Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘That also explains why they released you from prison so quickly, with no punishment, and why they didn’t send you to the guillotine like Marie-Louise Giraud.’

  ‘What would have happened to you, and this farm, if they’d sliced my head off?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, Maman, I really don’t. I pushed her aside, stumbled from her bedroom and across the landing. ‘I’d like to be alone now,’ I said, and shut my bedroom door.

  ***

  I lay on the bed for the rest of the afternoon watching the sky darken over the hills. Dusk eventually washed the light from the fields and covered the woods in a sinister navy shade.

  I’d missed my meeting with Martin, but I couldn’t bear to see anyone, especially a man.

  My mother, informing on the people of Lucie. It made me angry; a rage that confused and exhausted me, though part of me could understand. Survival. Playing the game. Things with which I could identify.

  I closed my eyes and saw the frightening woman of my childhood, hidden behind her laundered grey aprons, her dusting cloths, and her old-time remedies –– a woman who lived by hard work and a spotless home. Only forty-six years old, but a stolen girlhood and many seasons of harsh farm labour had stooped her shoulders and creped the skin around her eyes. Her face had shrunk like an old apple, and the hair she stretched into the taut bun was more grey than chestnut.

  I saw her scouring away at us children with pumice crystals and camphor, applying the same fierce energy as she did to cleaning the farmhouse, so I’d felt like just another thing that had to be scrubbed. I understood, then, just what stubborn grime she’d been trying to shift.

  In an ideal world I was certain my mother would never collaborate with the enemy but, as she said, ours was no ideal existence. Like fish trapped in a net, all we could do was writhe about and hope to wriggle through the mortal threads.

  I tried to think of other things, anything to blot out the horrifying images; the pain of Karl and Fritz stealing their terrible pleasure. But sleep defied me as my fury grew, ebbing low at first, then swelling like a great wave until it consumed my mind and obliterated every other thought.

  My eyes snapped open. I grabbed my pendant from the bedside table and clutched the broken chain. How dare they rip it from me, and fling it aside like some insignificant object; as if they were discarding every spirit L’Auberge des Anges had known.

  My knuckles turned white, gripping the broken chain. I knew I did not want to become the same cold and bitter mother I’d had to endure. So I too, would have to play the game. Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer had to pay. An eye for an eye.

  As I drifted into a fitful sleep, an idea began to leach into my mind. But for something so diabolical, I would need time, and precise planning.

  42

  In the weeks following the attack I stayed close to the farmhouse. Martin would be wondering what had happened to me, but I still didn’t feel up to facing him. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing anyone until I’d punished Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer; until I could I free my tortured mind.

  My mother made little conversation. I think she sensed the rage smouldering inside me but knew I would no longer discuss what had happened. Perhaps she imagined I was still angry with her too, but Maman’s collaboration with the Germans had paled almost to insignificance, against the vengeful thoughts that clotted my mind.

  She nourished me as best she could from our dwindling supplies, and coddled me with potions from her herbal room stocks: peppermint tea to unravel the knots in my stomach, St John’s Wort for emotional shock, and Vervain infusions to combat nerves and sleeplessness.

  One morning she pushed my hair aside to fasten the angel necklace around my neck. ‘I had the chain fixed,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you hated this pendant … that you couldn’t bear to touch it?’

  ‘My own mother gave it to me,’ she said. ‘The very day Axel …’

  Her fingers, grappling with the clasp, prickled my nape. ‘I thought of it as bad luck; some cursed bit of old bone. Which is ridiculous, I do see that now, but …’

  ‘I’d probably have thought the same,’ I said.

  ‘I’m pleased you wear it though, Célestine; that you’ve been able to feel the courage and strength it’s given to generations of L’Auberge women … something I could never give you.’ She patted the chain against the back of my neck. ‘There, good as new.’

  ‘Can anyone be as good as new after …? But yes, I’ll be all right. Soon, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘You’re strong; determined enough to be right again. And then, so will I.’

  I almost smiled at the irony; the absurdity that for my mother to free herself from the binds of her mental prison, it seemed her own daughter had had to suffer the same violence.

  I moved across to the small mirror of the Rubie clock and stared at the reflection of the angel pendant. Martin’s gold chain was pretty to look at, sitting against my pale throat, but still I couldn’t help seeing it as some sort of foreign object; an alien intruder.

  ‘But I did believe,’ she went on, ‘that the leather was as much a part of this heirloom as the angel carving itself. It doesn’t seem quite the same, without it.’

  I imagined the fingers of all those women who’d touched the worn leather thread; those to whom it had given comfort before me, and recalled how Martin Diehl –– the German –– had discarded it like something meaningless. He may have simply wanted to please me with the sparkling gold chain, but that only showed how he didn’t really know me; how he never could have known me.

  ‘No, Maman,’ I said. ‘No, it’s not quite the same.’

  A rap on the door startled me, and my mother went to answer it.

  Dr. Laforge strode into the kitchen, and Maman crossed to the stove and started brewing coffee.

  ‘Ah, Céleste. I haven’t seen you around the village for a while. I wondered if …’ He nodded at my mother. ‘If you and Marinette were all right?’

  The doctor raised the single eyebrow at me. My eyes flickered to Maman, her back still turned to us.

  ‘My daughter’s been ill with … with some kind of affliction,’ Maman said, setting three cups of coffee on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He swallowed a mouthful of the barley mixture. ‘Are you certain I can’t do anything to help? Perhaps she needs some … some particular medication or treatment?’

  ‘I had everything she needed here at L’Auberge thank you, doctor,’ Maman said.

  ‘Right, well yes, I’m certain you have everything she needs, Marinette.’

  ‘I’m fully recovered now,’ I said.

  Dr. Laforge swallowed the dregs of his cup and stood. ‘Thanks for the coffee but I must rush off. As always, plenty of ailing people to call on.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ I said, scurrying down the hallway after his brisk strides.

  ‘I’d like to go back to Lyon,’ I said, as I opened the door for him. ‘But I can’t, just yet.’

  ‘Nothing you need to tell me about, Céleste?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no … nothing to do with our work.’

  ‘Right, well come down to my rooms when you’re ready.’

  I watched him hurry down the steps, two at a time, and across the courtyard.

  Soon I would be ready. Yes, very soon.

  ***

  By late May I felt strong enough to return to the village; to face people again. I propped the bicycle against the fountain wall and crossed over to Au Cochon Tué, keeping a stealthy eye out for Martin.

  I called cheery greetings to Robert and Evelyne Perrault and the card-playing men, as I hurried through the bar and into the toilet.

  I bolted the door and bent down, my fingers curling around the slip of paper.

  Sorry you didn’t come. I waited all afternoon. Please come next week.

  I tore the paper up and flushed the scraps away. Next week, and the one after, had com
e and gone but I scribbled a message, asking Martin to meet on our usual day –– two days’ time.

  I walked back across la place de l’Eglise and onto rue Emile Zola, and stood across the road from Ecole de Filles Jeanne d’Arc. From my years as a schoolgirl, I knew every nook of the place but still I needed to go over it all one final time.

  I could hear the Germans carrying out their manoeuvres –– the rhythmical tap-tap of boots on pavement, the bark of an order, the clatter of weapons. Nobody was supposed to watch them goose-stepping about in their high black boots, but I sidled up to the wall surrounding the school and put an eye to a gap in the stones.

  The soldiers stood, their heads held high, before the officer on horseback in command, as the music began, soft, like something was holding it back. As it sprung into magnificent, solemn notes, the soldiers began moving their lips in song.

  I glimpsed Karl and Fritz amongst them, and the anger snapped at me again. Their uniforms looked brutally smart, their rigid bodies confident –– an arrogance I would take the greatest pleasure in shattering.

  Amongst the many skills I’d acquired from the Resistance, I’d learned patience and discipline. I couldn’t bear to wait much longer but I wasn’t about to let any hasty moves destroy my plan.

  ‘Achtung!’ the commandant barked, and I jumped back a step.

  The soldiers started whistling as they finished grooming their horses. They left them to munch on the green shoots of the trees and marched off towards their canteen.

  When I saw Martin and the other officers leave the barracks for lunch in their billets’ homes, I drew away from the gap and looked around me again. Still nobody in sight. I hurried around the corner, into the alley with its small copse onto which the Community Hall backed –– the place I’d been alone with Martin, at the Harvest Festival. The perfect place to conceal myself.

  I strolled back down rue Emile Zola towards the square, alongside gardens bordering the road where men in shirtsleeves and corduroy trousers tilled, sowed and watered.

  ‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ I called to each of them as I passed by their homes.

  They all tipped their straw hats and smiled back at me.

  I didn’t know why I climbed the steps of Saint Antoine’s. Perhaps I thought the church would, somehow, give me some kind of benediction for what I was about to do. Or I simply hungered for the friendly voice of Père Emmanuel.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ I said, as I sat in the confessional.

  ‘It’s nice to see you, Céleste,’ Père Emmanuel said. ‘The doctor told me you’ve been ill.’

  ‘Nothing serious, Father. I’m well now, thank you. Ready to continue our battle.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. Still no word of your father or your sister? Or the others?’

  ‘Not a word, Father. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever hear from them again. And I’m so afraid for Patrick and Olivier. We both know the Maquisards’ success –– their survival –– depends on the food and silence of people like your brother, Georges. But with all the reprisals –– German and French –– the locals are becoming too afraid to help them. Did you hear, just the other day the militia shot fifty-five civilians in cold blood?’

  ‘I certainly am aware that punishing civilians for acts of Maquis sabotage is becoming more and more savage,’ the priest said, ‘but we can’t let that threat put us off. Besides, Georges and Perrine won’t let them down. Keep faith, Céleste. And keep fighting. I feel the end is near. Everyone’s talking about the Allied invasion, discussing it, making bets and … and hoping.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Father, I know we must keep hoping, and fighting.’

  I walked out of Saint Antoine’s and back across la place de l’Eglise. I rocked my angel pendant back and forth along the gold chain, and ran the plan through my mind again.

  I could not detect a single flaw.

  43

  Two days later I threaded through the Vionne River willows. Martin was waiting for me beside our rounded stone, skimming pebbles across the water. His lean frame swivelled around as I approached, his smile spreading.

  ‘I thought you were never coming back, Céleste?’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t well, but I’m fine now.’

  ‘I imagined you had stayed in Lyon, to continue your … your work?’

  ‘Ah yes, that.’ I took a few steps to the gravelly shore, gathered a handful of pebbles and turned my back to him.

  ‘You understand why I couldn’t tell you?’ I started skimming the stones, one after the other.

  ‘I do. I even understand why you became a resistor. I did suspect it. In fact, I would not have expected anything less of my fiery little Spatz.’

  I heard him lighting two cigarettes, but didn’t look around as he handed me one. ‘In case you are wondering, Céleste, it was not me who informed those militia who arrested your friends. I was as surprised as you to see them.’

  I took short, sharp puffs on the cigarette, between sliding the pebbles across the water.

  ‘I did nothing to compromise you,’ he went on. ‘I would never do that, even if it does mean I would be court-martialled and shot, if they found me out.’

  I turned to face him and clamped my arms across my chest. ‘So why did you walk off at the park, without a word? I didn’t know what to think.’

  Martin took a long drag before he spoke.

  ‘I was angry, disappointed … let down because you could not trust me; because you kept lying. I was convinced we could be honest with each other.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, Martin. You’re a German officer for God sake! I couldn’t know your reaction. I could’ve been putting not only my life in danger, but all those I was working with. Don’t you see that?’

  He edged towards me. ‘Even so, you should have trusted me.’

  He slid one hand around the nape of my neck and went to kiss me. I jerked away awkwardly, sat on the rock, and scrabbled about for more pebbles.

  ‘What is wrong, Céleste? Put down those stones, please. Is it not time we stopped playing games?’

  ‘Yes it is, Martin.’ I flung the pebbles aside and rubbed my palms together; kept rubbing long after the grit was gone. ‘I can’t … I won’t be coming to the riverbank to meet you anymore.’

  ‘Won’t be coming … what do you mean?’ His mouth folded in a child-like pout.

  ‘Some of my friends, and half my family, are in camps in Germany, Martin. Another is living each day in great danger.’ I took a shaky breath. ‘I worry about them constantly, but there’s nothing –– nothing –– to do for them. All I can do is dedicate myself to our fight to rid France of the occupier –– you –– as quickly as possible. Because only then can they be free.’

  ‘Your love has soured.’

  ‘No … no it hasn’t, but don’t you see that being with you, a German, goes against what’s so crucial to me right now?’

  Martin sighed and looked away, at the Vionne running fast and proud after the spring rains. He pulled out his cigarette packet and offered it to me again. I shook my head and he lit a single one. For several moments he didn’t speak, puffing on the Gauloise and staring at the river.

  ‘You remember we spoke about running away together, Céleste? To the faraway place?’

  ‘Yes, but things are different, everything has chang ––’

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said. ‘Go to Switzerland. Now, today. You know I am a soldier fighting against his will; a hater of militarism who sees not the slightest romance in war, only butchery and inhuman degradation. While I have you, there is a reason to keep going, to stay here day after day, just trying to survive until it’s over. But now, if you are not …’

  He shook his head as he dropped the half-smoked cigarette and ground the butt under his heel. ‘All that Nazi propaganda they stuffed into our heads. I see how cruel and barbaric it all is, and how the Führer is a diabolical monster who should be destroyed. I no longer desire to serve in his army.’

>   He took my hands and clamped them, prayer-position, between his. ‘We could be married in Switzerland, start a family. We will go to Germany when the war is over.’

  ‘Desert the army and elope to Switzerland? Are you insane, Martin? We’d be court-martialled and shot. Both of us.’

  ‘We would be cautious, like we have always been; careful not to get caught.’

  I shook my head. ‘I know you despise the war … that you’re a peaceful person, but I can’t believe what you’re saying; what you’re asking me.’ I pulled my hands from his. ‘Besides, we don’t have money, or a place to stay. It’s madness!’

  ‘We would work it out,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want to live in Germany. I could never leave L’Auberge. Not for good. Yes, I can go away to study, get a profession, but I’d always come home. The farm has been in my family for centuries –– for hundreds of years! It’s a part of me, just like this angel is a part of me.’ I fingered the old bone between my thumb and forefinger. ‘As the leather thread was part of me.’

  ‘Where is the girl who could not wait to get away from the farm?’ he said, with more than a hint of bitterness.

  ‘I don’t know … perhaps that girl has changed. Really, Martin, it has to be like this. I need to focus on the people I love who are imprisoned; dedicate myself to helping them.’

  ‘It seems you have made up your mind.’

  ‘I hope you understand, and respect, my decision. That you won’t …’

  ‘Won’t what?’ Martin’s eyes filled with hurt, and a shadow of anger. ‘You think I would turn you in to the authorities?’ He shook his head. ‘Mein Gott, Céleste, what do you take me for? Besides, if I was going to do such a thing, I would have done it weeks ago.’

  ‘Well no, I don’t honestly think that, but I can’t … couldn’t help worrying.’