Cry of the Heart
Page 25
‘Any pretty nurses?’ Mundt asked.
The doctor gave him a look of contempt and turned on his heel.
‘This won’t do,’ Mundt said as he looked in at Weiser the following evening.
The colonel was sitting up in bed in the tiny bedroom behind his office. The bed was small and looked uncomfortable. Although his orderly had rigged up a table so he could work, it proved inadequate for the task. The other problem was that there was no heating and the window was loose, allowing a chill wind to surge around the room. Normally it would not matter but Weiser was shivering from the cold.
‘I’m going to have to move you,’ Mundt said.
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘No it’s not. And the French doctor agrees. I spoke to him on the telephone.’
‘I’m not going back to the hospital.’
‘Of course not. But I’ve sent people out to look for somewhere you can convalesce and work in peace.’ He glanced at the paper in his hand. ‘They think they’ve found somewhere suitable. It’s called Villa Laurel. It’s owned by a wealthy American woman. Apparently, she’s still living a pretty good life there. I’ve told her you’re moving in today.’
Weiser started to argue but thought better of it. To be honest, the last few hours had been hell. The room was too small, the bed as hard as iron and the food inedible. He deserved a bit of comfort, he decided.
‘And is the American amenable?’ he asked.
Mundt laughed. ‘Of course she isn’t. But what choice does she have?’
Dorothy glared at Weiser as he approached in a wheelchair. His orderly had wanted him to be stretchered in but he was having none of that. Not in front of an American woman.
‘You must be Colonel Weiser,’ she said as he approached.
‘I am,’ he said in passable English. He held out a hand. ‘And you are Mrs Pine?’
Her eyes narrowed and she did not take his hand. ‘And you’re going to take over my home? For how long? If it’s not a rude question?’
‘Not rude at all, Mrs Pine.’ He glanced at Mundt.
‘The doctor says six months for Oberst Weiser to make a full recovery.’
Dorothy looked aghast. ‘And he’s going to stay that long?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Weiser said. ‘I plan to leave well before that.’
‘If the Oberst is fit enough,’ Mundt said.
‘And who are you?’ Dorothy said. ‘His doctor? You don’t look like a doctor.’
‘I am Major Mundt, Oberst Weiser’s adjutant. And I shall be staying in the villa as well.’
‘Heaven help me,’ Dorothy said, raising her eyebrows as far as they could go. ‘You’d better come in then, Colonel, Oberst, or whatever you want to call yourself.’
Weiser smiled and gave a polite nod of his head.
‘My title is Oberst in German,’ Weiser said. ‘But you may call me Colonel if you prefer.’
Dorothy pointed out the morning room down the hall. ‘That’s your bedroom. I was told you couldn’t manage the stairs.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you at all.’
‘Sure you have. But I haven’t exactly got any choice over the matter.’
Weiser inclined his head in a gesture of apology.
‘None whatsoever,’ said Mundt.
‘And I hadn’t figured on your bosom buddy coming along to hold your hand,’ she said, glaring at Mundt. ‘I’ll have the servants find him a room.’
‘I would prefer it to be close to the Oberst,’ Mundt said.
‘You’ll get what we can find.’ She pointed to a door next to Weiser’s room. ‘Unless you’re happy sleeping in the broom-cupboard.’
‘Somewhere upstairs will be acceptable,’ Mundt said, coldly.
Dorothy nodded. ‘And I don’t want a pack of soldiers trooping around my home and gardens,’ she said.
‘There will just be a few guards,’ Weiser said. ‘They will bivouac in the far end of the garden.’
Dorothy was not mollified by this but gave a curt nod of agreement before heading for the kitchen, yelling for Marie.
Weiser and Mundt went into the morning room. It was rectangular in shape with high ceilings. There was a large window looking east and a patio door leading to the garden.
‘I’m not happy about that,’ Mundt said, pointing to the door. ‘Partisans could get in through there. We’ll have to board it up.’
Weiser shrugged. He would have preferred not to have done this but did not argue because Mundt, as his adjutant, had responsibility for his security.
‘I’ll make sure it can be made good when we leave,’ Mundt said. He gave a chuckle. ‘I’m not sure I would want to cross Frau Pine too much.’
The room contained a small bed with soft pillows and a thick patchwork quilt. It looked warm and inviting, far better than anything Weiser had slept on since he had last been home, three years before. There was a bedside cupboard beside the bed with a candle stick. At the foot of the bed was a small table which was to serve as a desk. A straight-backed chair stood beside it. Someone had clearly gone to some trouble to make him comfortable.
An armchair was set against the narrow wall, facing towards the patio door and giving a lovely view of the garden. A small cupboard had been cleared of various items, ready for Weiser’s clothes and other effects. These were in a case which one of the soldiers had dropped in the centre of the floor.
Mundt summoned Weiser’s orderly. ‘This room is suitable?’ the man asked when he arrived. He scrutinised the door doubtfully.
‘Yes,’ Mundt said. ‘Put away the colonel’s clothes.’
Weiser sank into the armchair with a sigh of relief and stared out at the garden. ‘This is a lovely view,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I want it boarded up.’ He glanced at Mundt. ‘There will be guards, presumably? In the gardens. And the bed is out of the line of fire.’
Mundt went to the door and squinted towards the bed. ‘I suppose you’ll have to die sometime,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘It might as well be here as on a battlefield.’
Weiser laughed and watched as the orderly put away his clothes. He pulled his Luger out of its holster and placed it on a side table. He had not expected to find such a haven of peace. It was almost worth having a broken leg.
Marie knocked on the door. ‘Your room is ready, Monsieur,’ she said to Mundt.
‘Go and take a look,’ Weiser said. ‘Then we’ll have some schnapps and consider what to do about the Gestapo.’
Mundt followed Marie. She was a pretty little thing, he thought, as he followed her up the stairs. Nice figure, nice backside.
He expected to be led to one of the rooms on the second floor but she made for a second, smaller flight of stairs and led him up to a third floor in the roof.
‘The servants’ quarters,’ she explained.
‘And you are a servant?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then we shall be neighbours.’
Marie did not look the least bit concerned at his words which intrigued him a little. She pointed out his room. He glanced inside. It was tiny, with a window he could only look out of when standing. There was a small bed with a couple of blankets folded up on the old mattress. A table and chair were behind the door.
‘Wonderful,’ Mundt said, his voice thick with sarcasm. ‘Can I trouble you to make my bed.’
Marie gave a curt nod and bent to her task.
Mundt watched her for a moment before heading for the stairs.
‘A good room?’ Weiser asked.
‘It has walls and a ceiling,’ Mundt said with a sigh.
‘You wanted to come with me,’ Weiser said with little sympathy. ‘You could always return to the barracks.’
‘Not for a while. Not while you’re so infirm. It would be like leaving my grandfather to fend for himself.’
Weiser smiled and indicated a bottle of schnapps. Mundt picked up the bottle and then glanced around. ‘There’s no glasses.’
He went back inside and glanced at his friend.
‘Still seething over those Gestapo swine?’
Weiser nodded. ‘They treat us with such contempt. And they are fools, as well. They are so blinded by their fanaticism they cannot see the perils they create. It will encourage the populace to be difficult. They’re as bad as the SS.’
‘Careful, Ernst. Walls have ears. And besides, since when has anybody in any country lifted a finger to help the Jews? Even the British and Americans made it difficult for them to emigrate there before the war. And Laval and his mob worked like demons to rid France of them.’
‘Not everyone is like that,’ Weiser said. ‘Some are sympathetic to the Jews and do all they can to help them. I think it is folly to attack them like this. Cruel folly. The country will rise up against us, sooner or later.’
He glanced up suddenly. Viviane was standing in the doorway with two glasses in her hand. She looked thoughtful, almost perplexed.
‘You wanted some glasses,’ she said, holding them out.
Mundt eyed her appreciatively. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘For our schnapps. Put them on the table. And leave the door open.’
She did as she was ordered, gave Weiser a little bow and then left the room.
‘A pretty woman,’ Weiser said, almost to himself. ‘And well-mannered.’
He watched her as she disappeared, while Mundt poured the schnapps.
THE HUNTER AND THE PREY
Grasse, 2 December 1943
The day broke in a riot of colour. The sky was azure blue with fingers of flame on the eastern horizon. The sun was a pale yellow but was growing in power with every second. It looked more like a June day than a December one.
A flock of geese sped past in a vee-shaped formation. Gerard followed their flight. He thought, this is how the skies of England must have looked in the Battle of Britain. Except instead of geese there would have been Messerschmitts and Spitfires.
As he had done every day for the past two weeks he slipped into Viviane and Alain’s house. There was still no sign of them.
He was less nervous of being found here now. For the past week he had found himself following the same routine. He had been amazed the first time he did it, self-aware and embarrassed on the second and third occasions. Now he could not stop himself.
He went up to the bedroom and pulled back the sheets on the bed. He lay down upon it, where Viviane would have slept. He closed his eyes and her image wafted like mist into his mind, solidifying into a shape which leaned over him with tender gaze. Close, so very close. He gasped as she untied her hair, shook it free over her shoulders and began to unbutton her blouse.
He allowed himself to stay like this for a little while then got up and walked down the stairs. He went to the kitchen and poured some water into the sink. This is what she must have done every morning, poured water in the sink to wash herself, before she set about her daily tasks, feeding the family, cleaning the house, making coffee, sipping it slowly as she pondered the future.
He stepped into the courtyard and gazed at the tin bath hanging from the wall. She would use this once a week, perhaps even twice, filled with hot water from a pan on the stove. She would sit in a cloud of steam in the middle of the kitchen, humming to herself perhaps. He imagined her curves, saw her soap herself gently, saw her bend her head to wash her hair.
He returned to the kitchen, ran his fingers along the table, pulled open a drawer and straightened the knives and forks and spoons. Would she have done this, he wondered. Was she fastidious in this matter or slapdash? It pained him suddenly that he did not know.
He strolled into the front room. Here was her favourite chair, a low, comfortable one, with a throw her grandmother had made over the back. Alain’s chair was harder, made of leather, stained and cracked by the years. Celeste favoured a little stool which doubled in her games as a pony, a Princess’s throne or a motorbike like her father owned. Another stool was close by, presumably the one for the little boy.
He touched the back of Viviane’s chair, stroked it gently. Then he went and sat in Alain’s chair. Except if things worked out as he hoped, it would be his chair, and Viviane his wife.
He closed his eyes.
The pain was too much to bear. He missed her dreadfully. Yet he missed Alain as well. He felt guilty about what he was doing, what he was thinking. But he could no more stop himself than kill the breath in his throat.
Wearily he climbed to his feet. Another day beckoned, of knocking on doors and laying hints with passers-by. It was getting more difficult with each day. The townspeople seemed ever more reluctant to talk to each other. And with him it was worse still.
Once they would have viewed him as familiar old Gerard. Now he was Gerard of the Milice. The only people willing to speak to him were those who were keen to betray their enemies. And there seemed fewer and fewer enemies to betray. He had been too effective in this matter, it seemed.
He left the house and wandered aimlessly along the streets. He patted his pockets, searching in vain for a pack of cigarettes. He turned left at the next alley, came out in the Place aux Herbes and headed for Café Terminus. It was almost empty inside, although there was a thick pall of smoke from the three or four old men sitting alone at tables. Maxime Blois was wiping one of the tables but the ash dropping from his cigarette undid most of his toil.
He went to the counter and nodded at Isabelle Blois. ‘A beer and a packet of cigarettes. Gauloises, if you have them.’
She stared at him coldly then flung a packet on the counter. ‘I’ll bring the beer over,’ she said. He decided to ignore her discourtesy.
He sat at a table near the door. He considered himself a smoker rather than a drinker so he was mildly surprised that he had ordered a beer so early in the morning. His mother had got up before dawn as usual to prepare him breakfast. These were much better since he had joined the Milice. Monsieur Blanche refused to give them any special treatment but his rival baker Madame Pichot set aside a fresh baguette for his mother every morning.
It was the same in the rest of the town, his mother said. In half the shops she was treated the same as everyone else. In some she was given better food and more of it. A few refused to even serve her. Gerard had pressed her for the names of these last but she refused to tell him. The war would not continue for ever, she reasoned, and she would have to live with these people after it ended.
Isabelle Blois flung a beer mat on the table and plonked the glass on top of it. She gave him a cold look. She was well aware that she treated the German soldiers better than she treated the members of the Milice. The Germans were merely the enemy. The men of the Milice were traitors to France.
‘Keeping yourself busy, Gerard?’ she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
Gerard sipped at his beer. ‘Upholding the law, if that’s what you mean.’ He was surprised at his own response. In the past he would have been tongue-tied in front of her. Now he thought he sounded authoritative and determined.
‘Playing at soldiers,’ she sneered. ‘I’ve a good mind to go and tell your mother about it.’
‘Maman knows what I do,’ he said. Her goading was beginning to make him angry.
‘I bet she doesn’t, little man. Not everything at any rate.’ She strode back to the bar.
Gerard watched her as she began to polish the glasses. You may be high and mighty now, he thought, but there will come a day.
He opened the pack of cigarettes and lit up. The smoke soured his mouth for an instant and then he began to relax. He stared at the smoke wafting from the tip, then glanced at the packet with its new design of a Gypsy dancing girl swirling in smoke.
He imagined Viviane in her bath. Thought of Alain, hiding because he was a Gypsy.
He believed he might never see Alain again, especially if he had gone to join the Maquis, as he suspected. But he cou
ld not live without seeing Viviane again. He took out a second cigarette and lit it from the tip of his first. He was smoking with intensity now, sucking down the smoke as if it were life itself.
He wondered if he should go back to Viviane’s mother again and demand that she tell him of her daughter’s whereabouts. The old woman had been reluctant to talk to him, knowing that he was a friend of Alain’s. The little she said was useless. It was clear that she had not seen her daughter for a while and cared little about what was happening to her.
Then another thought struck him. What about Viviane’s sister?
The thought of speaking with Odette made him uneasy. She used to torment him when he was a child and even now he could not bear the look of contempt she assumed whenever she saw him. As well as this, he had always been reluctant to have dealings with her pious, pompous husband. Capitaine Boyer suspected that he engaged in petty crime and Gerard could not stop from looking guilty in his presence.
He cursed to himself. All other leads had come to nothing, so there was no alternative. He stubbed out his cigarette, swallowed a mouthful of beer and strode out of the bar.
Isabelle watched him go. He had forgotten to pay but it was a price worth bearing to see the back of him. She never understood why Alain was his friend.
Gerard knocked loudly on Odette’s door. There was no answer, although out of the corner of his eye he saw the curtains twitch and an eye examining him. The curtain closed again and he remained at the door, hands in his pockets. Two could play the waiting game.
Again the curtain twitched and again the eye peered out. Then he heard a soft exclamation and the door was thrown open.
‘What do you want?’ Odette demanded. ‘You have no business here.’
‘I am a senior member of the Milice,’ he answered, his sense of dignity wounded. ‘I decide whether I have business here or not.’
‘You know who my husband is?’
‘Of course, Madame.’
‘And he knows who you are. Nothing but a petty thief and accomplice to Gypsies.’
‘You mean the Gypsies that your family has married into?’