Assignment in Brittany

by Helen Macinnes

  “You wanted to see me alone?” he suggested.

  She nodded, and put the offending bottle down on the table.

  “Yes. I went down to the village yesterday, and—” He touched her arm and silenced her. He pointed towards the thin wooden partition which separated the outbuildings from the kitchen. She lowered her voice. “Only old Jean and Henri are there,” she said in surprise. “Marie has gone with Albertine.”

  “They’ll soon be in here for breakfast. I’d like to walk in the high field. Would it be too cold for you?”

  She shook her head and lifted a black shawl from the back of a chair. In silence she walked up the hill beside him, her arms crossed under her breast to hold the shawl tightly in place, her smooth head slightly bowed, her full skirts billowing out like a black umbrella in the morning wind.

  When they reached the high field, and walked on open ground with no bushes or trees near them, Anne halted.

  With a smile, she said, “May I talk now?”

  Hearne laughed, and nodded. “Let’s keep near the cabbage patch,” he answered. “We ought to have a good excuse to be up here, even at this hour.”

  “Excuses for everything,” Anne said with surprising bitterness. “Excuses for just being on our own land, or for standing in our own market-place, or—”

  Hearne interrupted. “It isn’t ours at the moment. Anne. They are the men in possession, whether they call it protection or occupation, or conquest. All we can do is wait, and live our own secret lives and make our own plans. They haven’t possessed our minds; and they won’t, unless we let ourselves be deluded. How is it in the village?”

  “As you would expect. You remember I went down with you to the village on the afternoon before you left with Monsieur Myles? I didn’t want to make people think I was looking for Kerénor. I walked about and visited different friends. I couldn’t find him. I went to see Monsieur le Curé, but I couldn’t find him either. Then when I came home, you were upstairs in your room with Monsieur Myles, and Albertine said you were both too busy. I waited, but you didn’t come down; and then I had to go upstairs to read to Madame Corlay before bedtime. And then we went to bed, and I never saw you before you left. It really was such a disappointing day: nothing had come right, and I was very angry with myself.”

  Hearne nodded. “Too bad it happened on your first try, but don’t blame yourself. It’s often like that.”

  “But I went down to the village yesterday afternoon.” Anne was smiling now, so the disappointment couldn’t have been repeated. “And this time I did see Kerénor. He was sitting on the stone bridge, alone with old Monsieur Guézennec and young Picrel. He said, ‘What are you doing here? Don’t you know the Boches are arriving, and no one is going to be in the streets to welcome them? I’m taking you straight home.’ You see, he and the others were turning back anyone from entering the village at that end. And he had men at the other end of the road to stop people coming from the farms on that side. And there was no one in the streets, not a soul to be seen. Even the older children had been taken care of. You know how children run out to see motorcars and soldiers? Well, Monsieur le Curé had taken them all for a picnic to the ruined castle, and he wasn’t going to bring them back until the early evening; and then he was going to march them straight home—no playing on the pavement or in the market-place. That’s why I couldn’t find Monsieur le Curé or Kerénor the day before: they were arranging all this.”

  Anne was excited over her story. She paused to see its effect on Hearne. But he was chiefly interested in the last sentence. “Monsieur le Curé and Kerénor—were they always friendly?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “What is Monsieur le Curé like?”

  “He’s not very big. He’s sort of fat. He has a deep laugh. And he’s kind. Every one likes him. Even Kerénor used to say that, as a man, he wasn’t bad.”

  Hearne, rather impatiently, said, “Yes. But what does he feel about the Boches?”

  Anne looked at him in surprise. “Why, he feels as we do.”

  Hearne was thoughtful. The Breton priests had the reputation of being brave. Few of them were given to equivocation and appeasement. They belonged with the people; but he wanted to be quite sure. He asked, “What did he say in his last sermon, for instance? Were you there?”

  “Oh, yes, every one was there. Even Kerénor. Strangely enough, Monsieur le Curé said something very like what you told me.”

  “I told you? When?”

  “Just five minutes ago...you know, about not letting them conquer our minds. He said we must help each other to keep our minds free from lies against ourselves and our true friends: that as long as our minds were free and we had courage and faith, there was hope. ‘He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.’ And then we sang our hymn—the one you were whistling as you crossed the courtyard this morning. When we got to the refrain, many men couldn’t sing any more, and the women were crying quietly.” Anne’s voice trembled, and she turned to look at the trees which sheltered the back of the village.

  Hearne kept silent. “As long as the sea is its rampart, may my country hold its head high in freedom,” he remembered. Now the sea was no longer the rampart of Brittany’s freedom; now it was the only road to freedom.

  At last he said, “What about Kerénor?”

  Anne was looking at the ground, digging the toe of her black leather shoe gently into the rich earth, watching it fall in thick, moist lumps from the leather as she tilted her foot.

  Hearne tried again. “What did Kerénor say about my message?”

  She faced him so suddenly that he knew she had been trying to find courage to tell him. “He wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Wouldn’t believe you?”

  “No. He said you were a Fascist; that you would do as the Germans told you, and enjoy it.”

  Hearne said to himself, “The damned fool, the bloody idiot.” And then he remembered that, if he had really been Corlay, Kerénor would have been right. He met Anne’s grey-blue eyes, anxious, worried, apologetic. “ I see,” he said calmly.

  “Of course he doesn’t know—” Anne began, and then halted.

  “Know what?” he asked quickly, almost sharply. Anne’s eyes flickered.

  “Know that you’ve changed,” she said in a low voice.

  He looked at her searchingly. Did she know? Had Madame Corlay told her everything? He could read nothing in the calm, gentle face except trust and loyalty and—he shook himself free from these thoughts. Now he was being the damned fool: what on earth had almost made him say “admiration”? How could she find any admiration for a Corlay who had treated her and his own country so abominably?

  “So he doesn’t believe me,” he said, and laughed bitterly. He still couldn’t conceal his disappointment. “Did you tell him what I said about Elise?”

  “Yes.”

  “And even that didn’t convince him I might have changed even as he has changed?” Strange how an intelligent man could always admit his own change of faith, and feel honest and brave about the admission, and yet could go on distrusting any change professed by another man.

  Anne shook her head slowly. She seemed to be fumbling for words. Watching her, Hearne knew that Kerénor’s comment had been bitter. I bet it’s a corker, he thought. It was.

  “He—well, he laughed. He said that was the joke of the year. And then he said that it just needed that touch to convince him completely that you were a—a Fascist liar.”

  Hearne looked so blankly at her that she rushed on, “You see, he thinks you have always been a bad influence on Elise. And he says that Elise is vain and weak and may be pleasant to the Germans, because that kind of person always is. But it is quite impossible for her to have any power, or to be dangerous except to herself.”

  “I see. And I suppose I was only accusing Elise, so that by sacrificing her I could prove how truly I have changed?”

  “That was what he
thought.”

  Hearne looked at the large, serious eyes: in the early morning light they were grey, a soft clear grey.

  “And what does Anne think?” he asked gently.

  Anne smiled. “I think that Kerénor is being too clever. He always did think too much. He’d find reasons behind reasons, and all he did was to make himself feel clever and unhappy. He really did love Elise once; now I think he despises her for what he calls her ‘weakness.’ But he is still infatuated. She is very beautiful, isn’t she?” There was an anxious look in her eyes as she waited for his answer.

  “Yes, she’s beautiful, Anne. But it’s skin-deep. She’ll need something more than that when she is reaching the age of forty.”

  Anne smiled again, this time a strange little smile, but didn’t reply. She was looking at the earth once more. She was probably thinking that forty seemed much too far off to be of any consolation to the women Elise was going to hurt before then.

  Hearne was making a pretence of studying the rows of vegetables. What, he was asking himself, what are we to do now? Just leave Saint-Déodat to its fate at the hands of the sweet Elise and her gentle friends? Or should he make one more try? Monsieur le Curé...would he listen, or had, he his own distrusts of Corlay? Hearne walked among the rows of round, fat cabbages, and wondered. After all, this wasn’t his job... His job was to report on the traffic on the roads and railways and canal. His job was to get information liable to form a patch of the jigsaw puzzle which Matthews and these other blokes in their hush-hush rooms could fit together into a pattern of German intentions. His job was to do a microscopic piece of the groundwork for future bombing raids, for the upsetting of carefully laid invasion plans. He halted and looked at the sun’s broadening rays flowing over the hillsides, over the sheltered village and open farms. By God, he thought, anything which hurts the Nazis, anything which helps their enemies, is also part of my job. He could always argue that with Matthews, and he knew that, if his real mission was well done, Matthews would listen and even agree. If his real mission was well done. Matthews was a Scot.

  His best plan would have to be this: to wait until the time came for him to start his last walk to the coast. Then Madame Corlay, after he had left, could tell Monsieur le Curé everything, and by that time his warning would be believed. If, he thought in sudden gloom as he looked towards the hidden houses of Saint-Déodat, if it were not too late for some of them by that time.

  Anne had come up to him. Her hand lightly touched his arm for a moment. “Marie and Albertine are home now,” she said. “They’ve just entered the house. I think I must go back.”

  “So she bullies you too?” Hearne said teasingly.

  “Albertine? But she’s so old, and she works so hard, and she deserves some kind of—”

  “Respect?”

  “Well, yes. Why are you smiling? Do I seem so stupid?”

  “You seem just the way I like to think of you, Anne.” He paused. “Anne—” He paused again. Hell, he kept saying “Anne, Anne, Anne.” Was it an easy name for his tongue, or what?

  “Yes,” she said, and halted with her head slightly tilted to one side. Not coy. No, she wasn’t coy. She was just Anne.

  Never mind,” he said abruptly, and began walking quickly down to the house. She was hurrying to keep up with him.

  “What shall we do about Kerénor?” she asked.

  “I’m still thinking about that. Don’t risk anything, Anne, and don’t worry.” And then, almost as much to change the subject as to solve a problem which had suggested itself to him, he said, “By the way, I’ve been calling you Anne all the time. But you haven’t mentioned my name once today. And you call me vous, I notice. What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me, either?”

  “I trust you.” Her voice was very low. There was a hint of a smile in her eyes, now more blue than grey. “But, you see, I don’t know your name.”

  He checked his pace, and grasped her arm. “What?” he said.

  “I don’t know your name.”

  He glanced towards the house. They were too near it. He turned, and, still holding her arm, led her back up the hill.

  “Now what on earth do you mean by that?” he managed to say with a show of injured innocence. So Madame Corlay had told her. Perhaps, as a woman, she had thought it only fair to tell the girl who thought she was betrothed to this man. Women were like that. Not that Madame Corlay need have been wary of him: not much, anyway; not as long as he was worried stiff by the job he had on hand. Then, Anne was Anne. Only swine like Corlay would hurt a girl like Anne. Elise, now—well, that was another cup of tea. She would deserve anything that was coming to her. She was just one of those bitches who went about asking for it.

  Anne said again, “But I don’t know your name.”

  It was no good evading it. That would only lessen her trust in him, and that was no good either. In one way he was glad she knew. In one way he felt relief. “It still must be Bertrand,” he said slowly.

  There was a shadow on her face. “You, perhaps, don’t trust me,” she said.

  “I trust you, Anne. It just isn’t safe for you to know me as anyone but Bertrand Corlay.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean that. We are all in great danger, Anne. You and Madame Corlay must never know. Then, later, if there’s any questioning, you will be able to say truthfully that you did think of me as Bertrand Corlay.”

  “Later?”

  “Yes.” Quite baldly he added, “When I have left here.”

  “When you have left—” Anne’s voice was low enough to sound like a faint echo.

  “You see?”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “So Madame Corlay told you?” He was almost speaking to himself.

  “Only,” said Anne, “after I had guessed. There were little things...things which I had missed in the real Bertrand.” She paused as if she couldn’t go on. “Oh, this is all silly. And she didn’t really tell me: only hinted, so that I was sure my feeling was right. And then this morning, you whistled Bro Goz Ma Zadou.”

  “Didn’t the real Bertrand know that song?”

  “Yes. But he couldn’t whistle. That was something he was very touchy about. He just sort of blew.” She laughed in spite of herself. He caught her arm again and swung her round on the path.

  “Home, this time,” he said. “Albertine will begin to get her suspicions aroused, too. And two women are enough in one secret. I must say you kept it well, yesterday, when you were arguing with Kerénor.”

  Anne’s answer ended his new worry. “I didn’t tell him. I’ll tell him only when you think I should.”

  “Two women are enough,” Hearne repeated. “Good girl, Anne,” he added. Something in his voice surprised himself. Anne was smiling again. In the warm sunlight her eyes were quite blue, her cheeks were flushed.

  They walked in silence back to the house.

  Seven days, Hearne was thinking, seven days—and he might find that not only was it difficult to continue his work: he might find it too dangerous even to continue living on this farm. He looked at the neat fields around him, at the slate roof gleaming blue in the sunshine. Seven days weren’t much...

  He was right about the danger. But the time was even shorter than he thought.

  22

  CAPTAIN RIEDEL TAKES CHARGE

  On the next day, while the people of Saint-Déodat prepared to go to church, Hearne paid his official visit to Dol. It would have to take place today he decided that morning, for he had his own extremely unofficial business planned for the rest of the week. He hadn’t forgotten Traube’s parting shot about Agent Number 8 from Dol. “You will be responsible,” Traube had said. Nor had he forgotten the German words which had followed him to the restaurant door. “Set one of Ehrlich’s men, too. Advise Ehrlich.” No doubt the movements of Bruneau from Dol were already being noted. And if the supposed Corlay didn’t appear in Dol, then that would be duly noted, too.

  But there was a third remark in that short interview in the restau
rant of the Hôtel Perro which Hearne had not forgotten. As he cycled through the small side-roads, through the thick dust of their loose surface, he was repeating to himself, “Kalb, Major Kalb. Kalb of the Schutzstaffel. Kalb, organiser of Dol. Heil Kalb! Heil Deutschlands teurem Kalb!” For it was Kalb who had got Hearne into this Sunday suit of Corlay’s with its tight waist and flaring shoulders. It was Kalb who had got Hearne on to Corlay’s decrepit bicycle, patched up yesterday afternoon with old Henri’s help. It was Kalb who was drawing Hearne to the small town of Dol on a hot Sunday morning. Such an opportunity as Traube had given Hearne with that brief reference to Major Kalb was not to be missed. There were plenty of risks attached, but such risks were not only to be taken: they were to be welcomed.

  There were but few travellers on the narrow, twisting roads, and they were all Bretons. (The Germans would travel by the large, first-class road where there was less dust or roughness.) Some cycled like himself, their shoulders and heads bowed over the low handlebars, their feet rotating continuously. Others plodded along between the green hedges and scattered orchards, a basket or a bundled cloth over an arm, their best black clothes already coated with the fine dust. They looked as hot as Hearne felt. Even a shimmer of heat was rising from the green grass.

  When he at last reached the main road, he found his map calculations had been adequate enough. The towers of Dol’s cathedral welcomed him, pointing towards the blue sky and the hum of planes. It was strange, thought Hearne, how people had come to accept that mechanical drone above their heads, as if it were as natural as the wisps of white cloud. He watched the people walking in the streets under the balconies of the old houses. But no one looked upwards; no one shaded his eyes to see what planes could be seen. In the little square which led to the Grande-Rue, the sun baked the cobblestones, and the heat, thrown back in Hearne’s face, stifled him. He dismounted and walked at the edge of the narrow slope of pavement, noting the uniforms. There were more uniforms than Breton costumes in the Grande-Rue. Air Force Personnel. Air Force. Transport. Air Force. Air Force Personnel. Transport. The Bretons he saw were either middle-aged men or young boys. The younger men might now be conscripts in the “labour volunteers,” like Picrel’s son at Saint-Déodat. But it wasn’t only Hearne’s age which made him seem conspicuous. Some of the uniformed men who brushed him aside into the flat gutter had looked pointedly at his natty grey suiting. Hearne wondered how long he would have to wheel this bicycle along the street before someone would stop him. It wouldn’t be long, he guessed.