‘Markus asked for me?’
Sylvie nodded. ‘Yes. Personally, I think you have a right to know.’ She shook her head, began lighting another cigarette. ‘But Luc met with Kilian alone.’
Lisette groaned. ‘And you think they’re together now?’
‘Honestly, Lisette, I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t think anything Kilian or Luc does right now is going to change a thing. By tomorrow morning the Champs Elysées will likely erupt to the sound of liberation. Nothing else matters.’
Maybe that was the case for Sylvie. Lisette nodded, then turned and left the apartment without another word.
‘Lisette! Lisette!’ Sylvie called after her. ‘Merde!’ she swore and ran back inside to grab her bag.
Sylvie found Luc where she expected, at Lisette’s old flat in Montmartre. It had taken her hours to get there on foot, avoiding the pockets of fighting that were increasingly giving way to celebration. People weren’t yet sure if it was over but there was a sense of triumph permeating the streets. Sylvie was increasingly resentful as she walked – Lisette was robbing her of the victory.
Luc was sitting on the stoop of the building. He was not alone. There were plenty of other people in the street, all collectively holding their breath, waiting for some sign that it was over.
Luc picked her out immediately as she approached. ‘Sylvie?’ He looked around to see if she was by herself.
‘She’s gone,’ Sylvie said. She was exhausted and irritated.
‘What do you mean?’
She gave him an exasperated glare. ‘I babysat your lovesick girl as long as I could. But she’s not a child, Luc; she gets angry like any of us when she’s patronised.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘She demanded I tell her. She knows about you, about Kilian.’
His initially bewildered expression turned quickly to anger. ‘Where is she?’
‘She ran off. I think she’s trying to find you, but she thinks you’re with Kilian right now. She’s probably trying to find him.’
He didn’t waste another word. Before Sylvie could speak again he stood and began to run.
Luc dodged and weaved through gunfire and celebration; some were already dancing in the streets, with music blaring and wine flowing. Girls were bare-shouldered in summer frocks and men had their shirts off, waving them over their heads, singing ‘La Marseillaise’. Strangers kissed, children ran around, seniors brought out chairs and sat on the footpaths to watch the spontaneous festivities, as everyone tore down any Nazi signs or flags. Parents of newborns hugged and wept at the thought their babies would know peace in the world.
Paris was mad this evening.
Where would she go? Luc wondered. He’d headed to the Hotel Raphaël, but found no sign of her. Flashing his German driver’s ID at one of the senior staff, he’d been able to establish that Colonel Kilian was not in his room or in the hotel. Lisette was in none of the public areas. He’d run on, this time to the colonel’s offices. Again he’d used his identification papers to persuade someone to check whether the colonel was in his rooms. He was not.
Luc had racked his mind. Where would she go? Think! The bridge near the cathedral where she’d met Kilian, perhaps? No, too public. Where, damn it? Where would she think Kilian would meet him?
The Ritz? Possibly. The Ritz had resonance for her too.
He’d run, heedless of his shortening breath, to the Place Vendôme, scanning the great square for any sign of Lisette. And how was he to get inside a hotel that was teeming with Nazis on edge? He’d approached, half expecting a sniper bullet to hit him at any moment.
And then, as fate wove her wand, Colonel Kilian had pushed through the hotel doors carrying a bottle. Kilian had noticed him immediately.
‘Not celebrating, Lukas?’ he’d asked.
Lisette did not follow the colonel out of the hotel; Luc’s heart skipped a beat. He had no idea now where in this vast city she was.
Lisette had run, madly at first. But then she decided where she was going and started to walk calmly. No one would shoot at her; she wasn’t worried about that. She looked like an ordinary Frenchwoman; her problem was the general anarchy in the streets. Angry, excited men were capable of plenty, and a lone woman was an easy target.
She’d walked in such a distracted mood that Lisette was almost surprised when she found herself on the Avenue Kleber and approaching the Hotel Raphaël. She was worried what she might find, yet at the same time anxious that she might not find what she’d hoped for. No one stopped her when she ran into the familiar hotel lobby and lifted her hand to the concierge.
The lobby was deserted but she could see the bar was full of Germans, drinking very quietly, smoking, hardly speaking. The restaurant was the same. People found safety in numbers, but it seemed no one particularly wanted any companionship. She ran up the stairs to the room she knew; the room where she’d been able to shut off the world and pretend she was someone else.
She was wearing the floral dress Kilian loved. How ironic, then, that she was here in Kilian’s hotel, in Kilian’s frock, but looking for Luc. She wiped her clammy hands on the thin cotton as she took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Silence. Instinctively, she reached for the handle and twisted. It turned, and the door gave with a gentle click. To her despair, the room was empty.
She didn’t know where else to go. They could be anywhere. They could be together, or they could be at separate ends of the city. She saw Kilian’s dress uniform hanging in the wardrobe, and her mind was transported to her birthday, when he’d all but torn a button on that jacket when he’d ripped it off in his eagerness to be naked with her.
She reached for it, held it close. It smelt of Markus. Lisette sat on the bed, Kilian’s jacket clutched in her lap, and gazed into space. She was too frightened for Luc and Markus to cry.
The sensible voice inside her told her there was no point in hurtling from one familiar landmark to another. So she sat very still, and waited for night to descend. It would blot out the sounds of distant sniper fire, of revellers, of the frigid quiet in the hotel and the light in this room so she didn’t have to see his things any longer.
In the morning, life would seem different. She knew it. And by the morning Paris would be free.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kilian stared at Luc with a narrowed gaze. ‘What do you mean, find Lisette?’
‘She’s disappeared,’ Luc said. ‘I think she’s trying to find us.’
‘Us?’
‘She believes we’re together. I came to find you in case …’
‘You thought she might come here?’
Luc shrugged. ‘I tried your hotel and your offices.’
‘Well,’ Kilian said. ‘Lisette is charmed. She will be safe, I promise you. She’s far too sensible to run through the streets of Paris.’
Luc agreed. Lisette could be counted on to be cautious. Even if she had run away, he didn’t believe she would be skittering through the streets.
Kilian cast him a glance and strode by him.
‘Where are you going, Colonel?’
‘I told you, for a drink. You’re welcome to join me, but don’t try and stop me.’
‘It’s dangerous tonight, Colonel … to be German.’
‘Can’t change who I am. Neither can you, my friend. You’re as German as I am. Come, let’s both salute the end of the Reich; the end of this devil-inspired reign, and the end of the mad Austrian who brought this down upon us all.’
‘You were part of it,’ Luc said accusingly.
‘Yes, I was. Come walk with me, as we talk.’
It was clear Kilian’s mood was unpredictable. In spite of Luc’s jealousy of the time Kilian had spent with Lisette, he didn’t want to see the man die. He fell in step.
‘You’re right,’ Kilian continued. ‘I am part of it. I never liked it, but I was a man of duty. I am a soldier.’ He gave a choked laugh. ‘Sounds so pathetic now.’
‘I’m not asking for it. I don’t believe any of us deserves it. However, some of us tried to change how it was.’
‘And failed.’ They had reached the Tuileries. Twilight was upon them, but the smell of smoke still hung in the air. Paris was not burning as Hitler had hoped, but bonfires of joy were flaring around the city as German flags and uniforms burned in celebration. The moon was out, bathing the gardens in a haunting light. And it was a balmy evening. Summer did not care whether war raged or peace prevailed.
‘Kilian, this is not a wise place to be.’
‘Scared?’ the colonel asked.
‘Only for you.’
‘Don’t be. I’m armed, remember.’
Luc wasn’t impressed. A pistol against an angry mob was no defence. He watched as Kilian removed his boots. ‘What are you doing, Colonel?’
‘Beneath this extraordinarily pleasing moonlight, I plan to feel the warm summer grass beneath my feet and try to remember happier times in Prussia, when life was simple.’
‘You can’t blot out what your country is responsible for.’
‘Oh, but I can try, Ravensburg. I have to try.’ Kilian took a slug of the calvados and offered the bottle to Luc. Luc shook his head.
‘Oh, come on. A sip between the vanquished and the conqueror.’
‘I did nothing.’
‘You won her, Ravensburg. I was no match for you.’
Luc hadn’t realised they were discussing Lisette. He watched the colonel, normally so neat and smart, now dishevelled and barefoot, walking around the grass swallowing his second slug of brandy.
‘She loves this, you know.’ Kilian waved the bottle. ‘Calvados. Make sure you always order it for her.’
‘No. It will remind her of you.’
Kilian offered the bottle again. ‘Come on, Ravensburg. Let’s drink to Paris, to saving the city from Hitler’s flames.’
Luc reluctantly took the bottle. ‘All right, I’ll drink to that.’ Kilian looked delighted as Luc swallowed the shot, the apple brandy burning. It was powerful. He’d drunk calvados with his father in Paris, a memory that prompted thoughts he couldn’t examine now. He watched Kilian swig from the bottle.
‘You plan to get drunk?’
‘Thoroughly.’
‘Is that how you want the world to see Colonel Kilian tomorrow – drunk, bleary-eyed, staggering around?’
Kilian just gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Let me offer you some more.’
Luc shook his head and Kilian swung around, yelling something into the night, before swigging again from the brandy. No doubt he’d been drinking all day, and it was catching up with him. He was swaying now.
‘Had enough?’ Luc asked.
‘No. I can still think.’
Luc sighed and looked around. There were bursts of gunfire audible, but they seemed to be a long way off. The sounds of celebration were drifting across the Place de la Concorde from the Champs Elysées. Soon people would be out and about, leaving the safety of their neighbourhoods for these more salubrious areas, normally frequented by the Germans.
He could almost imagine the column of triumphant French, British and American troops arriving, being kissed by the women and cheered on by the men. But even amid this happiness, Luc thought of all of the tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of men, women and children who’d perished – including his own family. France should be weeping for the loyal citizens it had lost – in battle and in the camps, from Drancy in Paris through to the Polish work camps. He shook his head to clear those thoughts; there would be time enough for that scrutiny.
When he looked up, Kilian was dancing, moving slowly on the grass with his eyes closed.
‘Come on, Colonel,’ Luc said.
‘I’ll never dance again,’ Kilian slurred. ‘I’ll never hold a woman again.’ And as he turned around to say something else, Luc caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed Kilian just as a small band of youths rounded a bend in the gardens. It didn’t take much guesswork to see that they were looking for trouble.
‘What have we here?’ one asked. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, with a baby face and floppy dark hair. He was waving a revolver.
Luc scanned the eight or so lads. The boy with the gun was the eldest; most looked younger and very unsure of themselves. Their nervous glances kept darting to their leader.
‘All right, lads. No trouble, eh?’ Luc said in a strong voice, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed.
‘It’s a Nazi!’ one of them yelled.
‘No, no, you’ve got it wrong,’ Luc said. ‘Do I look Nazi? I’m Maquis!’ He’d taken care that morning to put on his maquisard pin, shaped as a double cross. ‘Look,’ he said, flicking back his collar to reveal it. ‘I am French, like you.’
‘We’re talking about him!’ the boy with the gun roared.
‘Him? Don’t be daft. He killed the owner of that uniform earlier today. He’s celebrating. Look, we stole this bottle of brandy from one of the hotels. Want some?’
The leader faltered, not quite convinced, but it was obvious he was interested in the liquor.
‘Give them the bottle,’ Luc urged Kilian.
The colonel seemed to come out of his hazy thoughts and realise what was occurring. To Luc’s horror, he withdrew his pistol, cocked it and levelled it at the boys. ‘No one gets my calvados,’ he said – in German.
The group reacted as one in instant alarm. Luc could see the leader’s hand trembling.
‘Do you even know how to shoot that thing?’ Kilian asked in French.
‘He’s a Boche!’ the leader screamed.
‘Yes, I am, boy,’ Kilian snarled. ‘But he is not. My companion here is exactly as he says. He is a loyal Frenchman. He is a brave maquisard who has captured me, and probably brought me here to kill me.’
‘Is that right?’ the youth asked Luc.
Luc could see the other boys backing away. He knew there was fire in Kilian’s eyes and his pistol was trained straight on the boy’s heart. He wouldn’t miss, either, despite being drunk.
‘What’s your name?’ Luc asked the visibly shaking leader.
‘It’s Didier,’ someone answered for him.
‘Put the gun down, Didier,’ Luc requested, gently. ‘I’ll explain everything.’
‘Did you lie?’ Didier demanded. ‘Are you Maquis and is he German?’
‘Didier,’ Kilian said, suddenly reasonable. ‘Let me prove it.’ He turned towards Luc and without another word, fired his pistol at him.
Luc found himself on the ground, so shocked he couldn’t speak. His eyes were on Didier, who looked equally stunned.
‘Now, Didier,’ Kilian continued. ‘Are you ready to use that or are you a coward, like all the other French who let us take over your country?’ Luc couldn’t believe Kilian was baiting the boy.
‘Kilian, don’t!’ he tried, wincing from the sharp pain that now ripped through his torso. He wasn’t even sure where he was shot. He didn’t care.
Kilian wasn’t listening. ‘Just a bunch of cringing cowards. And now you’re letting the British and the Americans rescue you. You can’t even fire a gun when you’ve got—’
A shaking Didier pulled the trigger and Luc yelled in despair as Kilian dropped beside him. Immediately the group of youths ran off into the night, perhaps as shocked as he was.
Luc looked around frantically for help. There was none. The moon had gone behind a cloud and no one walking on the path might even see the two bodies on the ground.
Luc understood now that he’d been shot in the shoulder. There was blood and pain, but his mind was on Kilian. Would Lisette blame him? He dragged himself across the rough path to where Kilian lay silent.
‘Kilian. Kilian!’
‘Ah, but that hurts, doesn’t it?’ the colonel groaned.
‘Why did you do it?’ Luc demanded.
Kilian laughed weakly. ‘I’ve been wanting to shoo
t you since I saw photos of you kissing Lisette.’
Luc grimaced. ‘Well done.’
‘I’m a good shot. You’ll be fine. And it served its purpose.’
Luc did a quick scan of the colonel; in the ghostly moonlight the blood looked ominously dark. There was too much of it. Kilian was dying.
Luc pushed an angry hand through his hair, lost in frustration and increasing desperation. He had to find help. ‘You got yourself shot deliberately. We could have—’
‘Shut up, Ravensburg, and listen,’ Kilian ordered, breathing with difficulty now. ‘Let me say what I have to. I doubt there’s much time.’
Luc became quiet.
‘Everything’s easier this way. I don’t have to face being taken prisoner or going on trial …’ He sighed. ‘A bullet is so much cleaner and I have to tell you, Didier wasn’t a bad shot.’ He coughed. ‘I think it’s done the trick.’
‘Listen, Kilian … Markus—’
‘I said, be quiet. You’re going to have to love her for both of us, because heaven knows I don’t go to my death happy that she’s yours. But I know that she’s with the one she loves. She chose you.’ He winced, gave a groan. ‘I need you to …’ He began pawing at his pocket but his head fell back, exhausted from the effort of holding pain, shock and death at bay.
‘What?’ Luc said, putting his ear closer to the dying man’s mouth. He reached to where Kilian was gesturing and dug inside the blood-soaked jacket. He felt paper and realised it was an envelope, which he slid out.
Luc cradled Kilian’s head on his uninjured shoulder. They lay side by side, like mates – more like brothers, in truth, for they were so similar.
‘Already addressed,’ Kilian struggled to say. ‘Send it for me, when this is all done.’ He grabbed for Luc’s shirt front. ‘Promise me,’ he urged in a growl of pain, his pale eyes haunted in the low light.
‘I promise.’
‘Now, give me a final swig of that calvados. Let me die with the taste of someone I love on my lips.’
The Lavender Keeper Page 40
