‘But sympathy is all one parent can give another in this situation. I worship my daughters. I cannot imagine not being able to enjoy watching their lives as they mature and take on more challenges.’
Luc nodded, believed him and despised him for having that love in his life. A flutter of guilt trilled through him at wanting to steal the Segal girls’ father from them. ‘Your eldest is how old?’
‘She’s turning twenty any moment, ready to take over the café and farm her parents out to the old people’s home,’ he jested.
Rachel wasn’t much older when you deliberately picked her out and sent her to the crematorium at Birkenau simply for being my sister. The thought was so savage it forced Luc to take a deep breath. He must retain control.
‘Where were you during the war, Eric? May I call you Eric?’
‘You may. I was like most French, keen to just survive,’ he said, avoiding the question.
‘Did you do your STO in Germany?’
‘Is this relevant?’ von Schleigel asked, irritated.
‘Oh, it’s just simply to sketch in the picture behind you. Most readers will relate to the war.’
‘Yes, I did my STO in Germany, making nylon, of all things. The acid burnt my hands terribly.’ Luc wanted to choke the life from him there and then for the lie that came so smoothly and easily.
‘So when did you come south?’
‘I’m from the south, monsieur. He was not going to be tripped. ‘Surely you hear my Provençale accent?’
Luc knew it was an acquired one. Only a true Provençale, like himself, had the inherent singsong quality to their speech pattern. Luc had lost his over years of living with Lisette’s more Parisian accent, plus the effects of Scottish, British and Australian speech had worn away the lilt and he was glad of that now.
‘Now we talk about it, your accent is very mixed up. Where are you from originally?’ von Schleigel asked.
‘All over,’ Luc said. ‘I was born near Lyon,’ he lied and then began to embellish it. ‘But my family lived in Lille, Dunkerque, even Strasbourg for a while. Then Paris, of course.’
‘I see. What did your father do?’
‘He was a professor. Enjoyed teaching. We moved around a lot.’ He didn’t want to speak about himself. They were arriving at the summit and the sky had lightened considerably.
Von Schleigel paused to sit on a rock. ‘I like to stop here each day.’ He smiled but Luc sensed it was only for show – no warmth touched the expression at all and the small pig-like eyes were magnified behind the strong lenses of his glasses. ‘It’s a spectacular view from here,’ von Schleigel continued.
It was true that the tall trees framed the beautiful picture ahead of the sharply clear and brilliantly sparklingly bright-green depths below. The noise of the waterfall had been the backdrop for their conversation but now it invaded their discussion with its soft roar and endless splashing. Luc admired it for a few moments, noting that it was now certainly light enough for von Schleigel to make out Luc’s features. Had he changed enough from that twenty-five-year-old Maquisard to not be instantly recognisable? He’d not shaved for several days to help keep the secret. But he couldn’t imagine he could keep von Schleigel’s sharp recall at bay for much longer.
He kept his back to his enemy. ‘Is this a place of contemplation for you?’ Luc asked.
‘Of course.’
‘For confession?’
Von Schleigel laughed. ‘You mean is it a spiritual place? Yes, absolutely.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ Luc said, turning. ‘I meant is this a spot where you and others might come to have quiet time to confront your sins?’
Von Schleigel baulked. ‘My word, Cousteau. I didn’t know we were to discuss philosophy and the bigger questions of life.’
‘I prefer deeper interviews rather than asking what your favourite flavour is on your ice cream menu. We can reach more discerning readers with more probing interviews.’
Von Schleigel shrugged. ‘I have no sins to confess, I fear. I am a simple man with an uncomplicated life. I serve good coffee, exquisite ice cream and a very decent bouillabaisse. I love my wife, my daughters, and I’ll die a happy man,’ he chortled. But there was something sinister about the way he was looking at Luc that triggered an internal alert. It was as though von Schleigel’s mouth was moving, saying all the right words on automatic while his mind was moving in an entirely different direction. And his eyes betrayed him. They were too watchful, too filled with scrutiny; a tiny frown that creased above his round, dark metal-rimmed glasses told Luc he had to move. He needed his prey at the top of the mountain, away from all possible prying eyes.
‘Shall we continue?’ he said and didn’t wait for von Schleigel’s reply. Hearing the man stand, he waited for his footsteps, then intensified his pace.
‘You are clearly having no trouble with this ascent, Laurent.’
‘No,’ Luc said over his shoulder without looking back. ‘I did warn you that I was capable.’
‘I’m impressed. I rang your magazine yesterday.’
Luc closed his eyes momentarily in shock but didn’t let himself down by stopping. ‘Oh? Are they missing me?’
‘I spoke to the receptionist.’
‘How is Alice?’ he said, drawing further ahead. He was so glad now that he had done his homework thoroughly.
‘She sounded fine. I was just checking.’
The summit was nearly his. Maybe ten steps and he would be at the top.
‘Checking what?’ Four … Five …
‘I’m a cautious man, Laurent.’
… Six … Seven …
‘What are you being cautious about?’
‘Who I spill my secrets to.’
… Eight … Nine …
… Ten.
Luc stepped up onto a rock ledge and felt his calf muscles relax. ‘Secrets?’ he repeated.
Luc turned as von Schleigel joined him at the summit and genuinely felt winter in his blood but it was nothing to do with the season or the weather. Pointed at his heart was a pistol.
‘I’m a cautious man, Monsieur Ravensburg.’ Von Schleigel’s mean smile stretched thinly. ‘No tricks,’ he chuckled.
Luc was sure his heart had stopped for several beats. He pulled off the beanie.
‘It’s Ravens,’ he said, his voice as cold as the grave.
Von Schleigel shrugged. ‘So we both have different identities. Doesn’t change the man within, eh?’
Luc shook his head slowly, his eyes burning with hate as he held his enemy’s gaze. ‘No. No it doesn’t, von Schleigel. You can never hide from who you are.’
‘I think I make a mockery of your creed because I’ve hidden very well, Monsieur Ravens.’
‘If I can find you …’ He shrugged.
‘No one has come looking in twenty years.’
‘Until now,’ Luc pushed, a strange fire erupting within. He no longer cared about himself; if he died today, he would die satisfied that he took out one of the world’s evils with him – and that was now his only intention. He slipped effortlessly into German, his tone adopting the harsher, clipped words of the language his ears first heard, as Clara Ravensburg, the woman who birthed him, whispered the sounds of love that couldn’t be replicated by anyone but a mother and her child. Nevertheless, in the language of his true parents, Lukas Ravensburg cursed his enemy and revelled as he watched the first flickers of fear spark in von Schleigel’s eyes.
‘They’re coming after you, von Schleigel. I’m only the beginning.’
Von Schleigel smiled. Luc had to hand it to the man. His cool nerve was impressive. He matched Luc in German. ‘You don’t scare me, Ravensburg,’ he said, gesturing for Luc to move. He followed the direction of where the pistol pointed, which was closer to the cliff edge. Even so, with the thick copse of trees and foliage he didn’t believe they could be seen. He was going to be shot and would fall off the cliff face, his body plummeting with the water tumbling just as fast. He imagined Jenny wal
king by the water wheel in l’Isle sur la Sorgue and seeing his body caught up against it. He banished the image, concentrated on the hate.
Von Schleigel was nodding to himself. ‘Well, well, Ravensburg. You’ve achieved something rather extraordinary. I have broken my own golden rule. That’s the first time I’ve uttered a word of German since 1945.’ He sighed happily. ‘I’ve missed it.’ He waved a finger in the air, looking freshly amused. ‘Tell me, Ravensburg, before I end your pathetic life, who are you truly? We never did establish that properly, did we?’ He waved the pistol. ‘It’s loaded this time.’
Luc felt sickened. It must have shown.
Von Schleigel laughed with genuine delight. ‘I know you’re remembering our last run-in. Oh, that was fun, watching the withered old Jew awaiting his deliverance and you so brave and defiant, determined to give him that deliverance with dignity. Would you like to know what I did with his body? I threw it in a rubbish pit.’
Luc felt the familiar tingle of rage pounding behind his eyes; knew what von Schleigel was doing to him as he’d done all those years before. But perhaps the Gestapo officer had forgotten that Luc was decades older.
He simply smiled. ‘What gave me away?’
‘Lavender,’ von Schleigel sneered. ‘I haven’t smelt it on a man since that day in 1943. I was already suspicious of your clever but not very deep cover. But I can smell it on that knitted hat and I can smell it off your face as you walk.’ Luc was impressed but in equal measure ashamed of his own stupidity. ‘Tell me, why do you still stink of a flower, Ravensburg?’
‘Stink? You heathen. I am proud to smell of this perfume, von Schleigel. I told you once before that I was a lavender grower. I still am. However, when we first met, I told you the truth that I am Lukas Ravensburg, but I also lied because I was and still am Luc Bonet, the Maquisard who eluded you.’
Von Schleigel blanched, then nodded with a sneer. ‘My instinct knew it. Thank you for giving me a second chance to kill you. What are you … some sort of aberration walking around like a true Aryan?’
‘An orphan. Born of Germans, raised by a fine Jewish family. I am every ounce their son.’
‘Then you’ll surely be upset to know that I took immense pleasure in sending your two whore sisters to their deaths. I had them gassed, their bodies burnt on my orders with the rest of the cockroaches.’
Luc swallowed, unable to trust himself to say anything. At this moment he couldn’t care less whether von Schleigel pulled the trigger on the pistol still aimed at his heart, but he wanted to take the Gestapo officer with him.
‘I’ll say this, Ravensburg, your sister – the one called Rachel – was defiant to the end. I rather admired her feistiness in cursing me to the moment the truck took her off to be disposed of. And do you know where I found her?’
Luc said nothing; it really was all he could do to hold his nerve and stay silent.
‘She had found herself a very cushy position in the commandant’s household. It was outrageous how comfortable she had become. Imagine my joy at finding out her real name. And here you are; the very last of the Bonets.’
‘Yes. Except you forget that I found you.’
‘Indeed, how did you do that? I’m intrigued.’
‘Do you remember Colonel Kilian?’
Von Schleigel frowned. ‘From Paris, you mean? I heard he was killed.’
‘Your memory serves you well.’
‘Gestapo officers are born, not bred, monsieur.’
It was Luc’s turn to laugh; it came in a brief, scornful gust.
‘Well, Kilian disliked you as much as I did. Let’s just say he has reached out from beyond the grave and given you to me.’
All amusement died in von Schleigel’s expression. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, I don’t plan to enlighten you. The fact is you can’t remain hidden. You’ve been exposed.’
‘And yet I am the one holding the gun, Ravensburg.’
Luc shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what you do to me. Others are coming. They will find you.’
‘They?’ von Schleigel mocked. ‘Who, monsieur?’ He lifted his head and laughed. ‘Whom should I be frightened of?’
Now Luc’s gaze narrowed. ‘“Deliverance is in a multitude of counsellors”.’
The German frowned. ‘Am I supposed to understand that?’
‘Proverbs.’
‘Ah,’ he said in a mocking tone. ‘So now you quote the wrath of—’
Luc cut him off. ‘It’s the creed of the Mossad. No doubt you’ve heard of that particularly zealous group of Israelis, who have a strong desire to hunt down the likes of you and other cringing Nazis who think they can hide behind respectable lives.’
He felt a tingle of pleasure at von Schleigel’s suddenly unsure look.
‘Old age is no shield, von Schleigel,’ he continued. ‘You just become an easier target.’
‘What have you done, Ravensburg?’
‘What have I done? May I?’ he said, pointing to his rucksack.
‘Kick it over here,’ von Schleigel demanded.
Luc did as asked. ‘Take a look at the file, especially the most recent telegram that I sent off at the beginning of this week. I have no doubt they’re already on the way, closing in from a number of routes. What you do to me is irrelevant.’
He watched as von Schleigel’s hands flicked through the file, looking increasingly anxious.
‘It’s all there,’ Luc continued. ‘Reports, witness statements, photos of you …’
‘How did you get all this?’
‘I told you. Kilian found you.’
‘Kilian’s dead!’
Luc just smiled. ‘Did you hear how the Mossad dealt with Adolf Eichmann?’
Von Schleigel raised the gun again angrily. His hand was shaking now, Luc was pleased to see.
Luc continued. ‘They watched him for a long time; they sent in a special team to Buenos Aires where your compatriot was hiding in plain sight – just like you, though taking exceptional cautionary measures. And just like you he believed himself safe … loved his family, had hopes of dying an old man surrounded by those he loved. But the Mossad found him, abducted him from Argentina and got him all the way back to Israel, where he was given a fair trial. And then they executed him, hanging him before they cremated him – fitting, I suspect, when you consider all the innocents he sent to the crematoriums. And now the Mossad has access to your name, your address, your family details, your photo, your history – everything in that file – and one day soon, Kriminaldirektor, you too will find yourself sitting between trained men who will offer you the same as Eichmann … an instant death via a Jewish bullet, or trial in Israel. Frankly, if I were you, I’d take the bullet.’
‘Shut up, Ravensburg,’ von Schleigel threatened.
‘Scared?’
Von Schleigel said nothing but picked up the rucksack and slung it over his back.
‘Because you should be,’ Luc continued. ‘Your wife, your daughters, your whole life, will be exposed.’
Von Schleigel ignored him. ‘Whatever happened to Miss Forestier?’
‘She died.’
‘Good. I’m glad the war took care of her.’
‘Not the war, von Schleigel. We had many happy years together. She became my wife. Did I mention she was a British spy?’ He grinned as von Schleigel’s expression darkened into shock. ‘Yes, that’s how we met. Good, wasn’t she? I noted she ate you up and spat you out with ease.’
‘I hope her death caused you much grief.’
‘Grief, yes indeed. Not as much humiliation and pain that the revelation of who their father is will cause to your daughters, though. Imagine the shame for them. You stand to ruin their lives.’ In truth, Luc wished no particular grief on von Schleigel’s family – his three women were innocents. Now was the ideal moment. ‘You could spare them, you know …’
Von Schleigel gave a growl and took another step towards Luc. He was close enough now for Luc to see his grey-haired
enemy with absolute clarity: the large pores of the pale skin, the tiny silvery scar between his right nostril and the top of his lip; he could probably even count the grooves at the side of his eyes. Luc was surprised by the calm that had overtaken him; he wasn’t frightened about dying. He felt deep regret for Jenny but it was only on the rim of his mind now, as he had convinced himself that she had many supporters. He didn’t want to live in Australia alone and he also realised he didn’t want to die in Australia. He’d rather die in France – right here, in fact, in Provence. And if it was to be by von Schleigel’s bullet, so be it. He would die knowing that the devil would be hunted down by men and women fuelled by a spiritual fire and who would be relentless until he was dead.
‘Your days are numbered, no matter which way you look at it now. You can wait for them to come for you, or you can die on your own terms and keep your family unscathed.’
‘What are you blathering about, Ravensburg?’ The handgun shook just a fraction more in the scared man’s hand.
‘Simple. Save the Mossad having to drug you and drag you back to Israel and save everyone – especially your wife and daughters – the theatre of a trial. That’s all it would be – pure show, because the evidence against you is damning. There is no way out. You can drag it out a bit longer and maybe count the days until you’re hung by your cowardly neck and your ashes are scattered in open sea where no one will mourn you because no one will know where your final resting place is. It will be in no man’s land, belonging to no nation. You will not be German or French. You will simply be loathed as a cowardly Nazi.’
Von Schleigel blinked behind his glasses and snarled. ‘I have only one bullet in this pistol. It has your name on it.’
‘Do I look as though I care?’
‘No. In truth, you don’t.’ Von Schleigel cocked the pistol and Luc watched his enemy’s finger settle more firmly on the trigger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Max and Jane reached Cavaillon by rail and then took a coach across the 30 kilometres to Apt, the major hub of the Luberon. Here, they checked in to a small gite on the town’s outskirts as an aunt and nephew.
The French Promise Page 39
