Wolfsangel

by Perrat, Liza

  ‘Can we at least write to each other?’ he said.

  ‘Of course, if you want.’

  ‘We might be together again one day,’ he said. ‘When it is all over?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘Really, I would. Just not now.’

  We fell silent, listening to the ack-ack of a bird and the quiet burble of the Vionne. My thoughts drifted to my brother and Olivier, living rough and dodging German gunfire high on the cold, isolated hillsides of the Monts du Lyonnais. True, devoted warriors. How different they were to this soldier with his starched, unstained uniform and his romantic poems; the officer who didn’t care if his country won or lost the war.

  ‘I must get going, Martin.’

  ‘I would like to see you,’ he said. ‘One last time.’

  ‘No, I don’t ––’

  ‘Just once more, Céleste. There is something I want to give you. I will leave you a note, as usual, in Au Cochon Tué.’

  ‘All right, if you insist.’

  He opened his mouth and let out a brief, hesitant sound, as if he was about to say something else, but I turned away, cutting him off.

  Convinced I’d done the right thing –– the only thing –– I hurried back along the woodland path, a small distant murmur telling me that Martin Diehl and I had come to the end of our game. I was not deluded enough to imagine we’d be dealt another hand of cards, once the war was over, and for that, I felt only a heavy sadness.

  His strange dawn-coloured eyes seemed to peer at me amongst the net of willows and, beyond them, I saw an endless stream of never, stretching as far as the Vionne. Martin and I would never grow old together; never spend another night together. Never would I feel his arms about me again, or smell his delicious scent as I slid my fingers through his golden hair. We would never walk the wide avenues of Berlin hand in hand, or picnic beside those rivers of his childhood. We would never have that daughter, to whom I would bequeath the angel necklace.

  I gripped the pendant, rubbed it, and pressed it to my trembling lips.

  44

  Dawn crawled into a clear morning, bringing with it a trace of breeze. I tackled my jobs, listening to the church bell chime out the hours, waiting for eleven-thirty. Half an hour to get down to the village and across to Ecole de Filles Jeanne d’Arc.

  As if on a usual shopping trip, I took my basket and cycled down the hill, across rue du Docteur Pierre Laforge. The grass sparkled, the damp paths overgrown with daisies and cornflowers, the perfume of the lilacs flaring my nostrils as I cycled by.

  A group of mothers came towards me, pushing prams and holding the hands of young children they’d collected for lunch from the nursery school.

  ‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ I called to them all, smiling as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Céleste,’ Miette’s mother said. Five-year old Séverine was with her, and Anne-Sophie, Olivier’s youngest cousin. ‘Marinette told me you’ve been ill, I hope you’re better now?’

  ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Madame Dubois.’

  ‘So you’ll be returning to the city soon, to your Red Cross work with Miette?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘If all goes to plan.’

  ‘Just take care, won’t you?’ she said. ‘After what happened to poor Ghislaine, I live in constant anguish for you and Miette.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’ I started pedalling away. ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘Bon appétit, Céleste,’ Séverine and Anne-Sophie called with smiles and waves.

  I leaned my bicycle against the church wall beneath the hateful posters of Pétain and waved at Evelyne and Robert Perrault, busy wiping down tables on the terrace of Au Cochon Tué.

  ‘Looks like we’re in for a hot summer this year, eh, Céleste?’ Monsieur Thimmonier called from his shop front. He sat on a low stool, carving what looked like a little wooden box. No doubt another for the Germans to send home. ‘Let’s hope those Boche have gone by then, so we can enjoy it.’

  ‘Yes, let’s hope,’ I said, trying to banish the rancid thoughts of my mother’s collaboration. I had a far more important mission to concentrate on.

  Denise Grosjean sauntered from the post-office, plump as ever. No doubt the Fritz pig was giving her black market food, as well as camel-hair coats. Just make the most of it, Denise, your sneaky gifts won’t last much longer.

  ‘So, what are you up to on such a nice day?’ Denise said.

  ‘Not much. The usual. Farm chores, bit of shopping, you know.’

  ‘I imagined you’d be back in the city,’ she said. ‘Busy with that important work of yours?’

  Anxious to get away, I ignored Denise’s taunts, gave her a shrug and walked around into the alleyway at the back of Au Cochon Tué. The doorknob refused to budge.

  ‘Merde, merde and merde!’ I should have known Robert Perrault would keep the rear access to his cellar bolted. I glanced at my watch. Time was running short. I cursed my stupidity at overlooking the one vital thing upon which my entire plan hinged.

  I hurried back around to the square and entered the bar via the front entrance, my eyes scanning the room for Monsieur Perrault.

  ‘Céleste!’ I spun around to the cheerful face of his wife. ‘I heard you’ve been ill?’

  ‘I’m fine now thank you,’ I said, trying to keep the snap from my voice. ‘But I need to see your husband.’

  ‘Whatever do you want with Robert?’

  ‘I …’ My mind raced. ‘My mother wanted me to tell him his gout remedy is ready.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell him,’ Evelyne said, looking around the bar. ‘He can’t be far away.’

  I jumped from one foot to the other. Another minute and it would be too late; I’d have to call the whole thing off. I couldn’t bear to wait yet another day.

  ‘Look, there’s your husband,’ I said, hurrying away before she could stop me.

  ‘I think I left my wallet in the cellar. I need the key,’ I said to Robert, amazed at the lies I could sprout without a qualm.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I said, taking the small key he plucked from a hook beneath the counter.

  I almost ran down the uneven steps to the secret back section of the cellar, shivering with the damp chill of the stones, my eyes continually flitting to my watch.

  I took what I needed from the shelves lining the walls, placing the items carefully in my shopping basket.

  One hand holding the basket steady, I returned the key to Monsieur Perrault and forced myself to a nonchalant stroll across la place de l’Eglise.

  The bell of Saint Antoine’s chimed midday. Martin would be gone from the barracks, back to the Delaroche home for lunch. He might not be mine any longer, but I certainly did not want to harm him.

  The last villagers were crossing the square on their way home as I walked to the opposite side of rue Emile Zola and up to Ecole de Filles Jeanne d’Arc. I strode along with a casual manner until the last person disappeared. Not a soul in sight, I turned the corner into the alley onto which the Community Hall backed.

  My eyes flitted about. Still nobody. I could stop it all. I could turn around and trudge back up to L’Auberge and forget everything. But I knew I would not forget it; could never rid my stained mind and body of those two monsters unless they paid for their crime.

  I was well aware that reckless act of mine could invite German punishment but I took comfort in the thought that, up till then, the only actual retribution the villagers of Lucie had suffered was punishment dealt by our own hand –– the punishment inflicted on Gaspard Bénédict when he betrayed his own people.

  I reached into my basket and took, with care, the first hand grenade. I recalled how Pierre and Antoine had taught Ghislaine and me, a lifetime ago it seemed, how to launch one. By the end, when Ghislaine died, we’d been proud of our lethal proficiency.

  My hand steady, I grasped the safety pin with my left index finger, and pulled and twisted, to remove it. I took a breath and, with a smooth, overarm action, flung the g
renade over the wall in the direction of the barracks’ canteen. I watched it sail through the air for a second then repeated the same, practised manoeuvre with a second, and a third, grenade.

  I darted into the copse as the first explosion echoed against my eardrums. Even as the screams and shouts from the school drilled into my brain, I felt strangely calm, concealed behind the oak trunk.

  Mud-brown palls of smoke began to mushroom over the stone wall, followed shortly by flames –– small and silent at first, then lengthening into crackling orange fingers.

  I hunched behind the tree, not moving, barely breathing, as the fire took hold, quickly raging. I still made no move as I heard the first villagers come running towards the burning school, and caught snatches of their shaky conversations.

  ‘… blown up … school destroyed …’

  ‘… Boche … dead …’

  ‘… see anyone?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘… who?’

  The voices were all French. Not a single harsh, guttural sound.

  I stayed behind the tree until I heard the army of villagers gathering around the corner, about the school entrance.

  I slid from the copse and hurried down the road and around the corner into rue Emile Zola. My face set in the same grim consternation as theirs, I tagged onto the end of the line; simply another concerned villager passing buckets of water along the human chain.

  The fire was not the inferno I’d first imagined, and hoped, for. After only half an hour, the villagers had it in hand. I slunk away from the core of the crowd, and back across rue Emile Zola; away from the heat of the flames and the dark clot of smoke that was sending people into spluttering fits.

  By the time I reached la place de l’Eglise, my heartbeat and breathing were steady and calm. It was over. I’d done it. The festering wound salved, I could begin to knit back together the edges.

  I headed for my bicycle, still standing against the church wall. I’d almost reached it, ready to throw a leg across the saddle, when I saw them huffing and puffing across the square towards their destroyed barracks. Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer.

  ***

  I didn’t know whether to walk normally or run for my life. On instinct, I ducked low, behind the fountain wall. I peered over the ledge. They were gone from the square. I left the bicycle where it was and scurried across to Dr. Laforge’s rooms. I pushed the door open and almost collided with the doctor, clutching his black bag.

  ‘Céleste, what is it? I’m on my way up to the school. There’s been an expl ––’

  ‘It was me.’

  ‘You?’ He hustled me into his consulting room and shut the door.

  ‘Sit.’ He nodded at the chair and perched on the edge of his mahogany desk. ‘Take deep breaths and calm down.’

  A babble of words streamed out as I told the doctor about Karl and Fritz’s visit to L’Auberge, and what they’d done to me.

  ‘They had to pay,’ I said. ‘Or I knew I’d never be the same again.’ I flung my hands in the air. ‘But they didn’t. I just saw them both, alive and well.’

  He listened in silence, the one eyebrow raised. When I’d finished he let out a heavy sigh.

  ‘It’s one thing to fight for our cause, Céleste, to help rid our country of the occupiers, but it’s an entirely different thing to take the law into your own hands and set off on a cold-blooded murdering spree.’

  ‘What about what they did to me? They can’t be allowed to get away with it. I had to do it. Don’t you see?’

  ‘I do understand,’ he said. ‘But this sort of wild, solo action was what I feared about you, Céleste, right from the beginning –– hot-tempered and irrational thinking. Over the last months you’ve proved yourself a dedicated, trustworthy group member, and I believed you’d changed. But after this …’ he flung an arm in the direction of the school. ‘I can’t help thinking I was wrong. You should have come to me. Besides, as you say, those two –– Gottlob and Frankenheimer –– are not dead, so you might still be bitter and angry the rest of your life.’

  ‘But this was different.’ Tears smarted my eyes, the heat burning my cheeks. ‘Nothing to do with our work. I had to make them pay. I’m sorry, but I was so … so filled with rage.’

  Dr. Laforge shook his head. ‘I do sympathise with you, Céleste but that … that unfortunate incident at L’Auberge will have to be dealt with in another way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘But the pressing concern is whether or not Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer put two and two together and realised you attempted to kill them. But even if they haven’t, you know there will be reprisals.’

  ‘But the Germans have never actually punished the people of Lucie,’ I said. ‘Up till ––’

  ‘We can’t know when, or in what form,’ the doctor went on, ‘but I can’t see the Germans letting such an act of sabotage go unpunished.’

  He stepped down from the desk. ‘I must get up to the school. You’d best stay here in the flat out of sight for now. And your mother will have to leave L’Auberge.’

  ‘Won’t that make her, or me, look guilty?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘She could be leaving the farm for any number of reasons. Hasn’t she got family in Julien-sur-Vionne?’

  ‘Yes, her sister lives there –– Aunt Maude, with my Uncle Félix. But she’ll hate to leave the farm.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it’s unavoidable. Right, I’ll check they don’t need me at the school, then I’ll head up to L’Auberge and take your mother across to Julien.’

  ‘Can’t you just take me straight back to Lyon? I really want to go ba ––’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ the doctor said. ‘But your actions today demonstrate you’re not thinking rationally; unable to work in a team. I think you’ve forgotten what our hero, Jean Moulin said about efficient combat with unified groups.’

  ‘Will you ever let me go back to Lyon?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, opening the door. ‘But right now you’re in no mind to be a capable Resistance fighter.’

  45

  I paced the small living area. I sat on the edge of the sofa and gnawed my top lip. I paced again.

  I’d failed not only myself, but our entire cause. Dr. Laforge was angry and disappointed, and he had every right to be. And for what? Karl and Fritz had escaped my revenge and I felt none of the elation or satisfaction for which I’d yearned.

  A few hours later the doctor’s footsteps thudded back up the stairs. He hung his hat and coat on a hook and flung his keys on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Your mother is with your aunt and uncle in Julien. She sends her wishes, and hopes you’re all right.’

  ‘Did you say why she had to leave the farm?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. As soon as she heard there’d been an attack on the German barracks, she seemed to guess who was responsible.’

  How absurd, that the only person who might understand why I’d blown up the primary school was my merciless mother.

  ‘Thankfully,’ the doctor went on, ‘nobody perished in the explosion. A few soldiers received superficial burns, but it was the building that suffered all the damage.’

  ‘I suppose I do feel better,’ I said, ‘knowing I didn’t actually kill anybody.’

  ‘Perhaps the reprisals won’t be as savage, since nobody died,’ Dr. Laforge said, setting out a late lunch of boiled eggs and grainy bread. ‘There’s also something I’m afraid you’ll find difficult to hear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since the Germans no longer have the school to live in, they’ve requisitioned L’Auberge. They’re moving in as we speak.’

  ‘Taken over L’Auberge? But how, why? How dare they? Besides, there are barely any supplies or animals left.’ Even as I spoke, I remembered there was my mother’s food stocks though, her cash and jewellery, beneath the herbal room floorboards. There were precious paintings and a toy soldier in the attic, along with a photo of a
German officer, secreted away in a wooden box.

  As we ate in silence, I imagined the hateful Boche moving into L’Auberge. They’d taken my father, my sister and my friends. They’d come and stolen my body –– my whole self. Now they were taking my home –– the last thing that mattered. In my fury; my helpless desperation, I could barely swallow any food.

  The doctor finished his coffee. ‘I must go out again,’ he said, retrieving his hat and coat. ‘Don’t wait up for me, and don’t answer the door to anyone. Or the phone.’

  ***

  I slept badly the first night in Dr. Laforge’s spare room, my dreams darkening to nightmare images of Karl and Fritz hulked over me, shearing my father’s coat apart and exposing my naked body. Their evil voices chimed in my ears as they ripped the angel pendant from around my neck. Smoke snagged in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. A ball of heat shot through me. Flames licked at my bare flesh, hungry and devouring.

  A series of distant explosions woke me in a shivering sweat, my cheeks slimy with tears.

  ‘It appears,’ Dr. Laforge said, as I joined him in the kitchen. ‘Nobody knows who’s responsible for the school attack. For the moment.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘They’re all out on the square though, whispering amongst themselves, and glancing suspiciously at each other.’

  The doctor then recounted the group’s successful Resistance coup in the hour before dawn.

  ‘The Germans got gunpowder from that factory,’ he explained. ‘We had to stop their supplies.’

  ‘Yes, an explosion did wake me,’ I said. ‘It must’ve been the factory blowing up.’

  ‘There will be reprisals, I suppose,’ Dr. Laforge went on. ‘The Germans absolutely needed that factory to operate, and will surely punish us somehow.’ The eyebrows knitted as one. ‘But we didn’t have a choice. The Allied landing is imminent and we have to cut off all the Germans’ lines of communication and transport; stop them sending troops north, to counter the invasion.’

  ‘I wish I could’ve been there,’ I said. ‘I hate being cooped up here.’

  ‘Hopefully it will not be for much longer, Céleste.’

  I stayed inside Dr. Laforge’s flat for the next two days, too fearful of running into Karl and Fritz. If they hadn’t already guessed, I was certain they’d only have to glance at me to know the truth.