Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  At the right time. To disappear overnight would be to put her family at risk. She’d decided to do the thing properly. First, she’d left her job. Then she’d told people she was thinking of moving away – to Rennes, or another large city. Now all that remained was to leave, quite publicly, with farewells and luggage.

  She’d even set her departure date: she’d told everyone she was going in two weeks.

  Julie walked over the crossroads and down the road that led to the west of the village. Ahead, a front door opened and an old lady in Breton dress emerged from one of the smaller cottages. The old lady nodded at Julie, her tall white lace coiffe bobbing forward, and mumbled, ‘You’re away, I hear. Thought you’d be off sooner or later!’

  Julie smiled and passed on. She thought: Silly old woman. But nothing could annoy her today: she was too happy. It wasn’t just the thought of the actual journey and of being with Richard, it was the way everything had changed. For the first time she felt as if she was really in control of her own life. The decision to go had been hard – but once made, it was as if an enormous weight had been taken off her shoulders.

  She’d seen Richard only three times the whole winter. The weather had been atrocious. Sometimes the boat didn’t come at all; sometimes it was so late there was barely time to load any passengers; at other times she guessed he had had to stay on board because of the terrible conditions out at the anchorage. The last time she’d seen him he had urged her to leave straight away. But there were always so many passengers waiting to go, always more than there were places for, that she couldn’t.

  Also there was Maurice and the group. They still needed her and that was important to her. She’d never felt really useful before and, well, she liked it. She couldn’t let them down. It would be disloyal and she wanted to be honourable and to do what was right. By staying this extra time, until the scientist was well enough to go, she would have done enough. After that she could leave with an easy mind.

  She swung round a corner into a tiny lane that led between a number of small cottages. She knocked firmly on the front door of a cottage and, without waiting for a reply, walked straight in.

  There was an old man beside the hearth.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur!’

  The old man nodded and Julie went past him, through a door into a back room.

  Maurice was already there.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  She nodded happily. ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She sat down and, delving into the pocket of her trousers, handed him an envelope. He opened it and pulled out an identity card and a small box.

  She said, pointing to the small box, ‘I brought the ink pad. All it needs is the thumb print and the photograph, then give it back to me and I’ll stamp it.’ She had inserted the name – a totally fictitious one – and the details of birth and parentage. Maurice had already given her the age and colouring of the new owner.

  She had only two cards left after this. But Maurice knew they were precious: he wouldn’t have asked her for one unless it was important.

  Maurice nodded. ‘Right. We’ll do the card in just a moment.’

  Julie glanced up in surprise. That must mean that the new owner of the card was here, or nearby. She wondered who it could be. But she didn’t ask: one had learnt not to.

  Maurice began, ‘First, the scientist. What’s the news?’

  Julie remembered the brief talk she’d had with Michel the day before. ‘Everything’s set for this week, but I don’t know any more. They wouldn’t give me any more details.’

  ‘They wouldn’t say exactly when?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But the scientist’s out of the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And fit enough to travel?’

  ‘So they say.’

  Maurice made a wry face. ‘I hope they’re right.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We’d better aim to get him away in about ten days, then. I don’t want him hanging about, but at the same time I do want to be sure he’s everything he says he is … There’s still something about the whole set-up that makes me uneasy …’

  He looked hard at Julie. ‘Will you help me to interrogate him? You have an instinct for it, you know.’

  Julie smiled self-consciously. ‘Thank you. Yes, of course I’ll help if I can.’

  ‘There’ll be someone else, too. Helping us, I mean.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, a friend. From Paris. He’s been with us for some time now, but further up the line.’

  Julie frowned. A stranger. She had a dread of strangers. ‘But – why’s he come here?’

  ‘He needs to lie low for a bit. He was spotted at Gare Montparnasse the other day and now the Boches are on the lookout for him. It was too dangerous.’

  Julie looked down unhappily. Whatever the reasons, she wished the man hadn’t come here.

  Maurice watched her questioningly. ‘This fellow will be useful to us, Marie-Claire. He was with Meteor. He’s seen the sort of bogus airmen the Boches tried to pass down the line there. And he knew the traitor, Lebrun. He always suspected him, apparently. He’s going to be very good on security.’

  She asked. ‘But how did he find us?’

  ‘A mutual contact.’

  ‘And he’s …’ She wondered how to put it. ‘He’s – definitely all right?’

  Maurice nodded. ‘I had him checked out very carefully. I had the mutual friend verify him personally. Face to face in the presence of one of our couriers. Then I had him checked with London. They know him well. He’d been with Meteor for some time.’

  Julie nodded. ‘Ah.’

  ‘And since he’s been with us, he’s been doing very good work, I assure you.’

  She smiled briefly. It must be all right. She was just worrying too much as usual.

  Maurice stood up. ‘You might as well meet him now. I’ll call him in, shall I?’

  She looked up in surprise. ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Yes. In the next room.’ Maurice went to a back door, opened it, and spoke quietly. He returned and sat down.

  Julie waited expectantly. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a shadow fell on the open door then, without a sound, a man appeared, silhouetted against the light. Julie had the strangest feeling he’d been there all the time, just behind the door, listening.

  For a moment the man paused, his face in darkness. Then he came forward, and Julie saw that he was looking at her carefully, his eyes hard and searching.

  Then he smiled, his lips curving into a friendly grin, the eyes warming a little. Julie automatically smiled back and put out her hand to shake his.

  Maurice said, ‘This is Roger. Roger, this is Marie-Claire.’ Roger wouldn’t be his real name, of course.

  They sat down. ‘Now,’ Maurice began immediately, ‘let’s look at security procedures. As a first defence I think we should aim for a new series of security checks further up the line …’ As Julie listened she stole the occasional glance at the stranger. He had a thin face with rather sallow skin and straight black hair which flopped over his forehead in untidy straggles. He was dressed in rough clothes, but she noticed that on one hand he wore a thick gold ring. His eyes were so dark they were almost black and you had the feeling they didn’t miss a thing. At one point they flicked up and looked straight into Julie’s eyes. She glanced hurriedly away.

  ‘… So Marie-Claire, you take the Americans and the British,’ Maurice was saying, ‘and Roger, you the other nationalities. All right so far?’

  Julie nodded.

  Roger said, his voice low and soft, ‘Those already in hiding? Have they been checked?’

  Maurice nodded. ‘Pretty well.’

  ‘No so-called Czechs or Poles?’

  ‘No, none. But – there is one odd passenger we’ve been asked to take. A German by nationality, no less.’

  Julie glanced at Roger. He remained impassive. ‘A German?’

  ‘Yes, but a reluctant one, apparently. A J
ew who’s doing forced labour for the Navy in Brest. He wants out with some vital documents.’

  Roger said gently, ‘What vital documents?’

  ‘Ah, some scientific marvel that would be very valuable. We don’t know the details.’

  ‘And he’s in a Navy establishment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Roger asked softly, ‘Which one?’

  He was asking a lot of questions. Perhaps that was his way, Julie thought, perhaps that was how things were done in Paris.

  Maurice shrugged. ‘We don’t know.’

  Roger’s eyes fell. ‘And how is he to be removed?’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed Maurice, ‘that’s to be arranged by some – er, friends.’

  Roger nodded very slowly. ‘It does sound rather risky. I’d certainly like to interrogate him.’

  ‘Of course. We all want to be certain about him!’ Maurice sat forward in his chair. ‘Right, let’s call it a day. Unless you have any questions …?’

  Julie looked at Roger. He was shaking his head. She looked back at Maurice and almost spoke – she wanted to confirm the arrangements for her and Peter. But she changed her mind; it didn’t seem to be the right moment any more.

  Maurice took the identity card from the table. ‘Right, Roger. Here’s your new identity. If we can bother you for a thumb print …?’

  Julie watched as Roger rolled his right thumb on the ink pad and placed his print carefully on the card.

  Maurice looked at Roger. ‘And the photograph?’

  ‘Of course!’ He felt in his jacket pocket and brought out a small photograph.

  Maurice handed the card and photograph to Julie. She pushed them into her trouser pocket and stood up. Roger sprang to his feet and bowed slightly.

  On a whim she said, ‘The Meteor thing … How did you escape?’

  ‘A friend warned me, just before I walked into the trap.’

  ‘But the others—?’

  He looked down, sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘Most of them gone …’ He looked genuinely upset and Julie felt a little guilty for having asked. She said, ‘Sorry – I …’

  His eyes came up suddenly. ‘No – please don’t worry. That’s the price we have to pay sometimes, isn’t it? They knew that. They knew the risks. All one can do is learn the lessons.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, of course …’

  The distress had disappeared and now he was smiling slightly. She noticed, though, that his eyes were cold.

  She muttered goodbye to Maurice and, turning back to Roger, said, ‘I’ll have your card ready in an hour.’

  He bowed again. ‘Thank you, madame.’

  Julie went quietly through the house and out into the lane. Her happiness had evaporated. The presence of Roger troubled her, not just because he was a stranger, but because he was something new, and new elements made her nervous.

  And there was something else. What? Yes – he frightened her. It was those cold watchful eyes.

  A shiver went down her spine and, shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked quickly in the direction of home.

  Vasson watched her go and wondered why she had been wary.

  It was probably just native suspicion. She was like the rest of them: distrustful of anything from outside. There was nothing more to it than that. After all, she had no reason to be suspicious. No, she was an earnest, well-meaning type, but definitely not too bright.

  He turned back to Maurice. ‘A good girl, that.’

  Maurice nodded. ‘Yes, the best.’

  Vasson sat down again. He waited for Maurice to speak: it would show the proper subservience.

  Maurice said, ‘Right. Now, I’ll try to get the rest of your new papers by Thursday, but no promises. In the meantime, lie low—’

  ‘But I’ve still got my own papers – I could use them.’

  ‘No! You’ve been using them in Paris, haven’t you? And you’re known there.’

  ‘Well – yes.’ He had to admit it: the owner of the papers, a man called Fougères, had indeed used them in Paris before he found his way into Kloffer’s dungeon. Kloffer’s office had then replaced the identity photographs with Vasson’s – and a very professional job they’d made of it, too.

  Maurice looked stern. ‘Then it would be much too dangerous to use them! No, you stay here until your new papers are ready. If you were spotted at the Gare Montparnasse as you suspect, then they might be on to you! No! You must wait!’

  Vasson nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course! Whatever you say!’ It didn’t make any difference: he had three other identities to choose from, any one of which would do perfectly well if he needed to slip away from the village. And the Gare Montparnasse thing was a nonsense, of course: he’d made it up.

  ‘When your papers are fixed, then we’ll send you to Morlaix or St Brieuc to interview parcels as soon as they come off the train.’

  Morlaix was very convenient: it housed his local contact.

  Vasson thought: Now for a little touch of finesse. He said softly, ‘What about people within the réseau? Have they been checked recently?’

  ‘No, but then there’s hardly anyone who hasn’t been with me from the beginning. Those who do join … Well, I check them very carefully.’

  That was true enough. At the beginning Maurice had kept Vasson under close watch until his identity had been checked, first with London, who had okayed him straight away – they would, of course: Fougères was a longstanding member of the Meteor line – and then with the contact in Paris, the one who had got him the introduction to the Brittany réseau. The contact had, in fact, been under Kloffer’s supervision for some two weeks. If Vasson remembered correctly, Kloffer had the man’s wife in the basement at the Avenue Foch. Anyway, the man had done what was required and, in front of a witness, sworn to Vasson’s identity as Paul Fougères. Vasson rather liked the name: it had an aristocratic ring to it.

  Vasson stood up and walked to the window. ‘So what can I do until Thursday?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  That suited Vasson very well. It would give him the time he needed.

  But not if he was cooped up. He said with feeling, ‘I’ll go mad if I have to stay inside all the time. All right if I stretch my legs in the evenings?’

  There was a pause. Maurice said reluctantly, ‘If you have to. But stay in the village and keep out of sight of Germans.’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll be very careful.’ Which was true: he would do his reconnaissance of the village very carefully indeed.

  Maurice stood up. ‘Right. I’m off now. Any problems, just leave a message at the café.’

  They nodded to each other and Maurice left.

  For a while Vasson sat quite still, thinking that it was all going quite well. There were, of course, a few minor problems; but then there always were.

  He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. First, there was the security of the line. Unfortunately it was very good. Maurice had done an excellent job. It would be impossible to slip a bogus American or Britisher through, not with that girl interviewing them. And a Czech or Pole – well, everyone knew that was how Meteor had fallen. It would be tempting fate to try the same trick again. No, a plant really wouldn’t do.

  So – what could he get on his own? The Bretons were close people, very suspicious of strangers. It would take ten years to get trusted around here. No hope of confidences then. No way of locating the safe houses easily. Nor of identifying more than two of the couriers: Maurice had made sure of that. So what did that leave him with?

  Quite a lot, in fact.

  He could get the organisers, no trouble there. Maurice, the girl and the people who actually went on beach operations, he could get them all right. And they, after all, were the real plums.

  Then the Gestapo would have to do some of their own work for a change. They would have to extract the names of the small fry. It wouldn’t do them any harm – he’d been handing them things on a plate for long enough.

  It wouldn’t be as clean and satisfying as
Meteor had been. But what the hell? After this job he would be a very rich man. As long as he delivered most of the goods, what did it matter?

  Anyway, he’d go mad if he stayed in this place too long. The silence was deafening, except for the racket of bleating sheep and the bloody wind howling the place down. And the cold! He’d never been so cold in his life. They’d never heard of heating in bedrooms, or bedwarmers. And the food – solid and inedible. It was the end of the bloody earth.

  No: he’d just hit them hard and quick and then he’d be off, back to Paris. And Kloffer could threaten him all he wanted: Vasson would stay in Paris. This time he was going home.

  He got up and went through into the messy, smelly back room he’d been given. It was like a rat-hole: disgusting.

  There was a bottle of wine beside the bed. He picked it up and swigged at it. There was no point in going out until dark, but Christ! it seemed a long time away.

  He lay and looked at the ceiling. He suddenly realised he’d forgotten something. Ah! Of course. There was the other matter: the scientist. What the hell was he going to do about that?

  He could always do nothing, of course. But if the Jew really was important, then it might just be worth his while to organise something …

  The main problem was to find out exactly who this fellow might be. It would be no good asking Baum, his Gestapo contact at Morlaix. The fool would probably blow it straight away by going to Brest and asking questions.

  No, better to keep Baum out of it. That meant he’d have to handle it himself.

  In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait.

  He swigged at the wine again, gulping the liquid down in long draughts. It was the only way to drink the stuff: it was rough as hell. Then he lay back on the bed and slept fitfully through the afternoon.

  At dusk he got up. He put an old cap on his head, a canvas working man’s bag over his shoulder, and some identity papers in his pocket. Then, looking carefully out of the door, he slipped quietly into the night.

  The dawn was pale and misty and very cold. Julie stepped into the yard, gulped the fresh, cold air and watched her breath floating away in long clouds, up into the white opalescent sky.