The Resistance

by Peter Steiner

  “Where are we going?” said Yves.

  “I want to show you something,” said Michel. He did not speak again for several minutes. There were not many cars on the road.

  “We’re in the same boat, Renard, you and I. I said it earlier. So we better start trusting each other, don’t you think?” He looked over at Yves again. Yves turned and looked into the mayor’s eyes with such intensity that the mayor was startled. “Jesus, Renard, you’re a strange one.”

  More time passed. “Okay, I’m taking a big chance here,” said Michel. “But I don’t have much choice, do I?” It sounded as though he were talking to himself. “We’re going to Château-Renault. Another meeting. Different this time. No functionaries or bureaucrats. Just French patriots. You should meet them.”

  They passed through the small city of Château-Renault. People standing in line at a bakery watched their car pass. They left the city in the direction of Beaumont-la-Ronce and then turned north on a narrow dirt track. They drove between thick hedgerows and after a kilometer or so came to a heavy gate hung between stone pillars. A man stepped from the shadows and, bending to look, shined his flashlight into the car. “Ah, Michel,” he said.

  “Yves Renard,” said Michel, nodding in Yves’s direction. “My gendarme.” The man shined his light in Yves’s face. Then he swung the gate open, and Michel drove through. After a few hundred meters the trees ended and they found themselves in front of a small Renaissance château, a graceful building of white tuffeau. It was dark except for a dim light in the entryway.

  They were shown into the great hall, which was also dimly lit and shabbily furnished. Twenty-five men sat around the room on threadbare chairs and cracked and worn leather sofas. A fire sputtered in the enormous fireplace. “Ah, Michel,” said one of the men, rising and shaking his hand. “Michel Schneider is the mayor of Saint-Léon-sur-Dême,” he announced. “And this is?”

  “My gendarme, Yves Renard,” said Michel.

  “Bravo.”

  Yves was given a small tumbler of wine and shown to a spot on a sofa between a white-haired man in clerical robes and a gendarme in uniform. Both introduced themselves to Yves.

  “I want to welcome you all and thank you for coming,” said the man who had first greeted them. “I want to especially thank the Marquis d’Estaing for inviting us into his home. The marquis wants to say a few words of welcome.”

  Everyone applauded. The marquis was elderly. He rose slowly. He had a cloud of white hair sitting atop his head and a clipped white mustache. He wore a nondescript gray suit over a gray sweater and white shirt buttoned to the top.

  The marquis wove about unsteadily. He collected himself for a moment. “My friends,” he said with a wheeze, “our beloved France is in the gravest danger, and only you can save her.” He wheezed with every intake of breath. “The German assault and invasion were terrible, but we face other even graver dangers. I speak of course of the communist menace. The communists and their alien ideology have threatened the French way of life for many years, and now they sense an opportunity. They would like nothing more than to overthrow our culture, our way of life, and to bring us under the yoke of a malignant Soviet regime.

  “But we also have a unique opportunity. We can sweep them out and defeat communism once and for all. To accomplish this we have to make common cause with our German occupiers. Some may find this distasteful. But the world of politics is rarely tidy. I am gratified to see so many Frenchmen here tonight willing to do what is necessary to rid our beloved France of the alien communist menace. I am happy to welcome you here in my home.”

  The marquis lowered himself into his chair while the others applauded. Once he was seated, he gave a little wave of his hand.

  The man who had spoken before rose again. “Thank you, Monsieur le Marquis. Your welcome is appreciated. Your words are stirring to everyone who loves France. For those who don’t know me, I am Jacques Richard. I am the chief of police at Château-Renault, and I must say it makes me happy to see so many of my police colleagues here tonight. Would you stand, please, and be recognized?”

  Ten men, including Renard, stood. The others applauded.

  “And I am happy to see so many clergymen here too. Would you also please stand?” Six men did, and the rest applauded.

  “I am grateful you are all here. When I asked the marquis if we could meet here, frankly, I didn’t know whether anyone would come. Being here is risky, I realize that, especially for those of you in official positions. But, like you, I believe matters are rapidly reaching a state where we have no choice but to act. The communists and their cohorts are wasting no time.”

  “Tell us what you suggest,” said a small red-faced man. He drew impatiently on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the room.

  “Vigilance, of course,” said Jacques Richard. “And strict enforcement of the law.”

  “The communists will be vigilant,” said the red-faced man. “And forget about the law. We have to fight fire with fire.”

  “And we will,” said Richard. “We will meet provocation with an iron fist. You all know who the communists are in your communities. Stop their provocations and stop their organizing. Keep one another informed of developments, of provocative activity, of any alien presence.” The meeting went on in that manner for another half hour. Everyone agreed that the communists should be watched, along with Freemasons.

  “And let’s not forget the Jews,” someone said.

  “Yes, the Jews,” said the marquis, lifting his head, his eyes wide, as though he had just woken from a nap.

  The priest sitting beside Yves pursed his lips and cast his eyes toward the ceiling, as though he wished he were elsewhere.

  “The Germans will take care of the Jews,” said the red-faced man.

  As Michel Schneider and Yves drove home, Yves gazed silently through the windshield. The mayor looked over from time to time but he could not read the policeman’s face. The moon had risen in front of them.

  “Do we have communists?” said Yves suddenly.

  “Hemon is a communist.” Jules Hemon had once been mayor of Saint-Léon. He was nearly eighty years old. He had been to Moscow not long after the revolution and had returned home an enthusiast. “We know who he associates with. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect the schoolmaster, Bertrand, is a communist. Was a communist.” The mayor grinned. “And there are others. Of course we have communists. We’ll smoke them out.”

  “Smoke them out?”

  “We’ll have to figure out how.”

  “And Jews?” Yves wondered.

  “What are you getting at, Renard?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  * * *

  Jean Josquin took his ledger to Onesime’s room, as he did nearly every evening now. He opened the book and read out the day’s entries. “René Bertrand is at the prison at Saint-Pierre.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He was when he got there.”

  “Annette?” said Onesime.

  Jean nodded. Annette Roboutin was the part-time secretary at town hall. “Bertrand was interrogated at Gestapo headquarters. He was beaten up pretty bad. Then they took him to prison.”

  “How does she know?”

  “From her sister, Madame Duquesne. The Duquesnes tried to visit their boys in prison.”

  “Did they get to see them?”

  “No, but they talked to the guards. And one seems sympathetic. A gendarme named Fernand. He may be able to let them see Stephane and … what’s the other one’s name?”

  “Antoine. Stephane and Antoine.”

  “Right, Stephane and Antoine. They’re not doing too well, so the Duquesnes stayed a few days with cousins by Saint-Pierre. The guard, Fernand, still couldn’t arrange a visit, but they asked him about Bertrand and he remembered them bringing him in. The Duquesnes are going back to Saint-Pierre at the end of the week.”

  Onesime made a note at the bottom of his map about Fernand, the Saint-Pierre guard. “What else ha
ve you got?”

  “Thirteen forty, Schneider, Renard drive to Tours.”

  “Tours? How do you know Tours?”

  “There was a meeting of mayors and police chiefs,” said Jean. “Annette again.” He smiled. “They weren’t back when I left the shop. And what about you?”

  “Annette’s sweet on you,” said Onesime.

  “Maybe,” said Jean. “And what have you got.”

  “I saw Beaumont’s map,” said Onesime.

  “What map?”

  “The one in the cave,” said Onesime. “You know, the one we saw last summer. And that’s not all.”

  “The cave?”

  “You remember. Last July. We were cutting hay. We said you could live in the cave, and the count said no, why would you, or something like that. Well, someone is.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see them. But I was pruning grapevines. I had tied the cuttings up in bundles for kindling and carried them to the cave, like the count said to, and he was there, and he told me to bring them inside. That’s where he’s keeping them, in the second cave, the one that locks.”

  “He’s keeping kindling in a locked cave? Why?”

  “I’ll tell you. Anyway the cave was wide open, and he told me to bring them in. There was a rug on the floor and some chairs and an old table. And ashes in the fireplace.”

  “So he’s burning the old vines in the fireplace?”

  “Just wait. And the map was there, and when he went out to get some more bundles, I looked at it. It’s a military map that goes south to the Cher. And there are places marked on it. Towns and villages with circles and some words I couldn’t make out. It looked like names.”

  “Did he see you looking at it?”

  “No. But it was like he wanted me to look. Like he wanted me to know what he was up to. Except I can’t figure it out.”

  “You’ll just have to ask him,” said Jean.

  “Or go for another look.”

  Later that night Jean watched from his window as Onesime hung his bicycle on his shoulder and tiptoed down the dirt lane. Once he reached the pavement, he swung his leg over the seat and set off down the road. The rising full moon lit his way perfectly. Onesime rode happily, feeling the chilly air on his face. He could smell the earth coming alive. The ground was too wet to work, but the count had already spoken of getting the plow out and turning a new field. “It won’t be long now, Onesime.” He had sounded wistful.

  “I’m ready, monsieur,” Onesime had said.

  Maurice, the count, had smiled at him. “I know you are.”

  It was after midnight. Onesime did not know what he expected to find at the count’s cave. It would be closed up and locked. If anyone was living there, they would be shut up inside and sleeping. Still he rode on.

  He approached Le Pêcheur, the tavern at the edge of town. The ramshackle building sat so close to the Dême that a rear porch sagged out over the water. The road curved in front of the tavern and crossed a narrow bridge on its way past Saint-Léon and out toward the vineyards and fields across the valley. The tavern was lit up. Drunken laughter came from inside, mixed with the sound of German songs.

  Despite its bucolic name, Le Pêcheur had been a disreputable roadhouse as long as anyone could remember. It had always been frequented by rowdies and drunks, until this year when the German soldiers had made it theirs. Over the years, so many drunks had staggered or ridden their bicycles, motorcycles, and even a car or two into the Dême, that some local wag had rechristened the place La Truite Enchantée—The Enchanted Trout. The name was charming, the irony was exquisite, and, regardless of what the sign out front said, the tavern quickly became known as The Enchanted Trout, or simply The Trout.

  Onesime rode past the place, keeping to the far side of the road, crossed the bridge, and continued out to the cave. He leaned his bicycle against the hill beside the cave door and tried it, but of course the door was locked. He walked past the other caves. They were all locked. He climbed the hill above the caves and found their chimneys, but they were all cold. It did not matter. He was glad to be out and about. It was the time of day when he felt free.

  The Enchanted Trout was dark as he approached it on the way home. The reflection of the moon danced on the surface of the Dême. The songs were finished; the soldiers had all gone home. Except for one, that is, who lay sprawled in the shadows beside the tavern. Onesime did not want to have a run-in with a drunken German, so he rode by as quickly and as quietly as he could. But something about the man made him look again.

  Onesime left his bicycle by the road and tiptoed back for a closer look. He had seen men who looked like that before. He knew right away that the man was dead. The soldier had been shot through the back of the head. He lay in a puddle of his own gore.

  IX.

  “ARE YOU SURE he was dead?” said Jean.

  “He was dead,” said Onesime. “His face was gone.”

  “Jesus,” said Jean. He had never seen anyone who had been shot. “What should we do?”

  “Let them find him,” said Onesime.

  “The Germans? Nobody saw you? Because if they did … if you don’t report it…”

  “No one saw me,” said Onesime. But how could he be certain?

  “If the Germans find him first…,” said Jean. “There will be reprisals. Hostages. They’ll shoot someone. They’ve already said as much.”

  “There will be reprisals no matter who finds him. What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jean. “Jesus.”

  “We should tell the police, tell Yves Renard before the Germans find out.”

  “Do you think Yves can be trusted? Look what he did to Bertrand.”

  “I think he was trying to save Bertrand. That’s why the Gestapo showed up.”

  “And what about the meeting he went to with Schneider?”

  “I don’t know,” said Onesime. He stood up.

  “Where are you going?” said Jean.

  “To tell the count,” said Onesime.

  “What?! The count? But why? It’s three in the morning.”

  “He was friends with the first colonel. He’s got this map, people living in his cave. It’s a chance to find out where he stands and what’s going on.”

  A half hour later the two men stood in front of the Beaumont château gate. “Are you sure?” said Jean. Onesime pulled at the chain. Immediately dogs started barking. And a minute later the gate swung open. The count stood there with a large mastiff on a lead. He shined his flashlight on the two men. “Come inside,” he said. No questions, no exclamations. It was almost as though he had been expecting them. Just “Come inside.”

  Beaumont closed the gate behind them and led the way back to the dark house. When they hesitated he turned. “Come on,” he said, motioning with his head.

  Maurice led them into a small study. “Sit down,” he commanded, and brought out a bottle of brandy from a small cabinet. He poured three small glasses. He sat down, raised his glass in a silent toast, sipped from it, and only then did he say, “What is it? What has happened?”

  “We are sorry to bother you, monsieur…”

  “I know. Never mind with that. Just tell me what has happened.”

  “A German has been killed. Shot. I found him at The Trout, in front of it, actually.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Something in the count’s tone made Onesime think that he could tell him everything. Anyway, they wanted to find out where he stood, didn’t they? What better moment than this? They were in trouble anyway. “I was on my bicycle on my way out to your caves, monsieur.”

  The count set down his glass and raised his eyebrows. “I know someone lives there,” Onesime continued, before the count could say anything, “and I wanted to find out who. I know I shouldn’t have.…”

  “Leave the apologies, Onesime. Tell me about the dead German.”

  “Oui, monsieur. On my way out, I passed The Trout, and it w
as full of Germans. They were drinking and singing. It’s like that most every night, monsieur. Anyway, when I came back, the place was closed and dark, and I saw this guy lying by the front door. I almost rode past, but something about him—he made me think of the battlefield—made me go back. He was dead.”

  “How?”

  “Shot. Through the back of the head.”

  “With?”

  “Large caliber, I think.”

  “Did you tell the police yet?”

  “No, monsieur. We didn’t know what to do. That is why we came to you.”

  “You were right to do so,” said the count. “Come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “To the telephone. To call Renard. He’s got to get there before the Germans do. They will use it for their purposes.”

  “But, monsieur—”

  “He doesn’t need to know it was you who found him, Onesime.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Essart and his two colleagues arrived at The Trout at around eight o’clock. They had another man, a forensics expert, with them. The sun was just rising, but it was only a faint disk gleaming through the fog. Yves Renard stood by the body, stepping from one foot to the other to stay warm. He held his coat closed around his neck.

  First he had visited and secured the scene, then he had telephoned Colonel Hollinger’s quarters to report the crime. Then he had called his superior, Captain Lupardennes in Tours, who called the Gestapo. Yves had hoped they might send someone besides Essart.

  Yves had been at The Trout on and off for the last four hours. He had had plenty of time to look around and put two and two together. He knew from Maurice de Beaumont, who knew from Onesime, when the shooting must have occurred. You could tell just from smelling him that the soldier, Private Johannes Beckermann, had been drinking. He was shot from behind.

  Essart stepped from his car. He stooped down and looked at the body. His forensics man stepped forward to have a look. Essart stood up, spun on his heels, and strode toward Yves. “Your little village is trying my patience,” he said. “I know just the way to put a stop to it.”