by Hilton, Lisa
Most of Papie’s still was older than he was, and there were parts of it, he said, which were made before the Revolution, though it had been patched and cobbled so many times that it was impossible to discern what its original form may have been. In summer, for the melons, he brewed outside because of the heat and the terrible flies. Papie preferred the winter brewing, when the still was wheeled on the huge solid rubber tyres, which had carried Papie’s son’s perambulator in the last century into the big barn and a fire was lit in the blackened grate. There were two roof tiles kept loose so the tin beak of the still could poke out to the sky, though it had been twenty years since Papie had climbed up himself to remove them. It was cosy then, waiting through the short day in the warm, the metallic pungency of the alcohol filling the air, so that when he stepped outside to empty the pulp bucket the cold would strike him with the same surprising, invigorating force as if he had drunk his potion, not merely breathed it. Not that Papie was stingy in giving away a nip or two. There were usually three or four old-timers sitting around the fire in the afternoons, though nowadays it seemed to be mostly just Camille Lesprats. Lately there had been William too, and the music, which was a compensation for Camille. There was a blackened copper ladle, dipped straight into the bucket, and a collection of filthy little glasses that no one had ever thought to wash. Outside, the juicy skins mounted into a pile, amber or purple, depending on whether he was brewing from the prunes or the Chasselas, though his visitors would know from the scent long before they even crossed the Landine. As it grew dark Papie shovelled the skins into a barrow and wheeled it around to the compost heap by the orchard wall. He had tried the skins on the cows one year, but they got the squits something terrible and fell down drunk in their own liquid dirt. A good story to tell, but not to repeat.
Papie told himself that he was not troubled when four soldiers arrived to take him away. He could remember 1870 perfectly well, and considered himself to be too old to be afraid of anyone much, even of them. Besides, he had been arrested for distilling before the first war, and the customs men had started coming back every season a couple of seasons after it ended. They had fallen into a pleasant relationship over the years, the same twosome setting up their hide on the high bank below Aucordier’s, so on sunny days Papie could see the wink of their field glasses and wave. They didn’t bother him, and in turn he made sure that any more irregular customers, who came with big flagons rather than stone bottles, appeared only during their dinner break, from noon until two, or after they had left their post with the light, around four. On several particularly cold days Cathérine had struggled up the bank with a flask of hot coffee, which had been most politely and thankfully received. After the last day’s brewing he would leave a full litre pot on the fence post, and its punctual empty arrival on the barn lintel the following January would have acted as a reminder, had he needed one, that it was time to bank the charcoal in the belly of the still.
It was not yet ten o’clock when they arrived, and though Papie had been about since seven, he had only just finished wheeling the last barrowload of Chasselas down from the orchard store. He had to go slowly these days and his hands no longer moved so deftly amongst the fruit, he warmed them over the fire to get them supple. When he heard a movement behind him, he did not turn, assuming it was William as usual, but no hand plucked caressingly at the sleeve of his jacket, William’s silent greeting since he had been a little boy, and when he looked around there they were in the doorway in their black caps and long grey coats. The lieutenant or whatever he was had silver piping around his cap, you could see he was in charge although he was so young, but it was another of them who stepped forward and spoke to Papie in surprisingly clear French. For a moment it seemed an idea to pretend not to understand, to hump into himself and refuse to look at them, but pride got the better of that and Papie walked as smartly as he could outside to the truck. He had never ridden in a truck, but he grasped the sides at the open back to show them he knew just what to do, and pulled hinself up in one movement, though the effort of it made his eyes bulge nearly out of his head, and he had to suck as much air as possible through his nose so that they should not hear him panting. He said not one word to them, but sat up straight with his cap on his head and his hands folded between his legs.
Cathérine came hurtling down the field, her skirt flapping and a rag in her hand, crying out. Laurent was doing his best to keep up with her. The soldiers strode up to meet them, so that Papie was unable to catch their words, although the day was so still. He waved to his grandchildren and shouted in patois, ‘Don’t worry about me. Tell your mother I’ll be back for supper!’ Then they came back and got into the truck, the silver braid cap next to the driver in front and the other two on either side of him. They held on to the rail with a hand each, so he felt he could do the same without appearing nervous. The boards vibrated beneath their feet as the engine started and they moved forward slowly enough over the track, but when they came to the road they ran with such smoothness and speed, streaming along so the wind made him breathless and icicles formed and melted in his eyelashes as quick as the silvered earth flew by. It was beautiful. Papie turned his head about, astonished at how things rushed up then flew behind, at the ease, when they had slowed and turned into the gates, with which they picked up speed again and whirred up the avenue of the chateau. He opened his mouth wide to the wind.
Karl had felt horribly uncomfortable when Obersturmführer Hummel had fetched him to translate at the Nadl farm. He knew that Oriane’s brother, the simpleton, used to go down there when she worked, but he had no news of her. There was no excuse he could contrive to give him a reason to ask, and though he hoped every day to be ordered up to the camp, there was more work than there had ever been at the chateau, something big was up. It surprised him how much he ached to see her, but he was also ashamed at his own proxy closeness to these people. Arriving at the farm he saw that he was associated in some way now with this smelly old man and his disreputable activities, that there was a connection between them that differed from that of ruler and ruled, which was how it was when one came down to think of it. Like those men on the plantations who slept with the black slaves. Castroux seemed different in the winter, not old-fashioned and charming, but mean and dirty, the people grubbing squatly over the land like so many bundled trolls. He took less trouble than usual to be polite to the old man, and when they got him back he let the two privates take him away immediately Hummel ordered it, knowing that they would be able to offer him no words of explanation or encouragement.
Having never been inside the chateau, Papie was disappointed when he was led under the archway to the stable yard and directly through a door and down a flight of steps. A second door was unlocked and they went along a damp passage with the aid of an oil lamp, passing vaulted, musty spaces until a third door was opened and he was pushed through it. From the smell, Papie knew it was the wine cellar, and that made him smile, though when one of the soldiers handed him a lighted candle he saw that the ranks of bins were empty, though their rich scent lingered. The room was swept clean, flagged in thick cool limestone, though, since it was not oozing damp, Papie reckoned it had been dug in properly, raised on a bed of sand and gravel. There was a stove, but it was cold. The d’Esceyracs had done themselves right, no doubt of that, lighting a fire just to keep their precious bottles warm. There was a wooden stool, and, Papie saw when he set the candle holder on the floor, a white chamber pot at the edge of where the shadow fell. As he looked around, the soldier said something in his own language and the door was shut. Papie heard a key turn and two bolts being shot. Instinctively, he moved to the door and pushed stupidly against it, noticing in the next moment that there was a bottle of water and a cup on the protruding stone where in old times there would have been a statue of the Virgin. Every room in Castroux had one of those. For a few moments Papie prowled about with the candle, imagining a forgotten bottle of champagne or burgundy, but the room, though high for a cellar, was not large,
and he swiftly saw that it was bare. That had been a fine bottle, that one young William had brought down from the chateau. They might be cowards, these aristos, but at least the Marquis hadn’t left the bastards anything decent to drink. He poured a little of the water and sat down on the stool. There was no sound except the slight wheeze of his own breath, and after some time he began to wonder what would happen when the candle burned out.
Obersturmführer Hummel gave himself permission to use the telephone. It was a waste in some ways, but he had to concede that he was not blocking any more vital information from the exchange and moreover, the sooner the Milice took away the poor old man in the cellar the better. He shared Obersturmbannführer von Scheurenberg’s unspoken yet palpable conviction that such matters were beneath their dignity, insulting even. Minor insurrection was not SS business. These people had no reason to be especially afraid since Hummel and his men had simply not attempted to make them feel afraid. To suggest that silly breaches of discipline were a shortcoming on their own part was demeaning. It was quite clear to Hummel. If they had been made to feel afraid you could bet there would be no more of this sort of business, it was nonsense to mess around with half measures. Hummel did not despise the old chap any more than he despised the rest of the people in Castroux, he reserved what contemptuous attention he had for the Milice men. He looked about for the day’s orders to check the telephone password, anticipating the smugness in the voice that would use the code on the other end of the line. They took such pathetic pleasure in it, playing at soldiers, as if it wasn’t obvious who was telephoning, as the line was only connected three ways. Hummel peered at the smudgy sheet, which was clearly marked with an inky fingerprint in the top left-hand corner. Wurster was a dreadful typist.
Laurent thought that if he considered the possible consequences, the problem would not be solved. The translator fellow had said that Papie’s transgression would be a Milice matter, which meant, immediately, that they would be back. Yves would have to take Laurent’s place again, in case they came to Murblanc, but Bernard had put on a good show yesterday, they were unlikely to return to the Teulière house, so that could be risked if both Bernard and Jean-Marc were kept out of sight. Hilaire the baker could make a show of goodwill by presenting his papers, though Laurent himself had no idea whether he had a document to prove he was milling, but Hilaire would have to deal with that himself, there was no time for anything elaborate. That left the other four, Boissière, Nic, Marcel and Jean. They would have to move quickly, hide. Did Larivière know where his son was? Laurent wished he could speak to JC, perhaps a telephone call could be made from the Mairie, but even as he pictured himself talking urgently into the instrument he knew it was impossible, JC would not have been so careless. So that left him responsible, as the mayor had said. His mother was bewildered, she had been all for marching up to the chateau and demanding Papie’s release, but they couldn’t see the connection, that this was about life and death. Laurent smiled a little. Old Papie would be giving them hell, anyway, those buggers.
‘What about Georges? We should get permission.’
‘Christ, Eric, you’re as much of an old pussy as he is. We don’t need that fat gut-sack.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But I told you what he said on the phone. Just as well I took the call. I went upstairs to ask, but there was no one there. We’ll explain when we get back. What, do you think we should leave a note? Have you never heard of security? Come on. You can drive.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe you should count me out.’
‘Eric. This is a serious matter, very serious. Do you want people to, you know, start casting doubts?’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Course I’m sure.’
Thierry had taken the phone call from Obersturmfuuhrer Hummel, and it was true that he had gone next door (‘upstairs’ was a satisfactory metaphor, British-style, Thierry did not consider whether his pleasure in it was appropriate) to ask permission, though he had taken the precaution of waiting until the two senior duty officers had left for their lunch at noon. They would not return before three. He had been furious all the way back to Cahors, wedged into the truck next to that disgusting Georges Tinville. It was obvious that there had been funny business going on, that those wily country bastards had pulled a fast one. Tinville had been too busy stuffing himself as usual to notice. Now a man had been denounced for illegal alcohol production in the same village, right under the noses of the battalion. It was too much. Thierry felt keenly that the Milice were considered a bit of a laughing stock, and he believed that it was the lack of discipline and strict example amongst what he had learned to call the populace that were driving things to the bad. It was no surprise that schoolteacher had turned out to be a Communist, and Thierry wouldn’t mind betting there were a few more of them in that village. It was time to teach someone a lesson, and Thierry knew that he was the right man to do it. It was tempting to tell Eric about the pistol, though maybe that was better revealed when they were on the way.
Papie could not say he had been treated badly. They had brought him soup and bread at what he guessed was midday, and a slice of omelette later. He had been given a blanket to sleep on, and when they had opened the door after the hours until morning had dozed past, there was a bowl of water to wash in, cold but with a clean towel, and more bread, even warm coffee. Still, he was cold and hungry. It was hard to keep track of the time going by, in the darkness, and the stool was so uncomfortable he had propped himself on the stone flags with the blanket rolled into a bolster. He had relieved himself several times into the pot, and though he had tried to carry it to the furthest corner of the cellar, some of it had slopped and spilled, and he was disgusted by the smell, ashamed that they would see he had soiled the floor. His legs hurt, deep in the marrow, though he tried to walk up and down every now and then to stay warm. He slipped in and out of sleep, though never so thoroughly that when he opened his eyes to find merely a different quality of darkness he did not know immediately where he was. The last few times he had felt tears in his eyes and made a groaning sort of sound that surprised him in the silence and the black. He was still not exactly afraid, though he could not understand why nothing had happened, why no one had come for him. He grew wearier and wearier and the time spent staring dully at the sinking candle shrank to shorter intervals.
When the door opened again, he had no idea of how much time had passed, though his bladder was aching and he felt dizzy as he pushed himself effortfully from the floor. The candle was gone, and he blinked into the dull yellow light from the passage. One of them was speaking in thickly accented French. ‘In here.’
Two figures moved towards him, darkly dressed, one of them holding up an oil lamp.
‘Hercule Nadl?’ They were French, thank God. Papie peered up at them eagerly, stretched his hands towards the first man as though the other might help him to stand. In the lamp light he could see their uniforms. Milice.
‘Have you come to get me out?’
‘Not likely. Contraband brewing is a serious offence.’ It was the young one who spoke. Deliberately, Papie let his eyes travel to the holster at the boy’s waist.
‘Given you a real gun, have they? Call yourselves Frenchmen?’ Papie sucked his cheeks for a good gob and spat accurately on the polished boots.
‘Watch it, you old bastard.’
Papie stood as straight as he could manage. ‘How old are you? ’Bout twenty-five? Where was your mother in 1918? Spreading her legs for the Boche, was she?’
There was no time for his satisfaction in the remark to be replaced by surprise as the butt of the pistol cracked up against his jaw.
JANUARY 1944
The goats were eating hay now, it was so bleak there was nothing else left for them. Oriane thought it would be as well to get the last of it down to the floor of the barn before she got too big to be climbing ladders. There was no one about to help, but she could roll the bales over the edge, and if they split so much
the better. It was hard to force herself out into the yard again. When she had let the chickens out earlier the wind had been so bitter her face felt scalded with it. She was so tired, all she wanted to do was sit quiet, as close to the fire as she could. She told herself not to be lazy, and took one of William’s grubby jerseys from the hook behind the door, pulling it down over her wrists and bunching the wool around her fingers. She climbed the ladder more carefully than usual, conscious of every step, so when she saw Monsieur Boissière sitting in the straw at the top her first sensation was anger, that the shock could have made her slip.
The schoolteacher looked extremely cold and miserable, as did Jean Charrot, Nic Dubois, and Marcel Vionne, who were hunched up with their arms around their knees and their caps pulled down over their faces, staring at the plank floor of the loft.
‘Oh, it’s you, Oriane,’ said Monsieur Boissière, sounding relieved.
‘Well, I do live here. What’s all this, Monsieur Boissière?’
‘Shh, you can’t call me that!’
‘Why ever not? What am I supposed to call you? Does Madame Boissière know you’re here, sir? And what about you lot?’ she finished in Occitan.
Oriane thought that they must have got drunk together, somehow, and rolled home along the Cahors road, stopping to sleep it off. But what would the schoolteacher be doing, boozing with lads from the village?
‘Laurent said—’
Marcel interrupted with obvious relish, ‘Remember, Prof.’
‘Ah, yes, La Moto said, we had to stay here until further instructions.’
‘La Moto? Monsieur Boissière, I’m sorry to ask, but have you had a few glasses?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Or anything to eat, come to that,’ put in Nic.
