The smoke carried on drifting into the blue sky. How many more of these camps were there? If Jews were being killed simply because they were Jews, then what defence could any Jew have?
As they walked back down the hill that evening, the distant lights of Schirmeck evoked in Farnham a momentary spasm of anger. He had no doubt that everyone knew – the moment he had stepped off the bus on the previous day he had felt something in the air, seen it in the faces. Those people at home eating their supper, or drinking and chatting in one of the bars, were doing their best to pretend that life went on as normal, knowing all the time that in the hills above them a terrible evil was afoot. They knew, but they did nothing.
His anger faded as the town grew nearer. What could they do? Charge up the hill and end up being gassed themselves?
They were nearing the point where the dirt track metamorphosed into the road, some two hundred yards above Marcel’s house, which was still hidden from view around a bend. The road was unlit, which made it easy to see the headlight beams suddenly sweeping across the houses ahead. Almost at once these moving circles of light came to a halt, without the car itself coming into view.
It seemed probable to Farnham that it had stopped outside Marcel’s house, and he found himself walking faster. One bright-yellow headlight came into view, then the other. In the darkness behind them he saw at least two figures moving towards the house, then heard the sharp rap on the door.
There didn’t seem much doubt about who the visitors were – no Resistance people would drive up in such a car, lights blazing. But what should he do? Wait to see if Marcel could talk his way out of trouble? No, Farnham thought instinctively. They might drag the Frenchman out at any moment – him and Madeleine – and then it would be too late. He pulled Lucien to one side, and announced that he was going down to investigate.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Lucien said, ‘but I don’t have a weapon.’
‘No,’ Farnham told him. ‘If we’re all taken you’ll have to warn the others. So get going.’
The young Maquisard’s mouth flirted with obstinacy before the sense of what Farnham was saying took hold. He touched the Englishman briefly on the shoulder, wished him luck and started back up the road.
Farnham took a deep breath and set off, walking swiftly towards the illuminated area ahead. The headlights were soon shining directly at him, and at any moment he expected a guttural shout to emerge from behind them, but none came. In the right-hand pocket of his trousers the butt of the pistol felt cold against his hand.
And then the shot came from the house – a loud crack, like wood splintering in a fire. He walked faster, wanting to run but knowing that a running man would be instantly recognized as an enemy.
He was about fifty feet away when they emerged on to the pavement. Two of them, both in long leather coats, each holding one of Madeleine’s arms. They didn’t notice him for a couple of seconds, which gave him ten more feet, and then one of them snarled something in German, giving him the chance to feign incomprehension as he kept walking.
The nearest German let go of Madeleine’s right arm and turned towards him, still snarling, his hand reaching into his coat pocket.
Farnham was now about twenty-five feet away, which was still quite a distance with a strange gun, shooting into the light. He slid it from his pocket, straightened his arm at eye level, braced his legs and pulled the trigger, hoping to God the gun didn’t explode in his hand.
The German jerked backwards and a thunderous roar echoed down the street. His partner made the mistake of trying to pull Madeleine closer to him as he reached for his own gun. When that got caught in his coat pocket he needed the hand that was holding her, and she half fell, half threw herself to one side, giving Farnham a clear target. The pistol boomed again, and the second German collapsed with a groan.
Farnham strode forward. The first man was dead, the second looked like he might survive. But he had seen Madeleine. Farnham hesitated for only a second before putting the barrel of the pistol against the side of the man’s head and pulling the trigger.
Madeleine was back on her feet. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s Marcel?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Then let’s go,’ he said, looking round. Which way should they go? He could hear feet and voices on the main road below, and the dark road stretching up into the hills looked inviting, but something told him that was not the way to run. ‘Get in the car,’ he told her.
She gave him an enquiring glance, apparently decided that this wasn’t the time for a discussion, and got in.
In the driver’s seat Farnham was struggling with the controls. The engine was already running, but there was no space to turn the car, and for several long seconds he couldn’t find reverse. When he did the car leapt backwards like a metal gazelle, and as they careered downhill towards the main street he thought for one dreadful moment that he was going to crash it. The left-hand wheels jumped up on to the pavement on the corner, and there was a loud thumping noise as someone ran into the back of the moving car. On the other side a man in uniform had leapt out of their way, his rifle clattering on the street.
More by luck than judgement, Farnham had spun the car round so that its bonnet was facing west. But in the distance they could see more headlights, a whole stream of them. A Wehrmacht convoy was headed their way. Then another gunshot sounded, and they heard the sound of breaking glass behind them.
Farnham rammed the gear-stick into first and took off, shifting gears upwards as he spun round the town square and shot out along the road which led east. As they reached the last of the buildings the valley narrowed before them, and the road was joined on either side by the river and railway. ‘Where does this road go?’ he asked her, scanning the mirror for signs of pursuit.
‘Germany,’ she said quietly.
He glanced across at her. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can we double back somewhere, find another road which will take us west?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know this…’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Farnham interjected, having just noticed that the fuel gauge showed close to empty. ‘We haven’t got enough petrol for more than a few miles.’ They were turning a bend in the valley when he thought he glimpsed lights in the distance behind them. ‘And we’ve got company,’ he added.
‘We’ll have to get into the forest,’ she said.
‘Yes, but where?’
‘Turn off the lights,’ she said, and after a moment’s hesitation he did so. She was right. The moon must be lurking somewhere behind the mountains, because the natural light was good enough to drive by, and without the headlights shining in front of them they could make out more of the valley’s topography.
Both road and railway had crossed over the river about half a mile back, leaving them on the left-hand side of the valley, the tracks in the centre, the rushing water on the right. To their left the walls of the valley rose steeply, and finding a suitable place to climb would be a hit-and-miss affair, but the river lay between them and the gentler slopes to the right.
‘Up ahead,’ she said excitedly, pointing through the windscreen at a bridge which carried the railway across the river.
It looked as good a bet as any. And the Germans would have to follow them on foot. Farnham pulled the car up, just as the engine misfired again. It was the bridge or nothing.
They scrambled out and over the wooden fence which separated the road from the railway, half tumbled down a low bank to the tracks and started running between the rails towards the bridge. Farnham could hear no sign of pursuit, but the river was loud enough to drown it. As they neared the entrance to the bridge he prayed they wouldn’t meet a train halfway across.
The black waters swirled beneath the girders, and they had to slow their progress to avoid falling through the gaps in the plating, but the road behind th
em was still empty when they reached the other side. Once over the bridge, the tracks swung left, running along an embankment between the river and a series of bare rock-faces. Farnham was reminded of San Severino and the fate which had befallen Corrigan and Imrie, but there was nowhere else to go.
‘Look!’ she said. Three pairs of headlights had appeared on the road, and as the beams from the first pair encompassed the car they had abandoned the sound of screeching brakes was audible above the river.
‘Come on!’ Farnham urged, and they took off again, haring as fast as they could across the irregularly spaced sleepers. As he ran, it occurred to Farnham that if the Germans had the sense to drive one of their vehicles forward a couple of hundred yards and angle it so the headlights shone across the river he and Madeleine would be sitting ducks.
A couple of seconds later the sound of a motor revving produced a sinking sensation in his stomach. And then he heard the howling of dogs, and pictured them straining at the leash.
Ahead of him, Madeleine seemed to be losing speed, which was hardly surprising. They had to get off the tracks, and quickly. Farnham was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that even the river offered a better chance of escape when he noticed the stream which plunged under the tracks from a gap in the cliffs. Looking back, he could see figures racing across the bridge behind them. ‘We’ll have to jump,’ he told her, staring down into the gloom where the stream entered the culvert. It looked about six feet, but there was no way of knowing what sort of surface they’d land on.
He half expected her to argue, but she was already judging her jump, and a second later she launched herself into space. He followed, landing beside her with a splash, jarring an ankle on a stone. But it wasn’t sprained, and she was already starting up the fast-running stream, brogues in hand. He struggled after her, feeling the cold water biting at his feet, and listening for sounds of pursuit. After a couple of minutes he heard the dogs again, but this time their barking was swallowed by the louder noise of an approaching train. ‘That should slow the bastards down,’ he murmured to himself.
They kept climbing, concentrating on keeping their feet on the uneven stream bed, and heard the train go clanking past in the valley below. Once it had rumbled across the bridge the sound of its passage slowly faded, and in the ensuing silence they could hear nothing else. When, after another ten minutes, there was still no sign of their pursuers they climbed gratefully out of the stream and let the vastness of the forest close around them like a cloak.
It was another two hours before Farnham would let them stop, even for a short rest, and in the meantime they headed vaguely southwards, using the stars and newly risen moon as guides. They made use of those paths and dirt tracks which seemed to point in roughly the right direction, but sometimes there was no choice but to burrow through the virgin forest. Here the difficulties of forcing a passage often put a stop to conversation, but on the paths and tracks, once they began to feel safe from pursuit, the two of them talked.
The first thing Farnham wanted to know was what had happened in Schirmeck.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I was in the attic, keeping quiet. What I think happened was that Marcel realized they were going to find me up there, and after taking them up the first flight of stairs he made a run for it. I think he hoped that if they had to follow him out into the street then I would have time to get away, but they just shot him. When they brought me down from the attic he was lying at the bottom of the stairs with a bullet in his back.’
‘How did they know about him?’
‘I don’t know, but these things happen all the time. It might have just been a lucky guess, or someone in the street saw us going in and reported it, or someone in the local Maquis betrayed him.’
‘Do you think they expected to find you there?’
‘Not me in particular.’
‘We’ll, you’ll be safe with Yves’ group.’
‘Perhaps, but my work is in St Dié.’
He had been afraid she was going to say that.
‘Those two Germans didn’t know who I was, and they were the only ones who saw me.’
Which was true enough, he thought.
‘Thank you for what you did,’ she said, stopping for a moment and turning her face to his.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, not sure whether she was referring to the rescue as a whole or his execution of the wounded German.
She turned away, and resumed walking. ‘What happened to Lucien?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘He wanted to come with me, but I told him someone would have to warn the others if I failed.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for at Struthof?’ she asked, as if he’d been out on a shopping expedition.
‘More or less,’ he said, hoping that the film had survived his walk up the stream. ‘They’re killing people in droves in that camp.’
‘That’s what Marcel told me.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I’m not. Nothing really surprises me about the Germans any more. I’ve known of too many people that they’ve tortured to death.’
There was no answer to that. ‘How far do you think we are from Yves’ camp?’ he asked.
‘About twenty-five miles perhaps. In a straight line, that is. Many more by paths like this. If we could keep walking through the day I think we would be lucky to reach it before midnight.’
‘We should sleep through the day. Or at least for a few hours. And we need to find some food somewhere.’
‘We can stop at a farm,’ she said, ‘but not during the day. There’s no way of knowing which farmers can be trusted, and we don’t want the Germans on our trail while it’s still light.’
They walked on, their limbs growing heavier with each mile. The way south seemed mostly uphill, and by the early hours they knew they had climbed quite high into the mountains. Soon after three o’clock they came to a surprisingly good road, which followed the back of a long ridge, offering occasional glimpses of the distant lands to east and west through breaks in the trees. It had been built by the military, Madeleine guessed out loud, and probably in the past twenty years.
They followed this road south for another two hours, but as the first glimmer of light appeared in the eastern sky Farnham started looking for an alternative. Almost immediately the road took a convenient turn to the west, leaving them to plunge once more into the forest. Another half-hour and they were looking down at a wide valley which cut across the direction of their march. The sun was still behind the mountains to the east, the valley still in shadows, but they knew there wasn’t enough time for a safe crossing of the open fields below.
‘I reckon this is where we rest,’ Farnham said. The wind seemed to be blowing both stronger and colder, but perhaps it was just that they had stopped moving. That and the lack of food. The thought of a hot, sweet cup of tea crossed his mind, and almost made him dizzy with desire.
‘I think I know where we are,’ Madeleine said beside him. ‘That’s the road to Sélestat,’ she said, indicating the faint grey line which wound through the valley below. ‘Ville is a few miles up that way. I remember cycling down this road before the war.’ She crossed her arms over her breasts and hugged herself. ‘We still have a long way to go.’
He could see she was shivering. ‘I think I remember a small hollow back in the trees,’ he said. ‘It should be a bit warmer, and maybe we can get some sleep.’
She followed him dutifully, but the hollow turned out to be not much more than a grassy dent in the ground, and in the trees above the birds were making such a racket that sleep seemed unlikely.
At least the ground was dry. They both lay down, keeping a modest distance between them, and after a while she burst out laughing. ‘This is absurd,’ she said. ‘We could at least help keep each other warm.’ She crawled across to him. ‘This is no time for being too English,’ she said, and snuggled up next to him. ‘I need an arm,’ she complained.
He obligingly w
ound one around her shoulder and pulled her head on to his chest. He had to admit he felt warmer, in more ways than one. The faintest trace of lily of the valley was in his nostrils, and the temptation to stroke her hair was almost irresistible. A few moments later he realized he was stroking it, and she hadn’t leapt to her feet in outrage.
Her right hand, which had been clasping her left, was now moving across his waist, encircling him. ‘Your back’s frozen,’ she said suddenly, and jerking herself upright, she pulled off her coat. ‘Put your left arm in here,’ she said, holding up the right sleeve of the coat, ‘and I’ll put mine in here and…’
Suddenly they were kissing, all thought of the cold forgotten, lying side by side, legs wonderfully entangled, stomachs pressing together. As the dawn light brightened he could see her nipples pressing against the thin cotton dress, and as he gently caressed one with his fingers her hand ran down across his stomach to stroke his throbbing cock. ‘I haven’t done this for a long time,’ she said softly.
‘Neither have I,’ he said.
His hands fumbled with the buttons on the front of her dress, until all were undone and he could draw it apart. Her brassière was fastened at the front, and he slipped the clasp and drew the cups aside to reveal pale and beautiful breasts, their tawny nipples quivering to the touch of his fingers and his tongue. He kissed each breast, kissed her stomach and her belly button, and as she arched her back he slipped off her knickers and kissed the triangle of moist golden hair.
She watched as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled down his pants, then reached both hands forward to stroke him gently with both palms. ‘Come inside me,’ she said, guiding him in and crossing her ankles behind his back.
He came almost at once, but it didn’t seem to matter, for after what seemed only minutes he was as hard as before, and this time they swayed to and fro, moving first urgently and then languidly, finally stopping altogether and letting passion alone push them into a shared climax.
For King and Country Page 10
