The towers of Dol’s cathedral dropped behind him. Hearne, keeping his eyes fixed on the white road ahead, only saw a map under glass and the nervous forefinger which had tapped so peremptorily. Here, and here, and here...six points to remember.
23
AT THE HOTEL PERRO
In the week that followed Hearne made good use of his time. Afterwards he wondered just what it was that had impelled him to work so constantly and so hard, almost as if he had foreseen dimly what was going to happen. Then he would laugh at himself, for no one except the most second-sighted Celt would have foreseen that. But there was no doubt of the solid fact—he had made good use of his time.
Each morning he would drop his damp, muddy clothes on his bedroom floor, and then drop his numbed body on to the thickness of his bed. When he awoke his clothes would be gone, and later he would find them dried and brushed, or even washed, in the kitchen downstairs. At first he thought it was Albertine who was responsible. Then one morning when sleep was difficult—the morning after his visit to the aerodromes outside Dol, where he had almost been caught by a German patrol—he had wakened at the sound of the carefully opened door. It was Anne who came in so quietly and gathered up the filthy clothes. He hadn’t moved, pretending to be asleep. She had gone as quickly and silently as she had come.
When he rose and dressed, it seemed as if his footsteps overhead had been the signal for Anne to have hot food ready for him. He wondered just how she had silenced Albertine, who scarcely raised one of her meagre eyebrows when he came down so late. Normally there would have been a feeling of thunder in the air at such nonsensical upsetting of routine. But instead the weather continued fair and warmer. Albertine, eternally busy, would work about the kitchen while Anne, after she had served his meal, would sit across the table from him and talk. Never anything about themselves or the farm, never a hint of a question about the mud on his boots or the tired look on his face. She talked about the village, which she visited daily—as if she had guessed intuitively that that was what he wanted. And Albertine would join in the conversation, too, telling what she had heard that morning after Mass. In this way Hearne knew almost as much about the village as if he had been staying next door to the Hôtel Perro and the Gestapo.
Kerénor had been turned out of his room at the inn. And he had gone to live with Guézennec, of all people! It was as much a symbol of the burying of old quarrels and jealousies as anything. Guézennec, the old schoolmaster, and Kerénor, his successor, were now together under the same roof; and Hearne was willing to bet their conversation wasn’t entirely scholarly, either.
The Trouins had opened their kitchen as a free house: there was no room in the small bar of the Hôtel Perro for any of the villagers. Instead, they brought their cider along with them to the Trouins’, and sat round the large wooden table in the evenings until nine o’clock came and it was time for all Frenchmen to be off the street.
On the day of the weekly market the Bretons were amazed at the quickness with which their produce was bought. The market was over before it was begun, and the farmers found themselves with the right number of “occupation marks” (printed, it was whispered, in a van which stood with the trucks and tents on the green meadow below the church) in their hands, but with none of their usual purchases. For there was nothing left for the Bretons to purchase or to barter with. One large farmer, Laënnec, hadn’t liked the set prices: his vegetables were a bigger and better crop than those he had sold last month for more money. He insisted on an increase in price, or at least an equal barter exchange, and had gone so far as to argue. He wasn’t good at keeping his temper. Before Monsieur le Curé could reach him and lead him away to discuss the new regulations, he had thrown the worthless marks in the face of the nearest German soldier. By the time Monsieur le Curé had pushed his way to the spot all he saw was hot-headed Laënnec being marched to the small town hall at the side of the marketplace. From there he had been transferred to working on the roads. Quite a number had been “recruited” for that job; but it was particularly hard on the Laënnecs, for (unlike Picrel’s son and the others who were now working on the road which led through Saint-Déodat) Laënnec himself had been sent to some foreign country. No one knew where, although the guesses were as wild as they were numerous. Not even his wife knew. Old Madame Picrel had closed up her shop—she said her son could take care of anything left to sell—and had gone up to the small Laënnec farm to help. It was difficult for Marie Laënnec, with three small children and a baby still to be born. Even old Monsieur Guézennec had left his books to go up there to help with the digging. The German colonel-in-command of the district announced that he had been extremely lenient.
Otherwise, as Albertine said, things were as normal as you could expect. As normal on the surface, Hearne amended to himself. The Germans were being rigorously correct. No incidents, no Frightfulness, so far. Nothing like the last German invasion. Hearne, watching Albertine’s relief, didn’t voice his thoughts. What was the good of saying “Just wait until they are retreating: wait then, and see how they leave you”? Instead, he listened to the description of the band which played each day at noon in the market-place, of the quickness with which huts were being built to replace the tents under the trees below the church. Even when Albertine marvelled at the fact that some houses in the village had been left unbilleted while German soldiers were sleeping in wooden huts, Hearne kept silent. It would only worry her to realise the true meaning of that fact. The colonel had decided to keep a good portion of his men together, and not let them be scattered. Then he could use them for quick action if that were necessary. Careful man, the colonel: thoroughly realistic. Praktisch.
But the news which seemed most extraordinary to Albertine and Anne was that the annual Pardon, the procession and fete in honour of Saint-Déodat, had not been banned. It was to take place as usual next Sunday. This year the village had decided not to have any festivities after the religious ceremony, when offerings were carried to the church and those taking part in the procession mounted the worn stone steps on their knees, up to the sacred shrine preserving the bones of their Saint. On Sunday all the people from the village, from the farms on the hillsides, would be in the market-place. All would be dressed in their complete national costume. All would bring what they could spare from their fields and kitchens. Every one was pleased, Albertine had said. Except Kerénor, Anne had added—he was worried. He couldn’t guess why the Pardon had been permitted, and that worried him. Again Hearne could have given them all an answer. The Pardon had been permitted because it suited Hans and Elise and their present policy: the Breton nationalists were to be “persuaded” into accepting a separate Breton state. How could any Bretons be persuaded into co-operation if religious traditions were to be banned? And why the importance of this separate Breton state to the Nazis, except that it would be the beginning of the skilful disintegration of France? Alsace; Lorraine; Brittany; the north, with its coal-fields and industries; the Mediterranean south... So Hearne listened, and said nothing. What was the good?
When the women’s news was exhausted, he would go back to his room. There he worked on his notes, listing his findings of the previous night, copying them into his own shorthand, adding careful diagrams or neat two-inch-scale maps when it was necessary for extreme accuracy. Then the sheets of thin paper joined the others behind the false panel in the bookcase, and he would pay his short daily visit to Madame Corlay. After that, it was a matter of preparing with the map for the journey he would make next night. He had to know each mile of ground forward, backward, and sideways.
It was a simple enough routine, but it was producing results. The railway, the roads, the canal—all these had repaid his visit. Trucks, oil-tanks, barges, concentrations of material and troops, construction work, all found their place in the notes on the square miles which formed his “district.” And above all, the airfields which were being built to the north of Dol. He could feel some pleasure as he looked at the bookcase each morning. “Thank
you, Captain Riedel,” he would say, and he would salute it informally with one finger and a wide grin. That was how he was feeling these days. He ought to have known that the luck was too good to hold. Especially after that long night near Dol, when the patrol just missed him by so little... just by a bullet grazing his thigh. He ought to have known. Perhaps, deep underneath, he did.
For when the Germans came, he rose to his feet almost calmly. No time to move, no time to get away by the back door. There were footsteps in the yard. Anyway, he thought, there was nothing left lying about upstairs to incriminate him. He even gave Anne, her eyes wide with fear, a smile of encouragement.
It was Albertine who had voiced their thoughts as the pounding came to the front door and they heard it open.
“The Boches,” she had said, and crossed herself as if the Devil himself had arrived. Anne rose from the table where she had been sitting as he finished his bowl of soup. She had been laughing at something he had said. Her lips were still parted, but the laugh had died in her throat.
He was on his feet, too. And yet he was calm enough, as if he were only reacting to something which he had been long expecting.
He had only time to say to the two white-faced women “Keep silent!” and then the German lieutenant walked into the kitchen. His hand was on his revolver. Two armed soldiers were behind him. Two more entered from the back door.
“Corlay?” In appearance, even in voice, the man was a duplicate of Deichgräber.
Albertine’s hand had gone to her mouth as if she were holding in a scream. Anne stood as still and white as a statue. She hardly seemed to breathe.
“Yes. What do you want?”
The officer pointed with his revolver to the door. “At once!” he said.
“Why?”
“At once!”
Hearne shrugged his shoulders. He left the two women standing beside the table. Albertine was crying silently, her hand still held to her lips. Anne was as rigid as if she were facing a firing squad herself. He felt her eyes follow him into the yard.
In the high field old Jean and Marie were standing, watching. Henri had gone.
Past the heap of hay on the cobbled yard, past the pool of water which gleamed beside the well, past the empty cart lying backwards with its shafts pointing into the air. And then they were round the corner of the house. He looked up involuntarily at Madame Corlay’s front window. She was there. She had left her chair; and she was trying to pull the window open. She must have succeeded, because as they took the path to Saint-Déodat he could hear her voice. Perhaps the solid Germans grouped round him didn’t know Breton: for Madame Corlay’s sake, he hoped not.
And then he saw Henri. Henri had reached the orchard. He was standing there, near the third tree in the seventh row. And then there were only the fields, and the dovecote, and Anne’s farm, and the thin fringe of trees...
Today was the nineteenth: Friday the nineteenth. Tomorrow Elise should arrive. So it couldn’t be that Kerénor had told her about his warning. In any case, Kerénor was not a teller of tales. No, it couldn’t have been that. Or was it that Deichgräber had been found still alive? Or that Ehrlich’s mission to Mont Saint-Michel had resulted in the arrest of Pléhec and Duclos? Or that Captain Riedel had become suspicious? Or that Henri had got drunk and talked about the American? Or had the boat which sailed for Penzance been captured? Or what? If only he knew, then he could muster up some kind of story, perhaps even be able to deny enough to give himself a brief respite, a chance to collect his notes from the bookcase and head for the coast tonight. He cursed silently to himself as they crossed the stone bridge into the village street. Even if he could only get a chance to make for the coast, he could always leave his notes behind. He remembered enough of the main details to do without them if necessary. But the real problem was letting Duclos know in time, so that he could be picked up on the French coast as arranged. For originally, before van Cortlandt blew in on the scene to alter things, Hearne’s plan had been to visit Mont Saint-Michel just as he was ready to leave. Then Duclos would have sent out the chief items of his information—to make sure of its arrival—and then let Matthews know from where and when he was leaving. Matthews had given him the choice of three suitable places. Well, now it looked as if he couldn’t use that choice. Now he wouldn’t even be able to get word in time to Duclos by the boat which had brought him back from the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel. He didn’t fancy spending any extra days or nights on the shores of Brittany, waiting for his message to reach Duclos and then Matthews: not with the Gestapo hot on his trail. Now he’d better just try to get any boat and sail across the Channel, alone if necessary.
They had left the road and turned west into the marketplace, following its south side and the narrow pavement leading to the Hôtel Perro. This was the way he had come when he was looking for Henri, on the day the Gestapo had first appeared in Saint-Déodat. The Nazi flag was still there, but now there was also a detachment of soldiers in fatigue uniform with spades and picks over their shoulders. They swung through the square. They were singing, loudly, carefully, operatically. A few civilians, their eyes averted, hurried on their business, or stopped to speak quietly and briefly to one another. The German words marched in perfect unison. They flattened your feelings as if they were a steam-roller, Hearne thought: Even when the hard sound of exact boots had blurred in the distance, the chorus of voices remained like a bitter echo in your heart.
They passed two men: one old and white-haired, the other short and fat with his priest’s hat squarely set above a kindly face, now more stern than good-humoured. The Curé and his companion looked at Hearne with only half interest, and backed against the wall to let the officer, the four soldiers, and Hearne pass.
They mustn’t get the wrong idea, Hearne decided. He wasn’t coming to visit his Nazi friends with a bodyguard to protect him. He pretended to step out of line towards the priest. It worked. The soldier behind him caught his arm roughly and forced him back into his place. There could be no doubt at all of the way the soldiers had crowded more closely around him, no doubt at all of the lieutenant’s animosity in the quickly barked command, the sudden movement of hand to revolver. He didn’t object even to the way in which two soldiers held him with unnecessary vehemence as they urged him into the hotel. Behind him the two men were standing motionless against the wall: but their eyes had followed him with an interest which had become real.
Now, thought Hearne savagely as he was pushed through the restaurant, Kerénor will perhaps believe my message. But at the moment that was cold comfort.
They had crossed the floor of the empty restaurant. To their right the bar seemed empty, too. It was quiet enough. The lieutenant halted at the back of the room, and knocked neatly and politely on a door.
A voice said “Herein!” And again two of the soldiers gripped his arms and almost ran him through the door after the officer. Just inside the room they halted, still gripping his arms.
There were people in the room. He could hear movements—a cough, two men talking quickly to the lieutenant. But he could not see any of them, for a large draught screen stood across the entrance, shutting off the room. The two soldiers holding him had halted behind it. All he could see was a side view of some heavy furniture backed against the wall at this end of the room. Not Breton furniture, either. Probably this had been Madame Perro’s living-room, and the furniture had been brought with her when she came to the village. He noted some cheap prints in massive frames on the plaid wallpaper: they were views of towns. By stretching his neck, he could see the three nearest—views of one town, he corrected himself. Views of Strasbourg. So that was where Madame Perro and her charming niece came from—Strasbourg. That was quite possible. That explained a lot of things, quite a lot.
One of the soldiers had noticed his interest in the pictures. He knocked Hearne’s head to face the screen, with a side blow from his fist. Charming fellows, Hearne thought, and then the voice which had given the command “Herein!” spoke once more.<
br />
“Bring him forward.”
Damn it all, you don’t need to shove me about with so much relish, Hearne thought savagely, and checked the impulse to hit the short nose of the long-chinned private who had taken a particular pleasure in a heavy grip on his arm. The two soldiers let him go so suddenly that he almost stumbled. He caught his balance, straightened himself in time, and looked at the table in front of him.
Three men faced him across it. Only one of them was a soldier: a captain. There, but for the grace of God and a quicksand, would probably have sat Deichgräber. The other two men, watching him intently with that close-eyed, tight-lipped look peculiar to their breed, didn’t need their darker uniforms to identify them. So the boys themselves were here, thought Hearne: the perverts, the sodomites, the torturers. Pleasant time he was going to have. The young lieutenant saluted smartly and turned on his heel. The soldiers followed him out of the room. He could hear the sound of heavy boots diminishing through the echoing restaurant.
And then a door, which must have led from the bar itself, opened and closed. The girl who had entered paused, with her shoulder leaning back against its panels as she looked round the room. There was an amused smile on her lips, a tilt to her head which showed the line of her neck, a flicker of black eyelashes veiling the green eyes.
Hearne felt a stab of admiration. The timing, the gestures, the entrance, was all so perfect. It was a pity that the three men were absorbed in watching his face. He took a step forward.
“Elise,” he said, with sufficient enthusiasm and relief and surprise.
She walked across to the armchair beside the window. She settled herself on one of its arms, curving her legs to the side like a ballet dancer, one arm stretched along its back. She looked at him directly for the first time. Her eyes widened.
“Well,” she said, “and how are you, Mr. Hearne?”
Assignment in Brittany Page 27
