by Kate Mosse
‘You’ve been helping them too,’ she said.
Marianne’s eyes flicked up. ‘You knew? But you never said anything.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘No, not until now.’ She paused. ‘Just you?’
‘Suzanne too.’
‘Not Lucie?’
A smile flickered across Marianne’s lips. ‘She only cares about Max, nothing else matters. She hopes if she closes her eyes to what’s happening, it will go away.’
‘Max doesn’t know?’
‘Nobody else knows,’ Marianne replied.
‘Not even Marieta?’
Marianne hesitated. ‘I’m sure she does, but she acts as if she doesn’t. She clears things away, things that get forgotten.’
‘I found a man’s razor in the bathroom once. It wasn’t Papa’s.’
Marianne smiled. ‘Marieta carries on in her usual way. Posts letters for me, drops things off if I ask her. I try not to call upon her too much.’ She shrugged. ‘And I go along with her pretending she doesn’t know. It’s safer that way.’
Sandrine’s head was spinning as she tried to take everything in. A snapshot of so many tiny incidents, none of them big enough to have drawn her attention at the time, but now combining to make a clearer picture.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked quietly. ‘Didn’t you trust me?’
Marianne sighed. ‘I wanted to, but I didn’t want to put you at risk, and besides . . .’
‘. . . you were worried I’d let something out.’ Sandrine finished the sentence for her.
Marianne nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, holding her gaze. ‘I’m sorry. Can you understand?’
Strangely, Sandrine realised she did. A few days ago, she would have lost her temper or sulked or argued. Not now. After a night of talking with Raoul, listening to what he had done, how he had been forced to live, she thought she did understand.
‘I feel such an idiot. Not noticing.’
‘I did my best to make sure you didn’t notice anything. That you could carry on as usual.’
Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘Why are you telling me now?’ she asked. ‘Simply because of Raoul?’
Marianne shook her head. ‘I’d decided to tell you anyway,’ she said. ‘I was just waiting for the right moment. The way you marched into the police station – although I was cross with you about that too – the way you coped with what happened at the river. Then at the cathedral yesterday . . .’ She shrugged. ‘You held your nerve, you didn’t make a fuss. You were a help and it made me realise that . . .’
‘. . . I’d grown up.’
Marianne smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but I suppose so, yes.’
Despite her exhaustion and all the complicated emotions battling inside her head, Sandrine felt a shot of pride.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
She sat in silence for a moment, letting her sister’s words take root in her mind. Looking back on everything that had happened, trying to make it fit. Finally putting two and two together.
‘The people you work with,’ she said after a while, ‘do you know who they are?’
‘No, we never meet. No one knows anyone except their immediate contact. It’s safest. That way, if we were caught, we couldn’t give much away.’
Sandrine felt sick as the reality of the risks Marianne and Suzanne had been taking started to sink in.
‘That’s what made Raoul suspicious,’ her sister continued. ‘He mentioned César Sanchez and Suzanne reacted. He noticed. Sanchez is a good friend of hers too – that’s where she’s gone now, to see if she can find out what’s happened to him.’
Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘How long have you been . . . helping?’
‘I can’t even remember quite how it started. Right at the beginning, the autumn of 1939 and the following spring, there were lots of German émigrés and Jewish dissidents, a few members of the Dutch Resistance, all trying to get out of France this way. We had plenty of space here.’ She shrugged. ‘Suzanne asked me if I could help from time to time, and it seemed such a small thing to do, to give someone a bed for the night. After we surrendered and the North was occupied, things changed. I volunteered for the Croix-Rouge, helped in that way instead.’ She paused. ‘But things have been getting worse. In January this year, the last few of my Jewish pupils simply disappeared from class. One day they were there, the next they’d gone and no one could – would – tell me what had happened to them. I was appalled and said as much to Suzanne, who admitted she was running a few errands for the Resistance – that’s how they put it – so I decided to do the same.’
‘When you say errands, what do you mean?’
‘Delivering papers mostly. False documents, sauf-conduits, identity cards, ration books, coupons. Dropping off leaflets to collection points – boîtes aux lettres – for someone else to pick up and distribute, all sorts.’
‘In Carcassonne?’
Marianne smiled. ‘Yes, darling. There are several places in the Bastide, in the Cité too.’
‘Why don’t people stay here any more?’
‘As I said, fewer people come through Carcassonne. But mostly since Madame Fournier moved in next door to keep house for her brother. She’s always snooping, reports everything to him.’
‘He’s a vile man,’ Sandrine said, remembering how he had spoken to her and Suzanne.
‘Worse, he’s dangerous. He’s an informer.’
‘Oh.’
Marianne let her shoulders drop, clearly relieved that the secret was out in the open. Sandrine had a hundred questions racing around her head, but her sister had stood up.
‘You have to forget I ever told you any of this. I mean it. Say nothing, don’t think about it. Don’t bring it up, even with Suzanne.’
‘I won’t.’
Marianne opened the door to the corridor. ‘I’m going to check on Lucie, she was awfully sick in the night. Then I am due to go to the station. To meet other Red Cross volunteers.’ She paused. ‘You can come with me if you want.’
Sandrine looked up. ‘You mean it?’
‘If you do precisely what I tell you, then yes. Why not? But we have to go in ten minutes. I won’t wait if you’re not ready.’
‘Marianne . . .’
Her sister turned again. ‘What is it?’
‘I just want to say . . . I’m proud of you,’ she said in a rush, feeling ridiculous to be saying such things to her older sister. ‘Proud of you for being so brave, for standing up for—’
Marianne shook her head. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not brave. I hate it, I hate it all. But there’s no choice.’
Chapter 43
‘Where the hell have you been?’ demanded Authié.
Laval stood with his hands in front of him. ‘Interviewing Blum.’
‘All night?’
‘And then Sanchez, sir, as per your orders.’
Authié raised his head, noting Laval was back in civilian clothes. He waved his hand impatiently for him to continue.
‘Well, does Blum know where Pelletier is?’
‘I believe not, sir.’
Authié drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Did he admit he was at the river?’
‘Eventually, yes, he did. He says he doesn’t know the girl’s name, though he admits he saw her. That could be true, but I think we’ll learn more from the Ménard girl in any case. Blum was more concerned about protecting her than anything else.’
‘What have you done with him?’
‘On the list to be deported today.’
‘Le Vernet?’
‘In the first instance, yes.’
Authié nodded again. ‘What else?’
‘After the wireless bulletins, the switchboard took a dozen calls from people claiming to have seen Pelletier – in Narbonne, in Toulouse, in Perpignan – but nothing credible. We had a permanent watch at the station and patrols checking bars, restaurants, churches and the cinema, anywhere he might have been hiding. There was a lot of trouble
last night – looting, broken windows – so there were plenty of police on the streets, but no one matching Pelletier’s description. However, now the posters are ready to be put up, it will be harder for him to evade notice.’
‘If he’s still in Carcassonne,’ Authié interrupted, ‘which I doubt. What about Sanchez?’
Laval flushed at Authié’s peremptory tone, but he kept his irritation hidden.
‘Sanchez was released at midnight. He went to Pelletier’s apartment on the Quai Riquet, was there for no more than a couple of minutes, then went to Déjean’s apartment, where he spent the night. At approximately five o’clock this morning, he made his way to the sidings on the far side of the railway station. I approached him. He said he didn’t know where Pelletier was and claimed to know nothing about what – if anything – he might have found at Déjean’s apartment.’
‘Nothing about the key?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So that’s it, Laval? In twelve hours you’ve learnt precisely nothing.’
Laval didn’t answer. Authié pulled out a cigarette and tapped it on the packet, then lit it. ‘Where’s Sanchez now?’
‘No loose ends, you said.’
Authié stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Laval? Are you telling me he’s dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He dropped the matches back on the desk. ‘You killed him?’
‘To prevent him talking.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you say so sooner?’
‘I was answering your questions. You asked me about Blum.’
‘Sanchez’s death can’t be traced back here?’
‘It will be written up as a knife fight, communists brawling amongst themselves. There’re a lot of Spanish workers in the quartier de la Gare.’
Authié smoked half the cigarette in silence, then flicked the remainder out of the window. He watched it drop to the pavement below, then turned back to face the room.
‘For your sake, Laval, you’d better be right.’
Authié went back to his desk and opened the top drawer.
‘Is my transport into the zone occupée arranged?’
‘The car will be here at midday, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘How long will you be gone?’
Authié shot him a sharp look. ‘What business is it of yours, Laval?’
‘I only wanted to be sure of my orders in your absence.’
‘You know what I want you to do. I want to know what Pelletier found in Déjean’s apartment.’
For an instant Authié saw the dislike in Laval’s eyes, but then the shutters came down again.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said in a dead voice. ‘Do you want me to keep a watch on Bauer and operations in Tarascon as well?’
Authié hesitated. He did want to know what Bauer was doing, but over the past few days Laval had made mistakes. This situation required subtlety.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on finding Pelletier.’
Chapter 44
ROULLENS
Once the patrol had passed, Raoul climbed out of the deep ditch where he’d concealed himself. Every siren, every green flash of a panier à salade, set his pulse racing. By this time, he had no doubt, posters with his face slapped on them would be plastered all over Carcassonne, denouncing him as a murderer, a fugitive. His situation was desperate. If the police caught him, he knew they’d shoot on sight. He glanced along the route de Limoux in both directions. Only when he was sure the road was empty, did he emerge and carry on walking. The hope he’d felt when he was with Sandrine had gone. Now, he felt hunted.
Raoul had taken an indirect route west out of Carcassonne, doubling back on himself so if anyone did report seeing him, it would be hard for Laval to pinpoint precisely where he was heading. His destination was the village of Roullens, some seven kilometres to the south-west of the town. One of Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade, Ramón, had family there and Raoul was hoping they’d let him stay for a night or two. He was gambling that Laval – and Coursan – would expect him to try to get as far as possible, as quickly as possible. By staying closer to Carcassonne, Raoul hoped to buy himself a little time while he worked out what the hell he was going to do in the long run. He had no idea if the plan would work, but he couldn’t think of a better one.
The pretty country road to Roullens was deserted, but birdsong filled the air and the sun was warm on his face. Raoul passed the beautiful and imposing Château de Baudrigues, its tranquil green parkland and elegant white façade glimpsed through the trees a welcome sight after the tense grey streets of Carcassonne. For a moment, he was tempted to go into the domaine. Sleep for an hour or two in the deep shade of the woods. But he had a memory Baudrigues had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war, and he didn’t know if it was still in use or had been handed back to the owners. There was no sense taking the risk.
Raoul kept walking. He wondered if Sandrine was thinking of him as he was thinking of her. He remembered her tumbling black hair, the feel of it between his fingers, and her bright, sharp eyes. He wondered if she had spoken to her sister, and if she had, what had been said. He hated that every step was taking him one step further away from the rue du Palais. Most of all, he hated the fact that with a murder charge hanging over him, he would never be able to go back.
Behind him on the road, he heard an engine. His thoughts scattered and he immediately stepped out of sight, watching as the vehicle came into view. When it was closer, he could see it was a blue Simca truck. Local, not military, he thought. A safe bet. Hoping he was right, Raoul stepped back out on to the road and raised his arm.
Chapter 45
CARCASSONNE
Leo Authié faced the west door of the cathédrale Saint-Michel and ran his hand over the battered stonework. He was pleased to see the damage wasn’t too extensive. At least, Laval had carried out those orders effectively.
He went inside. Although there was evidence of the explosion, in the layer of white dust that covered the hymnals and votive candles for sale on the table, the calm and tranquillity of the cathedral was unaffected.
Authié dipped his finger into the bénitier of holy water and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. For a moment, he allowed the burden of his responsibilities to lift. Here, he felt certain of his mission. Here, everything was unequivocal. Absolute.
‘The cathedral’s closed.’
Authié looked in the direction of the voice and saw a charwoman mopping the flagstone tiles. He ignored her and walked up the nave, pausing only to make obeisance, then strode to the confessional.
‘Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?’ she called after him.
Authié walked round to the far side, pulled back the curtain and peered inside. It was empty.
‘Where’s the priest?’ he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous stone spaces.
‘I told you, the cathedral’s closed. Come back on Sunday.’
Authié walked back towards her, sharp heels, sharp eyes. She held her ground.
‘Get out,’ he said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you to talk to me like that?’ she said. ‘See the mess they’ve made? I’ve got to get things straight.’
Authié put his hand to his breast pocket and produced his identification.
‘Do as you’re told.’
The char peered at the card, and Authié saw her knuckles tighten on the handle of the mop. Without another word she picked up her pail and walked back towards the small room behind the choir.
Authié stepped into the pew third from the front on the left-hand side. As he waited, he let his gaze move over each of the high side chapels in turn. He looked at the soaring stained-glass windows dedicated to St Bernard and St Benedict and at the unlit thick tallow candles on the high altar. All of it spoke of the magnificence of grace, the power of God.
The bells in the tower struck the half-hour. He glanced behind him, but the west door remained firmly closed. The car to t
ake him north was ordered for midday.
His thoughts returned to Erik Bauer. Authié knew Bauer had no interest in the Codex other than to placate his masters in Berlin. The ambitions of the Reich were writ large in its headlong acquisition of everything and anything.
Authié considered the Nazi attempts to extirpate God from civil life both childish and pointless. He believed in a theocracy. His mission was to re-establish God at the heart of daily life. The absolute rule of religious law and obedience to the Church. His God was the God of the Old Testament, a God of judgement and wrath and punishment for those who transgressed the laws. Not a God of light or tolerance or one who postulated the equality of all men.
He believed the time was at hand for Europe to return to Christian rule. A new crusade against the Jews and the Moslems, any who refused to accept the one true faith. Those who had turned their faces away, as well as those who supported them. Authié had ensured that clerics of his rigorous persuasion were appointed to the key positions in the diocese, although he’d not yet been able to get rid of Abbé Gau. He’d made it impossible for Jewish businesses to continue to thrive, made sure that the schools of Moslem learning were shut down. He had done everything he could to turn the local population against anyone not prepared to return to the waiting arms of the Church.
To start with, his strategy had worked. The majority of Carcassonnais were inclined to put their trust in Pétain. They disliked Hitler and his Nazi party, but they wanted their sons, their husbands, their brothers returned from German POW camps and so were prepared to see Vichy work with Berlin to achieve that.
But signs were that ordinary citizens were becoming impatient. As the stringencies of rationing had begun to bite and fewer POWs than promised had been repatriated to France, views were changing. The endless queues and checkpoints, the lack of freedom to travel over the line or communicate with relatives in the north: citizens were starting to criticise and question whether the ‘voie de collaboration’ was working to their advantage. The churches were still empty and time was running out. Authié knew the status quo would not hold for very much longer.
