“I found this,” said Renard. He held up a shell casing.
“So,” said Essart, “find the gun that fired this bullet and you will have your murderer. Your friends and neighbors apparently have guns, although they should have been confiscated. A German hero was viciously executed from behind. If you were properly enforcing the laws, this could not have happened.
“You have twenty-four hours to find the villain and turn him over to me. I will notify Colonel Hollinger to begin the selection of hostages in the event you do not succeed. I do not know how many hostages my superiors will want, but I think that it should be an impressive number to atone for the murder of one of ours. Fifty sounds right to me.”
Twenty-four hours came and went, and of course Yves did not have the murderer. How could he? You had to find and interview witnesses, but he was not allowed to interview any of the German soldiers who had been at The Trout when it happened. The barman thought he remembered Private Beckermann. But he could not remember when he had left or whether he had left alone.
Colonel Hollinger convened the town council. “Tell the council,” he said to Lieutenant Ludwig, “that they have until tomorrow to select fifty hostages to be executed in punishment for the murder of Private Beckermann.”
“But Herr Oberst,” said the mayor, “twenty-four hours is not enough time. Renard is an inexperienced policeman, and he is entirely alone in trying to solve this heinous crime. He has neither the means nor the experience to solve a complicated case like this. At least give us more time. I beg you, sir.”
For the first time since he had arrived, Colonel Hollinger looked Mayor Schneider in the eye. “Tell the mayor,” he said, turning back to Lieutenant Ludwig, “that I want the fifty names on my desk in the morning. However, I will give him and his gendarme one week—seven days—to arrest and deliver the perpetrator to our criminal justice system. After that, we will shoot five hostages in the town square every week until the culprit is apprehended or all fifty hostages are dead.” After Ludwig had translated his words, the colonel turned to the mayor and said in French, “Do you understand?”
* * *
Besides Pierre Chenu, Jean Charles Arnaud, Yves Renard, and Paul-Marie Fissier, who had been appointed to fill the vacant seat resulting from René Bertrand’s arrest, the mayor had asked others of the town’s leading citizens to assist in the selecting of hostages. Most refused immediately. A few accepted, thinking that if they were making the selections, they might better protect their loved ones from being selected. As soon as the mayor saw their strategy, he withdrew those invitations.
A few others—the priest, Father Jean; the new schoolmaster, Leroi Bennehard; the count, Maurice de Beaumont—volunteered to help, out of a sense of obligation. It was a terrible thing the citizens of Saint-Léon were being asked to do. But no one could see a way out. The mayor had also asked the prefect from Tours to be present; he had sent an observer. The group of men sat around the large table in the town hall meeting room.
“I believe,” said the schoolmaster, “that we should refuse to make the selection, that the Germans should decide whom to kill.”
“They will certainly do so,” said the mayor, “and they will probably start with us.”
“And why not? We are none of us any more innocent or guilty than anyone we might choose,” said Father Jean.
The mayor regretted having invited the priest. “It does not have anything to do with innocence or guilt, mon père, it has to do with political expediency. We are, unfortunately, not the first French town to have faced this dilemma. It has happened in Saumur and Nantes.”
“Those are big cities. So far it has happened mostly in big cities.” This was the prefect’s representative speaking. He tugged at his chin and peered from man to man through thick glasses. “In those places, they had the benefit of anonymity. That is, the people they ultimately selected had no connection to those doing the selecting. They also had the benefit of the availability of, for lack of a better word, certain undesirables. They had prisons they could use, which they did; they had known communists and … others.”
“Others?” said the schoolmaster.
“Freemasons, Gypsies, Jews,” said the representative. There was silence in the room.
“I believe,” said the schoolmaster finally, “that we must refuse to make this selection.”
Him too? thought the mayor. He’s Bertrand all over again. What is it with these schoolmasters?
It was true, Leroi Bennehard admired René Bertrand. He had been his pupil not too many years earlier. He admired his erudition and learning. He admired his upright morality. He admired his outspokenness and had decided that he himself would not shrink, if called upon to do so, from following in his mentor’s footsteps. He was a rotund, moon-faced man, with thinning light brown hair combed across his brow, but he sat tall and defiant in his chair. “If we start naming others to die, then I wish for my name to be first on the list.”
Again there was silence in the room. Finally the mayor broke the silence. “We do not have a prison, but Saint-Léon has prisoners in Saint-Pierre. Can we put them on the list? I don’t see why not. And we have communists. Hemon and others we can name. And there are Gypsies.”
“The Gypsies are gone,” said the count.
“Freemasons,” said the mayor. He took a piece of paper and prepared to begin the list.
“Freemasons?” said Jean Charles Arnaud. “We have Freemasons?”
* * *
After many hours, the mayor tallied up the list and announced that they had fifty hostages. “Read through the names,” someone said. The mayor hesitated.
“Give it to me,” said Leroi Bennehard. His name was first on the list, his mentor René Bertrand was second, although it was doubtful that the Germans would accept him as a hostage. He was probably already dead.
Stephane and Antoine, the Duquesne boys, were already in prison and doomed. It was because of their stupid prank that the citizens of Saint-Léon were having to draw up a list of hostages. Jules Hemon and some of his communist friends. Edith Troppard had been sleeping with the German colonel. Jacques Courtois was always in trouble. The mayor had added Jacques and some of his troublemaking friends.
Father Jean was on the list because the making of the list had driven him nearly insane. Father Jean had seen each name as a drop of the blood of Christ falling on the table in front of him. He even heard the sound the drops made as they hit the tabletop. The small red puddle slowly spread in front of him. He knew it was his imagination, but the vision was so convincing that he finally cried out, “Put me on the list!” He was relieved to be done with it and began laughing wildly and could not stop for a long time. The mayor wrote Father Jean’s name at number thirty-two.
Onesime Josquin, who had deserted the army, was on the list.
“Maurice Christophe Germain de Beaumont, Comte de Beaumont,” the count had said. “Add my name to the list.” Jean Luc Sassonier and Léon Mettery had come back from the war crippled and depressed. They had been added to the list. There were fifty. “No one must be told he is on the list. They might flee.” Everyone swore no one would be told. By morning everyone in town knew there were hostages and who they were. None fled. Where could they go?
Thierry Simonet was waiting in front of Yves’s office door when Yves arrived just after eight o’clock. Thierry stood at attention like the soldier he had been many years earlier. Yves unlocked the door. The two men stepped inside the office. Thierry stood at attention once again and said, “I killed the German. My brother and my son were killed in the big war,” he said. “My grandson was killed in this one. I’ve had enough. I decided to take revenge.”
“In the middle of the night at The Trout?”
“Why not?” said Thierry.
“How did you get there, Monsieur Simonet?”
“I walked.”
“You live three kilometers away.”
Thierry sprang from his chair. “I’m not decrepit, monsieur!”
“How did you kill him?” said Yves.
“I shot him in the back of the head when he came out of The Trout.”
“You shot him with what?”
“A rifle.”
“Where is the rifle?”
“In the river. What does it matter? Arrest me.”
“I can’t,” said Yves.
“Why not?” Thierry was angry. “You know the details. You can make it stick. The Boche just want to execute somebody. Why does it have to be fifty? It is true when I say I’ve had enough. Let them put me on trial and kill me.”
“They don’t work that way,” said Yves. “It won’t work. I can’t do it.”
“Then put me on the list. Take someone off—one of the women. Or Jean Charles, Dominic,…” He named more people he knew who were on the list.
“The list is in the mayor’s hands. You have to talk to him about that. But I don’t think it works like that, monsieur. I’m sorry.”
* * *
Yves went to the Cheval Blanc to get permission from Colonel Hollinger to interview the men who might have been at the bar that night. He could not get past the sergeant at the door. He asked his superior, Captain Lupardennes, to intercede with Hollinger or even with Lieutenant Essart. “I’m sorry, Renard. There’s nothing I can do. They are adamant. A German soldier has been murdered. Someone must pay. Interview the troublemakers in town. One of them will know who did it.”
Yves interviewed Jacques Courtois. Courtois laughed in his face. “Why don’t you just put on a little swastika and just go to work for them?”
“I’m trying to solve a murder,” said Yves.
“A Boche.”
“It’s still a murder.”
“I don’t know anything. Now go fuck yourself.”
Yves went to The Trout again, and again combed the grounds for clues. He stared into the water looking for the shimmer of a hastily discarded weapon, something, anything, that might open up the case, something undeniable, irrefutable, compelling. But all he saw was the water swirling under the bridge.
He interviewed the barman again. “I told you all I know, Renard. I sort of remember the German, but I don’t remember when he left or whether he left with anyone. Whoever did it, killing him was a stupid thing to do. Have you talked to neighbors?” There were no close neighbors. He had talked to those in nearby houses. None had seen or heard anything; none had the slightest idea who might have killed the German. He interviewed people who used to drink at The Trout before the Germans came. He interviewed everyone he could think of.
In desperation he went back to the Cheval Blanc to beg Colonel Hollinger to at least let the German soldiers talk to him about the murder. “I will only ask questions the colonel approves. I will work with Lieutenant Essart; he can conduct the interviews. If I can only hear from those who were there that night, some clue might present itself; someone will have heard the shot; someone will know when the victim left and whether he left alone; someone…”
Lieutenant Ludwig had been sent out to meet with Renard on the colonel’s behalf. He listened to Yves’s arguments. “We cannot allow those interviews. A German soldier has been shot down in cold blood. The true witnesses, those who know what happened, are your friends and neighbors. Interview them again. The answer lies with them.”
Early on the morning of the eighth day, detachments of German soldiers wearing full battle gear and carrying loaded weapons appeared at the doors of the first five hostages on the list. They arrested Leroi Bennehard, the new schoolmaster, at his parents’ house just off the main square. He was permitted to finish dressing before he was marched off. Another detachment went to the farmhouse where the Duquesne family lived. The parents were taken away as substitutes for their imprisoned sons. The former communist mayor, Jules Hemon; and old Thierry Simonet, who had tried to confess to the crime, lived near each other, and a detachment of soldiers first got Hemon and then Simonet. When Simonet joined Hemon the two old men embraced.
One after another, the detachments marched onto the town square with their prisoners. Otherwise the square was empty. Windows and doors were shut, curtains were drawn. Only Colonel Hollinger stood at the window of his office, flanked by Lieutenants Ludwig and Essart, and watched the proceedings. The prisoners stood with their backs against a section of wall beside the boules courts. They stared in front of them. Thierry Simonet tried to sing “La Marseillaise,” which was forbidden, but what did it matter now? But to his shame and distress he could not remember the words, and so his voice trailed off into silence. Hemon began to sing “The Internationale,” the Communist hymn, but he could not finish, either.
Yves Renard had spent the night in his office. He had sat all night at his desk. He had slept fitfully now and then, but he didn’t quite know whether he was asleep or awake, since it was as though he were living a terrible dream. He knew what was going on outside his office, but he could not believe that it could actually come to pass. He stared at some papers that happened to be in front of him, as though work or even the appearance of work could forestall the inevitable.
The shots rang out with such ferocity that the walls shook and the windows rattled. The terrible noise seemed to go on forever. After a moment Yves realized that the horrible sound he was hearing was a scream coming from his own mouth.
The five hostages lay dead on the square. The wall where they had stood was pockmarked and spattered with blood and gore. The soldiers who had executed the five shouldered their weapons, faced right, and marched off to their quarters.
After a short while, doors opened around the square. People looked out from the bakery, the mechanic’s shop, the hotel. They stepped forward gingerly, as though they were walking onto a frozen lake that had been open water the day before. They held on to their doors in case the ground should give way under them.
Suddenly the door of the Hôtel de France flew open, and Jacky, the waiter, came running out. He was small, balding, and narrow shouldered. He wore a black vest and bowtie and a long white apron that flapped about his legs. He took great leaping strides across the square. It had been years since he had last had to run, and it appeared as though he had almost forgotten how to do it.
Jacky carried a stack of folded white tablecloths on his outstretched arms. When he reached the dead bodies, he went down on his knees and began spreading the tablecloths over the corpses. He did it quickly, deliberately, with a practiced hand, for he had flung tablecloths over many a table. He covered the dead one by one, protecting them from the eyes of the living. Blood seeped up through the white cloth.
Claude Melun and Jean Josquin from the mechanic’s shop were the next to arrive, and pretty soon there was a small crowd of people doing what they could to help with their dead. Renard looked up toward Colonel Hollinger’s window, but the curtains were drawn.
X.
COLONEL HOLLINGER WAS SATISFIED that he had narrowly averted disaster. The murder of a German soldier was exactly the sort of thing that emboldened those who wanted to get into mischief. Such a blatant and terrible crime could never be allowed to stand. The colonel believed that the measures he had taken had put any thoughts of further misbehavior by the citizens of Saint-Léon to rest, at least for the moment.
It was always tricky to find the correct measure of suppression. The punishment had to be sufficient to teach people the lesson that needed learning, but not so extreme as to foment open rebellion. Lieutenant Essart would have killed all fifty hostages at once. But Essart was Gestapo; they always thought that way. The colonel had prevailed upon the high command in Tours and had been allowed to implement the more moderate punishment.
“I am certain,” the colonel told Lieutenant Ludwig, “we’ll have the perpetrator before the week is out. The threat of five more executions, and five after that, will be too much for them to bear. Someone out there knows who did it. Someone will crack and turn the culprit in.” And that is exactly what happened, although not exactly as Colonel Hollinger might have wished.
It
was the day after the execution. The colonel was having lunch at his desk so that he could sort through all the business he had had to put aside in order to deal with this matter. The orderly had removed a stack of files to a side table and placed the lunch tray in front of the colonel. He had just lifted the cover from the tray when the sergeant arrived from downstairs and said that Captain Ernst Hartenstein requested to speak to the colonel most urgently.
“Did he say what it is about, Sergeant? As you can see…” He waved his hand toward the stacks of files. “I have a shipment arriving today which we are unprepared to—”
“He said it is about the murder, Herr Oberst.”
“Is it? Send him up then.” The colonel had an uneasy feeling. “And send in Lieutenant Ludwig.”
Lieutenant Ludwig arrived from the office next door, and a moment later Captain Hartenstein stepped into the room. He was a large bulky man with a thick, creased neck and a small bullet head. His tiny, dark eyes were set deep in a doughy face.
Like the colonel, Hartenstein had served in the Great War. But he had begun his service as an enlisted man. He had been in the trenches for two years and had, at one point, single-handedly fought off a ferocious English attack. For this he had been awarded the Iron Cross, first and second class. Shortly thereafter he had received a battlefield commission as a lieutenant.
For Captain Hartenstein, however, courage in battle had not translated into rapid career advancement. He lacked discretion and tact, which were far more important for a soldier’s career than courage ever was. Captain Hartenstein carried out whatever assignment he was given in exemplary fashion. But he could not resist speaking his mind, especially at particularly inopportune times. Hartenstein came to be known as a malcontent and a troublemaker, which was why he had never advanced beyond captain.
Hartenstein gave a salute. “Herr Oberst,” he said.
The Resistance Page 12
