Chasing Ghosts

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Thomas shouted when Claire reached the edge of the wood. ‘Can you see me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you were a sniper, you wouldn’t have to find any higher ground than where you are standing now, would you?’

  ‘No.’ Claire raised an imaginary rifle, her left arm and hand the barrel, the butt against her right shoulder and her right elbow crooked. She curled her right forefinger loosely around the imaginary trigger, and with Thomas in her sights, she tightened it. ‘Click!’

  With no trees to hang on to, Claire slipped and stumbled and, on her hands and knees, slid down the path stopping only when she reached level ground. ‘Thomas?’ she looked around. There was no sign of him. ‘Thomas?’ she shouted, ‘where are you?’

  ‘Here,’ he said, scrambling out of a ditch. ‘That’s what Alain did, didn’t he? He rolled into a ditch and stayed there until the Germans stopped looking for him?’

  Claire nodded. She looked up at the trees. ‘The sniper wasn’t lying in wait after all. He followed them from the prison.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like. Alain took a bullet because he was the last man down the hill from the wood. A few seconds later and he would have been away.’

  The clearing was littered with chunks of the mountain that had broken off or been worn away over the years by the weather. Claire hobbled over to a large rock and sat down.

  ‘Have you hurt your ankle?’

  ‘No. It’s mud.’ She lifted her foot. ‘It’s so caked on it’s difficult to walk properly that’s all.’ She picked up a stick and began digging out clods of mud from between the ridges of tread on the soles of her boots. ‘Ouch!’ She threw the stick away and lifted her hands. The ends of the fingers and the palms of her gloves were ripped to shreds, and her hands were bleeding.

  ‘What about you?’ Claire looked up at the steep bank that they’d slid down, and then back at Thomas. ‘Did you hurt your bottom?’ she asked, trying not to laugh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you had trained in the Alps, and…’ Claire began to laugh. ‘You looked so funny flying down the bank on your rear end.’

  Thomas stood up and put both hands on his backside. ‘It is muddy. Other than that, my bottom is fine, thank you. So unless you wish to be left here, I advise you to stop laughing.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Claire said, putting on a serious face. She couldn’t keep it up and burst into laughter. ‘Come on, you have to admit it was funny. The way you--’ She couldn’t get the words out for laughing.

  Thomas strode over to her and pretending to be angry, grabbed the lapels of her coat and pulled her up until her face was level with his. Looking into his eyes, Claire saw the feigned look of anger change to a caring smile. She could feel his warm breath on her cheeks and her heart began to pound. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, letting her go.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Claire backed away. With her heart still pounding she looked around. ‘So,’ she said, ‘where do we go from here?’

  ‘Not back up that damn mud bank,’ Thomas said, ‘and not that way.’ He pointed in the direction of the car. He took the map from his pocket. ‘If we went south we would eventually come across the trail to Spain, over the Pyrenees.’

  ‘Which we know Alain didn’t take.’

  ‘Right! So, it must be east,’ Thomas said. He rummaged around in his overcoat pockets and then pushed his hand into the inside of his coat. ‘Got it.’ With a stub of pencil, he drew a circle on the map. ‘There are two villages nearby. One,’ he said, leaning towards Claire so she could see the map, ‘is just over that hill.’ She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together making them a thin line, to stop herself from laughing again. Thomas sighed and nudged her, taking her by surprise, and she almost lost her balance. Ignoring her, he continued, ‘The only other village within carrying a body distance is on this road.’ He pointed to a wide straight line leading to a jumble of smaller lines that represented country roads leading to clusters of dwellings.

  ‘I think we should try the nearest village first. Alain didn’t remember much about it when he got home, but he said it was more like a village than a town.’

  Thomas turned the map sideways and squinted. ‘St. Emile it is then. Ready?’

  Claire took a deep breath. ‘Ready!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was a church that first came into view, and then the building next to it, which Claire assumed was the vicarage. There were probably two dozen houses altogether, built in a semi-circle around a pond. On the walk up to the church they passed a school on the left and a grocery shop and doctor’s surgery on the right. Claire nudged Thomas and nodded towards the surgery. ‘Do you think it could be that doctor who helped Alain?’

  ‘Possibly. They wouldn’t have two doctors in a village this size, would they?’ Claire lifted her shoulders as if to say she didn’t know. ‘You are sure Alain didn’t tell you the name of the doctor?’

  ‘Positive. You know yourself names were never exchanged. It was safer not to know someone’s name, then you couldn’t tell the Bosch if you were arrested. What you didn’t know, they couldn’t beat out of you.’

  ‘I know. I just wondered if he met the woman--’

  ‘Simone!’ Claire said. ‘You can say her name.’

  ‘If she was in the Resistance, or the daughter of the doctor - and not in the prison with Alain - she might still be around.’

  ‘Well we’ll soon find out,’ Claire said. ‘There’s a woman coming out of the church. I’ll ask her.’

  Thomas took hold of Claire’s arm. ‘Wait!’ he said, stopping her abruptly. ‘What exactly are you going to ask her?’

  ‘If she knows of a doctor in the village who helped an injured Canadian airman after he’d escaped from the Gestapo prison who might, or might not, have a daughter named Simone.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Leave Simone out of it. If she is the daughter of the doctor and she was working for the Germans, chances are the doctor was working for them too.’

  ‘If that was the case, the doctor wouldn’t have saved Alain’s life. Think about it.’

  ‘Doctors take an oath to save lives, whatever the nationality,’ Thomas argued. ‘But never mind about that. I just don’t think we should say anything about Alain, the prison or Simone until we’ve met the doctor and got the measure of him.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that?’

  ‘Your hands are cut, aren’t they?’

  ‘Scratched.’ Claire took off her gloves and turned her hands palms up.

  ‘Good God! They are more than scratched,’ Thomas said, surprised to see the skin on Claire’s hands torn and bleeding. ‘You really should see a doctor. You need to get them cleaned and dressed or they’ll become infected.’

  ‘They look worse than they are, but you’re right, they do need cleaning, and they will get us into the surgery.’

  Thomas rang the bell and stepped back so he was standing next to Claire. The door opened after a few minutes and a young woman in a white nurse’s uniform invited them into the surgery’s waiting room.

  ‘As this is your first visit to Doctor D’Aramitz I need to take down a few details. We’ll start with your name?’ the nurse said, her pen poised above a large notepad.

  ‘Therese Belland, Mrs.’

  ‘And your address?’

  Claire had been trained by the SOE to give an address, any address, as long as it wasn’t her own. But that was in the war. It was peacetime now. A dozen reasons why she still shouldn’t tell this girl the truth crowded into her mind. She could hardly say Oxford, England. Should she give Édith or André and Therese’s address? Perhaps it would be better to give a false address …?

  ‘We are staying in Saint-Gaudens,’ Thomas said. We are only visiting the area, so it might be best to give you our address in Paris?’ The nurse nodded and Thomas gave her his address, but with the wrong house nu
mber and saying road instead of avenue.

  ‘Thank you. If you would like to take a seat I will see if Doctor D’Aramitz can see you,’ she said, leaving the waiting room.

  Claire sat down and exhaled loudly. ‘She made me feel uncomfortable, nervous.’

  ‘She was just being efficient. I don’t suppose they see many new patients, especially visitors from Paris.’

  ‘Doctor D’Aramitz will see you now.’ The nurse stood at the doctor’s door like a soldier on sentry duty.

  Claire smiled her thanks as she passed her and entered the surgery. Thomas followed Claire and the nurse followed him. Closing the door, the nurse took up her position at the doctor’s side. It was obvious the moment Claire saw the doctor that it could not have been him who took the bullets out Mitch’s leg in 1944. He would have been too young.

  He lifted up his head after reading the few lines of information about his new patient. ‘Good afternoon, Madame Belland. What can I do for you?’ Claire showed him her hands. ‘Goodness, those cuts look nasty,’ he said, taking her hands in his and inspecting them. ‘We’ll need to wash them first, so we can see to remove any splinters or grit.’ He turned to the nurse, ‘Would you prepare a sterile bowl, please Nurse? Three parts warm water to one-part antiseptic solution.’

  The nurse nodded, walked briskly to a small cupboard labelled Poisons, took out a bottle with skull and crossbones on it and a measuring jug. She took both to the sink, turned on the taps and, after carefully measuring water and solution into the bowl, she placed it on the table.

  ‘Thank you, Nurse.’

  ‘Doctor!’ she said and left.

  Taking Claire’s hands, the doctor lowered them into the warm water. ‘Ouch! That stings.’

  ‘Yes, the antiseptic solution is strong. But it needs to be. The soil up at the old prison is polluted with toxins. Except for the entrance the Germans used, the guards regularly sprayed the camp’s boundary with an extremely toxic unknown poison. At least,’ he corrected, ‘it was unknown to us. They must have been tipped off that the allies were about to liberate the camp because before they arrived the Germans buried barrels of it in the woods. As they rusted they began to leak. The filthy stuff was stored behind the camp’s hospital and laboratory, too. It will take decades before the ground up there is safe.’

  ‘Were you not able to have samples analysed?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Yes, and some of the substances we found up there were known to us. Many others we had never heard of and most of the stuff we knew was illegal; banned by the French medical profession in this part of the world. Some of the substances we identified are so toxic that if they get into your bloodstream they will kill you.’

  A wave of nausea swept over Claire. ‘There couldn’t be enough poison in my bloodstream to kill me from this number of shallow scratches could there, Doctor D’Aramitz?’ Claire’s heart was thumping against her breastbone.

  ‘No, but don’t go up there again,’ the doctor warned.

  Claire shot Thomas a look of panic. He had hardly contributed to the conversation. She knew what he was doing. He was watching and listening, to get the measure of the doctor. But it was now time to join in the conversation. She raised her eyebrows.

  Thomas took the cue. ‘How did you know we had been to the prison, Doctor?’

  ‘This is a small community, Monsieur. When strangers come into the area, neighbour tells neighbour until everyone knows.’ The doctor lifted Claire’s right hand out of the bowl, dried it on a soft cloth and took a pair of tweezers from a black leather case. ‘Did you know someone who was in the prison?’ the doctor asked as he took splinters of wood and chips of stone from Claire’s palms.

  Thomas nodded to Claire that she should answer. ‘Yes, my husband,’ she said.

  ‘Was he killed in the prison?’

  ‘No, he and several other prisoners escaped. My husband was shot in the leg and was found by some local people. They might have been Resistance members. My husband didn’t know. He was unconscious at the time and later, in case he was captured again by the Gestapo, he wasn’t told. Anyway, the men took him to a village where an elderly doctor operated on him and saved his leg. The doctor hid my husband until he was fit enough to travel, by which time the Gestapo had stopped looking for him. Via a network of local people, he was taken to Paris, and then brought home to me.’

  ‘The Canadian.’

  ‘Yes. Did you know him?’

  ‘I knew of him. I was in Switzerland training to be a doctor at the time. I wasn’t allowed to come home for the holidays. Grandfather said it was too dangerous. Much later I learned that my grandfather had treated a Canadian officer who had escaped from the prison.’

  Claire’s pulse quickened with excitement. ‘Could we meet your grandfather?’ she asked.

  ‘There!’ Doctor D’Aramitz said, dabbing iodine on the cuts that remained on Claire’s palms. ‘All clean. The grit and splinters are gone.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘My grandfather is old,’ he said, looking up into Claire’s face. ‘He lost many loved ones in the war, more than most people around here, as I did,’ the doctor said, as much to himself as to Claire and Thomas. ‘And he is not in good health. He hasn’t been for some time. I fear to drag up the past and the pain it holds would be too much for him.

  ‘Keep your hands dry. Don’t wash them more than you have to for a day or two, and the cuts will heal.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Claire said, ‘how much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. Just promise me that you will not go to the prison again.’

  ‘I won’t. I have no need to return there.’

  The doctor picked up the wet cloth, swabs, and bowl and took them over to the sink. He poured the solution away, dropped the towel in one basket, the bloodstained swabs in another, turned on the hot water tap, and began scrubbing his hands.

  Claire looked at Thomas and putting her hands together, as if in prayer, she mouthed Say something, please.

  ‘Madame Belland was hoping to find information about a woman who might have been in the prison at the same time as her husband. But the only buildings still standing have been gutted and by the look of them set on fire. I guess personnel records, if there were any left after the prison was liberated, perished when the buildings were burned,’ Thomas said. The doctor continued washing his hands and didn’t reply.

  ‘My husband has been accused of being a traitor, Doctor, of spying on his fellow officers and reporting to a woman who it is thought was also in the prison, and who his superiors believe worked for the Germans. He is now missing. There are men looking for him. Your grandfather saved my husband’s life once,’ Claire cried, ‘he may know something that could save his life again.’

  The doctor called the nurse, who straightway bustled into the room. ‘I have to go out, Annette. Anything urgent, telephone me, I shall be at home. Otherwise, ask patients to come back this evening or tomorrow morning.’ He turned to Claire and Thomas. ‘Come with me.’

  Thomas picked up his rucksack from the floor, and Claire grabbed her filthy gloves and threw them into the medical waste basket before following the doctor out of the building and into the street.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Claire asked, catching up with the doctor.

  ‘To see my grandfather,’ he said, without slowing down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Grandfather, these people would like to speak to you,’ Doctor D’Aramitz said.

  Hauling himself out of his armchair, the old man stood up. With the aid of a walking stick he hobbled across the room to meet them.

  ‘Thomas Durand, sir.’ Thomas offered his hand.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ the old gentleman said, shaking Thomas’s hand. He turned to Claire.

  ‘Therese-- Belland--’ Claire faltered. She had lied to the man who saved her husband’s life. She looked into his rheumy eyes. There was a deep sadness there. He smiled kindly and put out his hand. ‘How do you do, Doctor?’

&
nbsp; ‘How do you do, my dear.’ He took Claire’s hand. ‘I am retired now,’ he said, looking at his grandson with pride. ‘Let us dispense with the title. My name is Lucien, Lucien Puel. What can I do for you?’

  Claire snatched her hand away from the old man. The ground shifted beneath her feet. She raised her hand to ward Lucien Puel off, but he smiled and took hold of her hand again. She quickly withdrew it for the second time. ‘I-- we must go,’ she stuttered. ‘I-- Thomas,’ she said, ‘need to get out--’

  Thomas took Claire’s arm and walked her to the door. ‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ he said to Lucien Puel.

  Doctor D’Aramitz opened the door, but before Thomas and Claire could pass through it, Claire collapsed.

  Between them, the two younger men picked Claire up, carried her across the room, and lowered her onto a chaise longue. ‘Give her air,’ Dr D’Aramitz said. Thomas stepped aside and the doctor took Claire’s pulse. ‘She’ll be fine. She has only fainted. I’ll get her a glass of water.’

  ‘When was the last time she ate?’ Lucien Puel asked Thomas.

  He thought for a moment. ‘We haven’t eaten since breakfast.’ He looked at his wristwatch and grimaced. ‘Eight hours ago.’

  ‘That’s why she fainted. Keep an eye on her, I’ll be back shortly,’ Puel said, leaving the room.

  ‘Claire?’ Thomas whispered, kneeling down beside her. He shook her gently by the shoulders and said again, ‘Claire?’

  She opened her eyes and looked around the room. ‘We need to get out of here before he comes back.’ She pushed herself up into a sitting position but feeling disorientated slumped back against the headrest of the chaise longue. ‘Where is he?’ she hissed. ‘Where’s Puel?’

  ‘I think he might have gone to get you something to eat. His grandson went for water.’ Thomas looked over his shoulder at the door. ‘They’re taking their time,’ he said, as an afterthought. Focussing his attention on Claire, he said, ‘What was that all about? You looked as if you’d seen a ghost when the old guy told you his name. Who is he?’