Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  ‘You want to know why I really jumped from that plane?’

  ‘Because you were told to. That’s what you said last night.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Another fiction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what really happened?’

  Billy stared at his hands. Under these circumstances shame came easily. Caught in someone else’s bedroom. Caught taking a piss. Caught out in a lie.

  ‘I’d had enough of the war, madame. I’d been thinking of doing something like this for weeks. Normally we bomb targets in Germany. I didn’t want to bail out there. The op to Saint-Nazaire was perfect. There’s an escape hatch at the back of the aircraft. It’s near the lavatory. You push it open and jump. It’s something we have to practise. So that’s what I did. For real.’

  ‘That’s desertion, Monsieur Ange. In this country you get shot for that.’

  ‘In mine, too. If they ever catch me.’

  ‘You think they won’t? Maybe after the war? If you’re still alive?’

  ‘I have no idea. War is madness. It makes you crazy.’

  ‘You’re right, Monsieur Ange. It makes all of us crazy. The whole world is crazy. The man who stole my horse is crazy. But you have to live with that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s no other option. War brings you face to face with yourself, Monsieur Ange. Look in the mirror and the results can be alarming.’

  ‘You think I’m a coward?’

  ‘No one who jumps out of an aircraft is a coward.’

  ‘Then what? What do you think?’

  ‘I think there’s a lot more to your story.’

  ‘You’re right. How did you know?’

  ‘Because people never tell you the whole truth. Sometimes it’s because they don’t know it themselves. And sometimes it’s a little more…’ she studied the end of her cigarette, ‘…complicated.’

  Billy nodded. He’d spotted his opportunity. He’d never dared believe this could be so easy. The script was unfolding in front of his eyes. All he needed to do was pace himself. He could hear Irene, that first moment back in Bristol when he’d realised she believed in him. Take your time, Billy. Build the expectation. Let the audience wait.

  He told Hélène about his days with the Quakers, about his visits to the Friends Meeting House, about the hours sitting in silence trying to disentangle his confusions about the coming war. He tried to share the torment he’d felt about registering as a conscientious objector. He described the long nights at the Infirmary, wheeling Blitz victims down to the mortuary. And then came the moment when the next wrecked face on the slab belonged to a friend of his.

  ‘A close friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone you loved?’

  ‘Yes. She was a Quaker, too. She brought me to God.’

  ‘And that worked for you?’

  ‘Yes. Until she died.’

  ‘And so you got rid of your conscience? Became a flier?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to be a pilot but that was hopeless. I became a Wireless Operator.’

  ‘You know about radios?’ Her voice had quickened. ‘You can make these things work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ She nodded in approval. ‘So what happened next?’

  Billy told her about the training, about the transfer to Wickenby, about replacing a Wireless Op who’d just been killed. He went on operation after operation. Do thirty of those and your life was briefly your own again.

  ‘You did it? You did your thirty?’

  ‘No. The last time I flew we went to Hamburg. We destroyed it. It was deliberate. It was a very clever plan. You blow the place to pieces and then you set what’s left alight. The fire does the rest. You know how many people we killed? Tens of thousands. And you know what they called our night’s work? Operation Gomorrah.’

  Hélène removed a curl of tobacco from her lower lip. She was smiling.

  ‘Gomorrah, Monsieur Ange? That makes you God, doesn’t it? A visitation on the city of the damned? Divine retribution? All those dead Germans? How did you feel?’

  ‘I felt nothing. I’d run out of feelings.’

  It was true. Billy stared into nowhere and then pulled the greatcoat more tightly around him.

  ‘It doesn’t end there,’ he said softly. ‘There’s something else.’

  He told her about Douglas, his brother, someone else he’d loved.

  ‘He was a Quaker, too?’

  ‘Far from it. Douglas never had much time for God.’

  He told her about his brother joining the Navy, becoming a diver, volunteering for special service.

  ‘Doing what?’

  Billy looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because…’ he was frowning now, ‘… it just wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Monsieur Ange. This is some kind of secret?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘State secret? Government secret? Something the Germans might want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Wrong, Monsieur Ange. You can. You’re a deserter. You’ve turned your back on the war. You have no more responsibilities in the matter. Except, perhaps, to help bring all this craziness to an end.’

  Billy’s head came up. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of the greatcoat. He owed her a small round of applause. The perfect audience, he thought.

  ‘You’re crying, Monsieur Ange. Have I offended you? Insulted you? This brother of yours… he’s still alive?’

  ‘No. And that’s the point. He’s dead. He went missing. And they never even bothered to tell me. This is my brother, madame. Someone I grew up with. Someone I loved. Someone who’d do anything for me. And now he’s gone and I never had the chance to say goodbye.’

  ‘This happened recently?’

  ‘A month ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Off Dunkirk.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘Testing the beach.’

  ‘For what?’ She was leaning forward now. ‘Tell me, Monsieur Ange. Trust me. Tell me why he was there.’

  Billy held her gaze. Then shook his head and got to his feet.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, limping towards the door.

  26

  Next morning Billy found himself alone in the kitchen with an old man who seemed to be in charge of the coffee. He’d heard Hélène lift the phone earlier but since then she’d disappeared. The old man ignored Billy’s attempts at conversation. Maybe he doesn’t speak English, he thought. Or maybe he can’t be bothered.

  Wrong on both counts.

  ‘You want some of this coffee? Any more hot water and it’ll taste of nothing.’ Good English, heavily accented.

  He was right about the coffee. A precautionary sip told Billy it was even worse than last night’s wine. His eyes followed the old man as he limped about his tasks.

  ‘You’re working here?’

  ‘Always. Also I live here. Hide here. Maybe die here.’

  ‘You think the coffee’s that bad?’

  ‘The coffee’s the best of it, my friend. All we need is a reminder of what real coffee should be,’ he nodded down at his mug. ‘It’s hot and it’s black. Let your imagination do the rest.’ He shot Billy a look. ‘You’re a flier? Like the other boys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spain, is it?’ He jerked a thumb towards the sunshine outside the window. ‘Ten days heading south and you can see the mountains. Four days to walk across. Another week to get to Madrid. Then home, maybe. Afterwards you climb back in your aeroplane. And then you get shot down again. Isn’t that the way it goes? I had a shop once. In Paris. I made clocks. For company I kept a rat. She was black. I called her Coco and she lived in a cage in my workshop. During the day the cage was open. She could go
anywhere, my Coco. But I only ever fed her in the cage and always at the end of the day she came back. We do that, all the time. Life’s a cage my friend. Don’t be fooled by freedom.’

  Billy thought he understood. He said he was in no hurry to walk to the Pyrenees. This corner of France looked more than promising.

  ‘For what? You want to stay here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know what it’s like? The Germans helping themselves to everything? The women happy to oblige? The black market thieves? The curfew? We wander round in the dark, my friend. And that’s before we dare to step outside.’

  Billy nodded. He wanted to know what had happened to the rat. The old man had started washing last night’s plates at the sink.

  ‘I had to leave her with my neighbour.’ He didn’t turn round. ‘I expect she’s been eaten by now.’

  Hélène and Alice ghosted in. Hélène had obviously caught the end of the conversation.

  ‘Did Malin tell you his occupation?’

  ‘He said he was a clockmaker.’

  ‘That’s right. Malin knows about time. Keeping time, marking time, that was his business. You know what the Germans did when they arrived? They put all the clocks forward. On to Berlin time. They stole a whole French hour, all of it, every single second. And you know the worst of it? Within days, no one noticed anymore.’

  She muttered something to the old man in French. He nodded, and wiped his hands dry on the dish cloth before leaving the kitchen. Billy enquired whether he was off on some errand or other.

  ‘Malin never leaves the estate, monsieur. Jews have a habit of never coming back.’

  ‘Is that why he lives here?’

  ‘Of course. The rest of his family are history. Most of them never left Poland.’

  ‘You have more Jews in the house?’

  ‘No. We have a couple of Spaniards. We have the girl Agnès. And now we have you.’

  ‘And the Germans?’

  ‘The Germans mind their own business. We mind ours.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘All by yourself?’

  ‘Mostly. I have a little help from time to time. It keeps me sane.’

  Bjorn Klimt, Billy thought, remembering the tang of cigar smoke in the folds of the greatcoat.

  Alice was on the point of departure. A friend from Sainte-Maure was meeting her at the foot of the drive. They’d be driving together to Nantes.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come, Billy?’ The invitation sounded playful but Billy wasn’t sure. Had Hélène had words about their arrival last night? About the car journey that had never happened? About a story based on a lie?

  Apparently not. Hélène was escorting Alice towards the front door. Monsieur Ange, she insisted, was welcome to stay as long as he liked. She’d offered him a little job and he’d been pleased to accept.

  Billy said goodbye to Alice at the front door. She’d looked after him on the journey and he was genuinely grateful. He held her hand a moment longer and wished her luck.

  ‘You, too,’ she grinned. ‘Prenez garde.’

  He watched her tripping down the steps, the straw hat in her hand. She turned to give Billy a final wave and then made for the line of trees that marked the drive.

  Billy stepped back into the house. Hélène was waiting in the shadows.

  ‘Prenez garde?’

  ‘It means take care.’

  ‘I see,’ Billy nodded. ‘And the little job I’ve accepted?’

  Hélène was heading for the kitchen. She glanced back.

  ‘You can be my guardian angel.’ She wasn’t smiling.

  *

  The Mercedes arrived in the late afternoon. Billy was asleep upstairs, his curtains pulled against the fierce afternoon sunshine. Hélène met Klimt in the courtyard. He’s lost weight, she thought. He offered a brief nod of greeting, his eyes already on the empty stable. Malin had left the stable door open in case Valmy wandered back but there’d been no sign of the stallion since he’d disappeared.

  ‘You’re sure he’s been taken?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. The tether was fast. It needed someone to untie it. Horses can’t undo knots. Not even Valmy.’

  ‘And you think Benoit? This farmer?’

  ‘I know it. I’m sure of it.’

  So far she hadn’t had the chance to explain about the poaching, about the mutilated carcase on Benoit’s kitchen floor, about their earlier encounter in the depths of the forest, about how crazy the man was. Now she explained what had happened.

  ‘He threatened you?’

  ‘He was very drunk. He was armed. There’s a girl upstairs who says he raped her that same afternoon. I don’t know whether I believe her but it’s possible.’

  ‘Girl upstairs?’

  ‘A guest, Oberst Klimt. A wandering soul.’

  ‘Do I need to meet her?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  Klimt permitted himself a smile. It was hot in the courtyard. He followed Hélène into the cool of the kitchen. Hélène closed the door. They kissed this time, and held each other. Hélène asked how he was. Valmy and Benoit could wait.

  ‘I’m fine. Alles gut.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. How was Berlin?’

  ‘Berlin is Berlin. The British come every night. That’s the way it feels. The people are shocked. It was never going to be this way. It’s hard for them. They believed every word for years and years and now they sit in the bunkers and hug their knees and wait. Was it bound to happen? Of course it was. Are they surprised? No. They’re just frightened. And maybe a little bit angry.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant you. What’s going on? What’s happened?’

  Klimt looked at her, then shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘Tell me about Huber,’ he said.

  ‘That man has given me a week to find the Mona Lisa.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And I thought Benoit was crazy.’

  She explained the call she’d had to put through to her husband in London. Huber was certain that Nathan could supply the key information. There were rumours that La Gioconda was on the move from hiding place to hiding place and Nathan would know because he was still in touch with figures in the Résistance.

  ‘And is that true?’

  ‘Quite possibly. Nathan is a real expert when it comes to networks.’

  ‘So what did Huber say?’

  ‘Not much. Nathan wanted to talk to him on the telephone but Huber refused. A week is what he gave me. A week to tell him where to find the Mona Lisa. Nathan offered to swap places with me but Huber doesn’t seem interested in that, either.’ She paused. ‘You want the truth? I hate the bloody picture. Nathan does, too. He says it’s an essay in bad taste. Why Leonardo ever chose to paint a woman like that is a mystery.’

  ‘Has Huber been in touch since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he know where you live? Does he know about this place?’

  ‘He’s a German, darling. Germans know everything.’

  ‘But he hasn’t appeared?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ She paused. ‘Huber made one of those delicate little threats. You know the sort.’

  ‘Against who?’

  ‘Me. He said things might get difficult. He also said this whole exercise, this Mona Lisa farce, had your blessing.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Klimt was staring at her. ‘Huber is a true believer. He’s got Himmler imprinted on his soul. Do you really think I keep that kind of company?’ He turned away, shaking his head. Then he was back again, inches from her face. ‘This isn’t about your husband. It isn’t about the Mona Lisa. It’s about me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Of course. Can’t you see that? Intelligence is a rough business. You have to learn to look after yourself. I was good at that. Once.’

  Klimt rarely lost his temper. His face was pale with fury. Hélène couldn’t remember seeing him like this. Worse than I ever imagined, she thought. She reach
ed for his hand, drew him towards her.

  ‘I think I can help,’ she said.

  ‘With Huber?’

  ‘With you. There’s an English flier upstairs. He appeared last night. He’s got an interesting story. It might be good for you to talk to him.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Trust me, darling. A conversation might change everything. But first we need to get my horse back. I think I know where he is and I think our English flier should come with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he needs to see you in action.’

  27

  Hélène shook Billy awake. He was to come downstairs and meet a friend of hers. Billy, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, enquired why.

  ‘That’s not a question you should be asking, Monsieur Ange. You’re a guest in my house. You do my bidding.’

  Billy got dressed and followed her downstairs. The figure at the kitchen table was all too familiar. Hélène’s companion at the café table. Oberst Bjorn Klimt.

  ‘Mr…?’ He got to his feet and extended a hand. Impeccable English.

  ‘Angell, Herr Klimt.’ Hélène was already at the door. ‘I call him mon ange.’

  They went out into the courtyard. Klimt ushered Hélène into the front of the Mercedes and then held the rear door open. Billy settled himself in the back. The smell of new leather carried a faint hint of cigars.

  Klimt drove down to the main road, braking to avoid a pair of pheasants scuttling across the shadowed gravel track. Billy was curious to know where they were going but was reluctant to ask. This man radiated power. You could see it in his bearing, in the crispness of his uniform, in the way his eyes drifted up to the rear-view mirror, holding Billy’s gaze. Was this the beginning of the end? Were they setting out for Paris? For some underlit basement reserved for novice spies? Had Billy put too much faith in his new masters? He didn’t know. Relax, he told himself. And remember your lines.

  They drove to the other side of the village. The sight of the Mercedes with Klimt at the wheel drew smart salutes from a squad of passing soldiers. Hélène was supplying directions. Beside what looked like a beaten-up old farmhouse, she told Klimt to stop.