by Kate Mosse
Raoul stirred and sat up, stretched.
‘Good morning.’ She smiled at him.
He rubbed his eyes, turned and looked straight at her. ‘Sandrine.’
‘I wish I had coffee to offer you, but . . .’
‘I know.’
‘We have tea?’
‘Thank you.’
Sandrine got up and ran into the house, resenting the time it took the kettle to reach the boil on the stove. She returned a few minutes later with a tray, a metal teapot and two cups. ‘I found some biscuits. They don’t look too bad.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Early still.’
He took a mouthful of tea. ‘This is the time of day I always like best,’ he said. ‘After I was demobbed, I lived down on the coast near Perpignan. We helped refugees, escapees, over the mountains up to the border. We left at three or four o’clock in the morning, when it was still dark, and used to get back to Banyuls-sur-Mer just as the sun was rising. The relief at not being caught, every time . . .’
‘I like this time of day too,’ she said. ‘No one about.’
Raoul put his cup down between his feet and took one of the cigarettes Suzanne had given him from his pocket. ‘It was generous of her to give me these,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘How come she has tobacco?’
‘She claims her father’s ration, I think. He doesn’t smoke.’
Sandrine took another mouthful of her tea. Thick with sugar, hot, after their long night of talking it tasted wonderful.
‘Why did you go to Banyuls in 1940, rather than coming back to Carcassonne?’
‘Bruno.’
Sandrine frowned. ‘But by then, wasn’t he . . .’
Raoul nodded. ‘Yes, he was killed two years before that. I’d been in Banyuls before, before the war broke out. I used to get these letters from Bruno, telling me what was going on. He was fighting for what he believed in, putting his life on the line. I wanted to be like him. Do you see?’
‘Yes.’ Sandrine nodded, knowing that if she’d been asked the same question a few days ago, she might have given a different answer.
‘So I threw in my studies and went to join him, December 1938. I knew there was a crossing point south of Banyuls-sur-Mer, on the coast, so I headed there. I went straight to a down-at-heel bar on the water-front, where I’d been told a guide would meet me and take me over the Pyrenees. I had fifty francs to pay for my passage, all the money I had in the world.’ He flicked the end of the cigarette down on to the paving stones. ‘I waited and waited, but the guide never came. Not that day, nor the day after. I heard nothing, got no explanation other than these things happened.’ He stopped, his eyes fixed on a distant point in the garden. ‘A week later, I heard that a unit of French and British Republican sympathisers had been ambushed, their route betrayed by their own side. Bruno was one of them. Their bodies were doused in petrol and set alight.’
Sandrine took his hand.
‘Photographs of the massacre were circulated as a warning and the names published,’ he said quietly. ‘I was in shock. I was eighteen, on my own, a long way from home. I drank all night and all the following day and into the next night, stumbling from bar to bar, until the money I’d got together to pay the passeur was spent. Christmas found me on the jetty at Banyuls contemplating the black winter sea.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I stood there for hours. The cold penetrated right down to my bones, but I barely noticed. Trying to be brave enough.’
Sandrine squeezed his fingers, encouraging him to keep going.
‘I wish I could say it was the thought of my mother, God even, anything. But, truthfully, I lacked the courage to jump.’
‘Perhaps it takes more courage not to,’ Sandrine said, pushing away the image of a world in which they had never met. ‘Harder to keep going.’
‘Perhaps.’ He gave a fleeting smile. ‘In the end, I think it was the idea that someone should pay for what had happened to Bruno. Revenge, I suppose. So I walked back to the bar and the proprietor’s wife took pity on me. Gave me coffee and rolls and a few francs to tide me over until I got back to Carcassonne. I didn’t want to come back, but I knew my mother would take Bruno’s death badly – he was always her favourite – and I thought I owed it to her to tell her myself, face to face.’
‘Did you mind that? It didn’t make you jealous of him?’
Raoul put his head on one side. ‘Not at all. I looked up to him too. Our father died when I was three – I have no memories of him at all. Bruno was the man of the house, he looked after us both. We relied on him.’ He sighed. ‘He was always so certain, so clear about right and wrong, whereas things never seemed so black and white to me. Not then, at any rate.’
Sandrine smiled, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t want him to stop talking.
‘I always intended to go back to Banyuls,’ he continued. ‘Stupid, but I felt close to Bruno there.’ He shook his head. ‘Then of course war broke out and I was called up. Caserne d’Iéna.’ He sighed. ‘Sunday the third of September. It was so hot that day.’
Sandrine nodded. ‘Yes. Marianne and I went to see Papa off. We stood out on the parade ground for hours with the sun beating down on the back of our necks. Then, after all the buses had gone, we went to Place Carnot to listen to the news from L’Indépendant being broadcast over the loudspeakers. About how the Maginot Line would keep France safe. I believed it. It didn’t occur to me that Papa would . . .’
She broke off.
‘You miss him a great deal,’ he said softly, turning her hand over in his and kissing her palm.
She sighed. ‘Not all the time, but then something will happen and I’ll think to myself that I must tell him, then I remember.’
They sat in silence for a moment, until Sandrine released her hand and took another sip of her tea. ‘What happened to you then?’
‘We sat in barracks for what seemed like months. What I remember most about the drôle de guerre is the boredom. Being confined to quarters, the daily drill and pointless kit and weapon inspections. We spent most of our time playing football and cards. The farmers in my unit were more worried about the harvest and their crops than German bullets.’
‘It was the topic of conversation here too. That autumn, everyone joined in with the vendanges. Even the Spanish refugees from the camps at Couiza and Bram were allowed out to help.’
‘When finally we were sent north, we found ourselves in this strange deserted land. Walking through the villages, all evacuated, desolate, abandoned to the animals. Cows and pigs and goats wandering through deserted streets. Everyone had gone, been sent away. The only sound was the distant wail of sirens, the sound of the Stukas in the sky.’
They both fell silent, the ghosts of their past close to them in the early morning light. There was so much more Sandrine wanted to hear and to tell him, but she could feel the intimacy of the dawn was already melting away. The sky was turning from white to the glorious blue of summer. The outlines of the trees and rooftops beyond the garden were stronger, clearer.
The easy atmosphere between them changed. There was no more time for reminiscence and stories.
Beyond the walls of the garden, the bells of Saint-Michel began to ring for six o’clock.
Raoul sighed. ‘I have to go.’
‘I know.’
He didn’t move.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said, jumping up. ‘There’s something I want you to have.’
She vanished into the house, reappearing a few minutes later with a brown trilby and a light summer jacket.
‘Your father’s?’
She nodded. ‘He wouldn’t mind,’ she said, helping him into the jacket. ‘There. It’s a good fit.’
He touched her cheek with his hand. ‘If you’re sure.’ He sighed again. ‘This is it, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Say goodbye to Lucie and Suzanne. And thank your sister for me.’ Raoul grinned. ‘Does it often end up like that here? Everybody getting tight then sleeping it off in
the salon?’
Sandrine smiled back. ‘No. Last night was unusual. Lucie only stayed because Max was spending the evening with his sister, so she was at a loose end. As for Suzanne, she’s a law unto herself.’
‘I like her. Straightforward. You could rely on her.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, remembering how Suzanne had come to her rescue with Monsieur Fournier. ‘Lucie’s fun, though.’
‘Yes, she seems nice.’ His face clouded over, as if he was struggling to find the right words.
‘What is it?’ she said quickly.
‘It’s . . .’ Raoul paused. ‘Get Marianne to talk to you.’
Sandrine laughed. ‘We’re always talking, what do you mean? We never stop.’ Then she looked at his expression and saw he was serious. The smile slipped from her face. ‘Talk to me about what?’
Raoul took her hand. ‘Just talk to her.’
Behind them, a rattle of pans in the kitchen.
‘Someone’s already up,’ he said. ‘I must go.’
‘It’s only Marieta.’
‘Even so.’
Sandrine stood on tiptoe to straighten his collar, then stepped back again.
‘Where will you go?’ she said quietly. ‘Back to Banyuls?’
‘Maybe. Anywhere, as far away from Carcassonne and Laval as I can manage.’
‘Until it’s blown over.’
Raoul sighed. ‘It’s not going to blow over,’ he said. ‘There’s a murder charge against me. That won’t go away.’
Sandrine didn’t know for sure what she was going to say until she’d said it, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she knew Marianne would be furious. But she didn’t care.
‘If you’re stuck or need somewhere to stay in an emergency, you could go to our house in Coustaussa.’
‘No,’ he objected immediately, as she’d known he would. ‘No question of it. You’ve done more than enough already. I’ve put you at risk simply by being here. I’m not going to do it again.’
Sandrine continued as if he’d not spoken. ‘The house is standing empty. It’s out of the way. People mind their own business in the valley.’
‘No,’ he said forcefully.
‘Once you’re in Coustaussa, coming from Couiza, head through the village towards the back road towards Cassaignes. It’s a stone house, three steps up to the front door, yellow paintwork. Everyone knows it. Wooden sign outside – CITADELLE – though it came down in the storms a couple of years ago and I’m not sure it was ever put back up. There’s a key under the geranium pot on the terrace at the back.’
‘Sandrine, enough,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders.
‘Just consider it.’
He placed a kiss on her forehead, then drew her close against him. Sandrine threw her arms around his waist, holding on tight as if her life depended on it.
‘You’re shivering,’ he said.
‘I’m cold, don’t know why,’ she whispered.
They stood there for a short while, greedy for even a few seconds more. Bound together, not speaking, just feeling the beat of one another’s heart through the thin cotton of their clothes.
Then he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face to his and slowly, sweetly, began to kiss her. She felt heat rushing through her, desire lightening every artery and vein and muscle, every tiny nerve ending.
Then, the unremitting and unwelcome sound of Saint-Michel striking the quarter. Raoul stepped back.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, though he was trying to smile. ‘Whatever happens in the days, weeks ahead, the time I’ve spent with—’
Sandrine couldn’t bear it. ‘Don’t,’ she said quickly, with a catch in her voice. ‘Please, don’t say anything more. Don’t.’
He nodded, understanding. The stolen seconds stretched into minutes. Finally, Sandrine dropped his hand.
‘Go,’ she said, amazed her voice sounded so steady, so determined, when she felt she was breaking into a thousand pieces.
‘You’ll be all right?’ he asked.
Sandrine nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched as he swung his rucksack on to his shoulder, adjusted the straps over the borrowed jacket, straightened the hat.
‘This is it then.’
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘through the village. The last house.’
She painted a smile on her face and Raoul did the same, though she could see he was struggling too.
Then he was walking away. Down the steps and across the garden and out through the gate, away from her and into the Bastide.
For a moment, Sandrine stood motionless, still feeling the echo of his hands on her skin. Then, dizzy with desire and the lack of sleep, she sat back on the bench, put her head in her hands and wept.
Chapter 39
‘Sanchez.’
César spun round at the sound of his name to see Sylvère Laval stepping out from beside the loading sheds in the station sidings. Like César, he was in the same clothes as yesterday, though he had a beret pulled low on his head.
‘Christ, Laval,’ Sanchez hissed, ‘what the hell do you think you’re playing at, sneaking up like that?’
Laval shrugged an apology.
‘What’re you doing here anyway?’
‘Same as you, I imagine. Waiting for the first train out. Safer up here than down in the station, less chance of being seen. The town’s crawling with flics.’
‘There are roadblocks everywhere. Checking papers.’
‘Not so bad this morning, though.’
‘Let’s at least wait inside,’ César said, still irritable Laval had made him jump.
Laval pulled open the large sliding doors a fraction, just enough for them both to slip through. César found a couple of packing crates and they both sat down.
‘There’s a train due at seven thirty,’ he said.
‘So I heard.’ Laval got out his cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’
César noticed the packet was full, even though he’d had no cigarettes yesterday morning, and wondered where Laval had got new supplies. He accepted anyway. Black market or not, they’d taste the same. He cupped his hand round the match, drew hard on the cigarette, then sat back and waited for the nicotine to hit the back of his throat.
‘They didn’t get you either?’
‘I was lucky,’ Laval said. ‘You too, by the look of it.’
César shook his head. ‘I was arrested, but they let me go.’
Laval narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t honestly know,’ he said. Truthfully, it had been preying on his mind all night. One minute he was in the holding cells with the other prisoners, the next he was being frogmarched out of the station and thrown out on to the street. The officer who’d released him didn’t look like he’d known what was going on either. It didn’t make sense, though César wasn’t about to complain.
‘Couldn’t make anything stick, I suppose. There was no evidence I’d done anything other than attend the demonstration.’
‘You and a couple of thousand others.’
César nodded. Maybe that was all there was to it. ‘They got the Bonnets, though. They both had a stack of the tracts left. Last I saw, they were being put in a prison van.’
‘Is that so?’
There was something about Laval’s tone that snagged César’s attention. He stared at the other man, trying – failing – to decipher the look on his face. He didn’t think it was fear or concern for his own skin. If anything, Laval seemed less on edge than usual.
‘What about Coursan?’ César asked. ‘Any news of him?’
Laval shook his head. ‘No, but they’ve been putting bulletins out for Pelletier all night. They think he set the bomb off.’ He paused. ‘What do you think, Sanchez? Do you reckon he’s capable of doing such a thing? A kid died . . .’
César looked at him. ‘Not a chance. The town was crowded, civilians everywhere. Raoul wouldn’t put innocent people at ri
sk.’
‘Not even to make a point . . .?’
‘No.’
‘He was in the International Brigade,’ Laval said. ‘Ends justify the means and all that.’
‘His brother was. Not Raoul.’
‘You were too,’ Laval said mildly. ‘Do you know where Pelletier is?’
César’s head snapped up. ‘No, why would I?’
Laval shrugged. ‘You’re friends. Natural he’d turn to you if he needed somewhere to stay.’
‘He’s not stupid,’ César said. ‘He’ll be long gone.’
The noise of a car straining up the hill towards the cimetière Saint-Vincent caught their attention. Both men immediately stopped talking, even though there was no way anyone would hear them.
‘You did a good job with the leaflets,’ Laval said, when the sound of the engine had faded away. ‘Must have been difficult finding somewhere to print them.’
‘Not really,’ César replied. ‘Owner’s never there.’
‘I heard Robert Bonnet’s been helping you,’ said Laval. ‘That right?’
‘No,’ César said abruptly. ‘Don’t know where you heard that. All my own work.’ He was unnerved by Laval’s unswerving gaze. Like a snake about to strike. ‘All my own work,’ he repeated.
He felt a prickling on his skin, realised his heart was racing. He glanced at the sliding doors, only now noticing Laval had pulled them shut after them.
‘It’s stupid us being together,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m going to head down to the station. Take my chances.’
Laval also stood up. César tensed, he couldn’t help himself.
‘Where did you spend last night, Sanchez?’
‘Here,’ he said. He glanced again to the door, judging the distance.
‘Not in Déjean’s apartment?’
César turned cold. How could Laval possibly know he’d been there? He couldn’t, surely, not unless he’d followed him. But that would have meant following him from the police station, and how would he know he’d been released?
