He sucked in a breath. ‘I think we should go.’ He stood, bursting the fragile bubble of civility that had formed.
She leapt up, stung. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
He turned back. ‘Family is difficult to talk about. Maybe …’
‘It’s all right. Talk to me about Gordes. Where is it?’
‘Up there.’
How could she have missed it? The last few kilometres she’d fallen into a rhythm of staring at the ground, planting her feet precisely where his larger feet had trod. And she had allowed her mind to wander. It helped pass the silent hours, the hunger, the loneliness. And yet rearing up above her was an incredible village built into the base of the cliffs, almost classical-looking, bathed in gold light. The sun was already past its peak; they’d been walking for seven hours.
‘A main settlement from Roman times, a fortification ever since, and now a stronghold of the Resistance,’ Faucille said, grinning at her gaping stare.
‘It’s breathtaking,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, but the milice know we use it. We have to be very careful. They can’t patrol it as we do but they have been raiding ever since the Germans took over the so-called Free France.’
‘Why risk coming here?’
‘It’s still safer than overnighting in Cavaillon. Shall we pick up our pace? We still have to get to the abbey before dark.’
They walked for another three-quarters of an hour and finally reached Gordes proper but Lisette’s sense of awe and delight was short-lived. Within moments of entering the twisting alleys of the town her pleasure had turned to a liquid fear, rushing through her veins, pounding at her ears. The unmistakable sounds of troops marching and vehicles approaching came from the square – only Germans had those boots or petrol.
‘I should have warned you,’ Faucille said, sensing her disquiet.
‘I have to get used to it.’
‘Yes, you do. Paris will be worse.’
‘What do all these posters mean?’ she asked, noticing them stuck up on many of the walls.
‘These are new,’ Faucille remarked.
Des Liberateurs, the heading screamed, and below were printed nearly a dozen grainy photos of men. They were described as being part of the Army of Crime. It was the duty of all villagers across the region to speak up if they’d seen or heard anything of these men.
And unmistakably, Frelon’s face smirked out at Lisette. She froze, scanning the poster for Faucille. He was not among them. Even so, he appeared shaken.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he said, grabbing her hand. It was the first time he had touched her and his hand was large and dry; a farmer’s hand, she thought to herself, reassured at the warmth it brought. ‘Walk with me as if we are more than friends,’ he urged. She took a breath and pushed herself closer to him, so he could wrap an arm around her in a casual embrace. Lisette leant into him so they didn’t appear stiff. It wasn’t a moment too soon. Soldiers turned into the alley, terrifying her. And yet all she could think about was the fragrance of lavender that enveloped her.
‘Talk to me,’ she whispered pleadingly. ‘Anything.’
He didn’t miss a beat. ‘And so I told him to get lost,’ Faucille waved an arm expansively. ‘He thinks he is so clever, but I tell you, my flowers are far superior. I leave mine just a little later so the bees can—’ She couldn’t believe it when he deliberately knocked the arm of one of the soldiers pushing past them. ‘Ah, pardon, monsieur,’ he said politely.
The soldier grimaced, his gaze sliding to Lisette, whom Faucille now held in a close hug by his side.
‘Papers!’ the young soldier demanded. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked in terrible French. He was younger than either of them, with rosy cheeks and hair that was so short it was almost shaved. They both began digging into pockets for their papers. Lisette couldn’t imagine she could ever be more terrified than she was now, meeting the enemy at such close range.
Surprisingly, Faucille was neither tense nor nervous. ‘No, I’m visiting an old flame,’ he replied easily, switching into German.
‘You speak German?’ the young soldier exclaimed, his demeanour instantly friendlier.
‘I am German!’ Faucille replied, still fumbling in a pocket. ‘I am a resident of France, though. Forgive my blundering way. I’m excited to see her again, eh?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ the soldier said, grinning now and dismissing the search for papers. He waved to his compatriots. ‘We’re off for the evening, in search of beer.’
‘Try Monsieur Grigon’s bar,’ Faucille said, conspiratorially. ‘He keeps some German beer. Beneath the bar. Insist!’ Faucille gave a mischievous grin. ‘Tell him Lukas sent you. But don’t tell the rest of your unit, eh?’
‘You live around here?’ the soldier asked.
Faucille gave a short jut of his chin. ‘North, in Sault.’
‘No STO?’
‘I’m a farmer,’ Faucille admitted.
‘A German farmer in France?’
The smile on Faucille’s face broadened but not a hint of warmth touched his eyes. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it? I was born in Bavaria, my mother ended up in southern France with me. To the authorities I’m regarded as a French national.’ He touched his heart. ‘But I’m German here.’
The young soldier grinned. ‘Be careful you aren’t called up.’
‘I would gladly go, but they need my crops. I’m not allowed to leave the farm.’
‘Lucky you.’ The soldier’s gaze slid to Lisette. ‘Got a sister?’
Faucille spoke before she could. ‘No, but I can fix you up with her friend.’ He winked. ‘Hey, these Maquis dogs,’ he said, pointing jauntily at the poster. ‘Caught any yet?’
‘Four so far. That one,’ he said, pointing to Frelon, ‘is about to fall into our trap, I gather. Make sure you’re there to watch the executions tonight.’ He grinned.
‘See you then,’ Faucille replied in a brightly feigned tone.
The soldier moved on and Faucille clutched Lisette tightly by the waist but didn’t increase his pace. ‘We have to get out of here.’
‘I gathered. Was that all rubbish back there about the bar?’
‘Mostly. Monsieur Grignon is going to get a surprise.’
‘Will he turn you in?’
‘He won’t even know who sent them. I know he’s a collaborator. But he pretends otherwise.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Senanque Abbey. I have to get a message to Laurent.’
‘Laurent?’
‘Frelon. Forget you heard the name. If anything, it’s a burden to know.’
‘I’ll take my chances. Are you going to tell me your name?’
But he didn’t respond, instead looking fretful as he cast a gaze up and down the road that led to the town square.
Soon Lisette and Faucille were in a cart heading to the monastery, with a taciturn monk at the reins.
‘This monk is stone deaf,’ Faucille assured her. ‘He’s given me a ride before. We can talk freely and we must plan a cover story. That poster changes our plan. If they know about Laurent, then they will soon know about me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It means I won’t necessarily be putting you on a train to Paris alone.’
‘You’re coming with me?’
‘I’m not sure. It may be too difficult to remain in the south – at least for a while. I can work with the Resistance elsewhere.’
Like so many pilgrims before her, Lisette couldn’t help but marvel at the narrow wooded valley they were passing through. The elegantly spare stone Cistercian monastery lay ahead, at the foot of a steep incline.
‘I’m sure Prosper would welcome you,’ Lisette said, secretly glad that she might not be travelling alone.
‘We shall see.’ Faucille paused, a look of consternation crossing his face. ‘But now I must break my own rules, Angeline. Tell me about yourself – I need to build my story around yours, in case we are stopped for any reason. Yo
u can call me Luc, but my real name is Lukas.’
The name suited him, she thought. But Luc’s plans made a mockery of her training dogma about the importance of secrecy. She knew he was breaking his own code of silence too. SOE had impressed upon her that in the field, the only thing she could really count on was her herself and her instincts. Luc was her only hope to get out of the south. Under torture, could he keep her secrets? She couldn’t be sure of that even for herself. She took a deep breath and began.
‘My name is Lisette. I was born in Lille to a German father, Maximilian Foerstner; he was wounded in the Great War – lost the use of one arm – and became entirely disillusioned with the country of his birth. When he married my mother, a Frenchwoman called Sylvie, he settled in France with her and they lived under the French surname of Forestier.’
‘Wait,’ Luc said. ‘Is this a cover?’
‘The truth … it is my best cover because it can all be proven.’
He looked worried. ‘Go on.’
‘We moved to Strasbourg when I was born, and according to my cover story I’ve been living in the east of France until now; I’m going to Paris to work in a German bank for a friend of the family.’
She felt the weight of his gaze as he considered what she’d just told him.
‘And the real Lisette?’
She hesitated. But this intimate moment seemed to transcend the rules they were meant to live by. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to share the truth with this man whom she sensed was as damaged by the loss of his family as she had been by the loss of hers. That counted for something … that bound them. Before she could think, she began to talk, and it felt like a key had been turned in a lock. It was a release to speak of her life.
‘I was seventeen and my parents were becoming nervous about the rise of the Nazis in Germany. I was sent to live in Britain, but before my parents could join me they were killed in a motor vehicle accident.’ She reeled this off matter-of-factly; she did not want him to ask any hard questions. ‘But according to my cover story I moved to live with family friends in Dunkerque when I left school in Strasbourg.’
‘No records because of the bombings. Clever.’
‘Certainly much too hard to trace.’
‘No other family members left in France?’
She shook her head. ‘Father’s parents dead. Mother’s parents both dead, according to my papers, but my maternal grandparents live in England.’
‘So, according to your cover, what have you been doing since then?’
‘I remained in Dunkerque until the outbreak of the war and returned to Strasbourg. I worked there for a banker – an old family friend,’ she said. ‘He exists. I’m lucky he cares for me and has agreed to support this version of events, although he knows nothing of my work for SOE, only that I am desperate to return to France.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Walter? He’s in Paris now.’
‘And your papers reflect all of this,’ he pressed.
Lisette nodded. ‘I have been taking a break down south because of health reasons. I’m going to work in the Paris branch of Walter’s bank, where he has relocated. So now, what about you?’
He hesitated, she noticed, his face darkening. This was hard for him. She couldn’t blame him. The Maquis lived under such secrecy that telling anything, even a fabricated life, could mean death.
‘My name is Lukas Ravensburg. I was born in Germany … in Bavaria. My father, Dieter, was killed the day before the Armistice. My mother, heartbroken and pregnant, somehow found her way into Strasbourg, where she was discovered by Wolfgang Eichel, who was a professor at the university, and his wife. My mother died soon after I was born in their home. But the Eichels, like your father, wanted to move far away from Germany. Wolf’s wife died suddenly, and Wolf brought me to Provence. We have been close my whole life.’ Here Luc paused and looked out into the distance. He said nothing for a long time.
‘Is something wrong?’
He sighed deeply. ‘Yes, something is very wrong. I was brought up by a loving family who raised me as their own. They knew my story but kept me in the dark. I only learnt the truth last year.’
Lisette stared at him, hardly daring to say anything. His story sounded even more pitiful than hers.
‘Why are you angry?’ she risked.
‘I’m angry that my family, who are Jewish, have been taken away to what we suspect are death camps. My grandmother didn’t even survive the belting that the milice gave her as she was dragged from our family home. I kissed her dead face while the screams of my beautiful sisters rang in my ears.’
Lisette could hear the pain in his voice.
‘Everyone has lost someone, and my tale is echoed all over France. But I would rather take a bullet in the head than go to work for the German war effort.’
‘Where is your friend Wolf?’
‘I have no idea. I saw him the day my family was taken. After that I fled into the hills with the Maquis. It was months before I returned to the region, although I have never returned to my village.’ He gave a shrug. ‘By then nobody knew where Wolf had gone.’
He continued, ‘Let’s keep it as close to the truth as I dare. I am Lukas Ravensberg. I was orphaned, raised by a family in the south. I am a lavender grower in the mountain region of Sault, which is far enough away from my real village to avoid suspicion.’
‘Why do you have such strong German?’ Lisette challenged.
‘I am proud of my German heritage. I have taught myself.’
‘Be sure to make mistakes, then, if you’re stopped.’
‘Don’t fret on my account. I’ve told Roger that I will get you successfully on the train to Paris. Whatever happens beyond that is irrelevant.’
‘Please don’t say that.’
‘We are all expendable, Lisette,’ he said, looking away.
There was no more time to talk. They’d arrived, the cart rolling slowly onto the gravel of the monastery’s approach. They waved their thanks to the driver, who leapt down nimbly and helped Lisette alight. The sun was lowering and it had become colder the deeper they’d sunk into the valley; it was positively cool now, and the monastery looked a lot more imposing in shadow.
‘Visitors are permitted?’ Lisette found herself whispering.
‘Not encouraged, but never turned away. Père Auguste is a monk here I can trust. Wait here for me? I won’t be long but I need to be sure we are safe first.’
As Luc and the monk walked away Lisette inhaled the smell of the forest, enjoying the silence. She turned from the monastery and looked down the valley, imagining it carpeted by lavender. No doubt Faucille – no, Luc – would enjoy telling her about how it would grow here.
She heard sudden footsteps approaching. Without warning, Luc appeared out of the shadows. ‘Up,’ he said, ‘into the cart. Hurry!’
‘What?’
‘No questions. No time. Do as I say.’
She leapt back into the cart as he untied the reins. ‘Luc?’ she implored, but his teeth were gritted. They left the way they had come, and although she had not seen another person, she was sure that eyes were watching them as they clattered away back up the hill.
When the horse hit a steady clip Luc turned and she saw a wildness in his expression.
‘What?’ she urged.
‘They’ve caught Laurent. He’s going to be executed.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They’d leapt from the cart about a quarter of a mile from the town and had run the rest of the way. Luc could hear Lisette sucking in air as silently as she could as he forced them to a walk.
Luc reminded himself that his job was to get her onto that northbound train – and everything else was secondary. Except it wasn’t. Père Auguste’s news had rattled his normally clear thinking. According to the monk, Laurent had made it to the monastery; the plan had been for him to travel alone ahead of Lisette and Luc to organise paperwork and safe houses for them in Gordes. What no one could have known was that the m
ilice would choose this day to stage a raid. Laurent had wisely followed the back-up plan and got to the monastery in time to leave the paperwork with the sympathetic Père Auguste. But the milice had paid a visit, and one of the monks had inadvertently betrayed Laurent.
‘You have to forgive old Claude. He’s slipping into dementia and doesn’t really grasp what the Maquis does. He was trying to help the authorities,’ Père Auguste had tried to explain. Worst of all was that someone in Gordes had confirmed Laurent as being the man they sought. He did not know who had given Laurent up.
All the Maquis accepted that death’s cold embrace could encircle them at any turn, on any day, but Luc and Laurent’s youth perhaps permitted them to believe they would see this war out. They had felt certain they would dance on the graves of their pursuers and they would, one day, raise a glass to the loved ones they had lost. Together they would tell their sons of their fathers’ adventures. He couldn’t just let Laurent go. Luc wasn’t ready to accept Père Auguste’s advice to leave Gordes well alone.
With a creamy white Cistercian’s robe adding some semblance of disguise, Luc led Lisette up one of the cobbled alleys until they were level with the main square of Gordes.
‘Are you mad?’ Lisette asked in a hiss.
‘I have to be there.’ He saw her swallow; knew there was a struggle being waged inside her but she had no rank to pull, no way of leaving him.
‘You are crazy; there is no more dangerous place for you right now. Luc, we can’t risk the mission – and I won’t watch an execution.’
‘We won’t risk the mission, I promise,’ he said and held her gaze. ‘And you can’t avoid being present – where will you hide? It’s safer in the square with everyone else.’
She nodded, as though accepting the situation, but shook her arm free. He hadn’t even realised he was squeezing it. ‘Let me go. You’re a monk, remember!’
The milice were herding people into the square, aided by German soldiers. The situation was becoming more dangerous. Lisette was unhappily swept up with the tide of people but it was best she stand in the square or risk notice. She knew how to blend in. Her clothes were perfect, her language too. If not for her beauty, no one would look twice. Luc noticed she was sensibly reaching for the woollen cap he’d added to her pocket at the last minute.
The Lavender Keeper Page 15
