie thinking, the only extermination camp on French soil – and I hole up in spitting distance of it… Thérèse was telling her, ‘Alsace-Lorraine was Boche territory, for – oh, about forty years – as you would know, I’m sure. In 1871 they seized it and a lot of our folk of French origin moved west. As I said, they don’t think of it here as France now, to them it’s land they’ve re-occupied. The French language is verboten – it’s Alsatian only – or German, of course. In public, anyway – the village street or shops, for instance, if you did speak French the bastards’d hear about it quick enough. They conscript our boys as if they were Germans – into the SS, even. Parents who’ve tried to prevent it – you know, hide them – have been sent to the camps. Imagine – decent, decently brought-up Alsatian boys forced into that… But – what I was saying – soup first, then I’ll get these bloodstained rags off you, clean you up – we’ll try some of Michel’s magic stuff, eh? Then I must give them a hand downstairs, I suppose. Porridge might be best for you, the next stage… One thing I should mention – if there should come unwanted visitors, we take the ladder away and shut the trap. It wouldn’t be the first time. But another thing is I’ll send my nephew – Charles, he’s only thirteen but he helps me out on the farm, and he’ll be here as soon as it’s light – he’ll take a message to a friend of mine and my late husband’s, she’s the sage-femme of this district.’ Boots clumping on the ladder: Thérèse murmuring and whispering on, babying her, ‘Lotte knows as much as any doctor. Her husband was a German, she was born Alsacienne – like me – but – oh, Luc, that’s good, thank you.’ The bacon smell suddenly, overwhelmingly enticing. At last…
‘When the water’s hot, Luc—’
‘Won’t be long. Bon appetit…’
She still hadn’t had more than a vague impression of him – even though he’d carried her up here. And Thérèse was now be
tween them – getting the bowl and the bread, which he’d put on the chest. The impression she had was that he was tallish, thin, and had light-coloured eyes – or that could have been just a reflection of lamplight in them. Who cared, anyway – it was the soup she was really eyeing, dying for… But Luc pausing now, a few rungs down on the ladder, in that shadowed area: ‘Is there a name we could call you by, mam’selle?’
Names, plural. Code-names, field-names, one had got through a lot of them pretty fast. Suzanne, Zoé, Béa, Angel; Jeanne-Marie, at one time…
‘Rosalie do?’
‘Rosalie. Now that is a name!’
Slight juddering of the ladder as he went on down. Rosie already wondering what had persuaded her to give them her real name – the one she’d been christened with in Nice nearly twenty-six years ago. It was an unheard-of thing to have done, on service in the field: but too late now, she’d done it… Thérèse was back beside her with the soup, bread in the same hand, spoon in the other. ‘Now then – Rosalie. He’s right, it is a pretty name. Here, now—’
Heaven. The most marvellous thing ever. Swallowing, with her eyes shut, thinking I’ll remember this all my life…
However long or short that might be. The expression ‘borrowed time’ came to mind, but stolen seemed closer to the mark. And a sense of unreality: as if it wasn’t hers, she had no right to it. Wouldn’t last, therefore? At least one daren’t count on it. Another thought was that if she’d been granted one wish, it would be nothing at all to do with her own living or dying, only that Lise should be alive and on her way. Pray for that. If necessary, die here praying for it. Dying at least in a degree of peace and comfort – which was a hell of a lot more than those others – or poor darling Lise—
In at the Kill Page 2
