Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I owe Madame Lafosse an apology. I got carried away last night.’

  ‘You’re telling me it never happened?’

  ‘I’m telling you nothing.’

  ‘Why on earth not? You’ve just spent an hour sharing every secret you know with Merz. If you were in the Luftwaffe, they’d have you shot. Why this shyness about your brother? The damage is done, Mr Angell. Just do me the courtesy of repeating the story.’

  ‘No.’

  Klimt nodded. Said nothing. Billy was watching a fat carp nuzzling a clump of weeds in the limpid water. Having this view to himself was something he’d never expected. A pair of ducks were drifting down the river, untroubled, serene. Rooks bickered in a stand of elms. Bees gorged themselves on pollen in a nearby flower bed. Bliss, he thought.

  Klimt hadn’t finished. If Billy found difficulty in telling the story in detail, perhaps he’d like to confirm the points that really mattered.

  ‘Your brother was in the Navy. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They taught him to dive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He became a specialist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what kind of man was he? This Douglas?’

  The question took Billy by surprise. Clever, he thought. How could his thoughts about his dead brother add to the damage he’d already done?

  ‘He was older than me. I worshipped him.’

  ‘Does worship come easily to you, Mr Angell?’

  ‘I’m luckier than most. So the answer has to be yes.’

  ‘You need someone to look up to?’

  ‘I need someone to respect, and maybe to follow.’

  ‘You were similar? Similar people? Similar thoughts? Hopes? Dreams?’

  ‘Not at all. Douglas was brave. Courage was something I had to borrow from others. Maybe that’s another reason I jumped. My courage ran out.’

  ‘And now? You’re in a very difficult situation, Mr Angell. You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re depending on the kindness of strangers. And just now you’re also depending on me. I could have you locked up in five minutes.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So give me one reason why I shouldn’t do that thing.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Billy held his gaze. ‘But it hasn’t happened, has it? You haven’t done it. We’re sitting here. We’re having a civilised conversation. You haven’t threatened me. You don’t appear to regard me as the enemy. So maybe you should be the one telling me why.’

  Klimt acknowledged Billy’s little speech with a tilt of his head. He hadn’t finished with Douglas.

  ‘Describe him, this brother of yours. Taller? Thinner? Paint me a picture.’

  ‘He was smaller than me but more compact. We used to wrestle as kids. He always won.’

  ‘But you told me he was older.’

  ‘Two years. I had weight on my side but Doug was the athlete. He knew about balance. He lived in his body.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I always wanted to be someone else. Maybe that’s why I became an actor.’

  ‘In the theatre, you mean?’ A perceptible spark of interest.

  ‘Yes. I loved it. And I was good as well. My brother thought acting was for cissies. Maybe he was right.’

  ‘Cissies?’

  ‘Not real men. Doug was a real man. He loved being physical. He loved risk. War gets through a lot of men like my brother.’

  ‘And you think that’s a waste?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You have a girlfriend, Mr Angell? A wife, perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No interest?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Klimt slipped his watch off and laid it on the table. The metal strap glinted in the sunshine. He closed his eyes, tipping his face to the sky.

  ‘I think you’re right, Mr Angell,’ he murmured at last. ‘You and this war were never made for each other. Madame Lafosse mentioned the Quakers. That doesn’t surprise me at all.’

  ‘You know about the Quakers? You have them in Germany?’

  ‘Of course.’ His eyes were still closed. ‘My father was living in Berlin after the first war. Your Quakers were feeding half a million mothers and children. It was a terrible time. These people would have starved otherwise. We Germans even had a word for it. Quäkerspeisungen.’ He smiled. ‘Quaker feedings.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now we still have Quakers. The Gestapo don’t trust them but the Gestapo don’t trust anyone. They go to all the meetings but the Quakers don’t care. Before the war they helped us with the Jews.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By getting them out to other countries, by helping them flee. That’s the way we like to do things, Mr Angell. Get someone else to do the work. And get someone else to pay for it.’

  ‘You mean the Quakers?’

  ‘Of course. And the Jews themselves.’

  Billy nodded. He thought he caught a hint of contempt in Klimt’s voice but he couldn’t be sure. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter. This man, for whatever reason, had a great deal of patience. Every minute that passed, Billy felt a little safer.

  ‘Is your father still in Berlin?’ he asked.

  ‘My father is dead.’

  ‘And you? You live in Berlin?’

  Klimt didn’t answer. A pair of swans had appeared overhead. They circled once then came in low over the nearby stone bridge and splashed down on the river.

  ‘Do I have to explain the meaning of Dunkirk or will you?’ Klimt hadn’t taken his eyes off the swans.

  ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Yes you do, Mr Angell. Your brother was lost off Dunkirk. That’s what you told Madame Lafosse last night. You said he’d been digging up the beach. The question is why.’

  Billy shrugged, said he didn’t know, said it was nothing to do with him. Then, faintly at first, came the throaty rasp of a piston engine. It grew louder and louder until the aircraft appeared over the treeline. It was tiny, even smaller than the Lysander. The sight of Klimt and Billy sitting by the river drew a waggle of the wings and Klimt lifted a hand in salute as the shadow swept over them.

  ‘Merz,’ Klimt said quietly. ‘You know about this plane?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We call it a Storch. It can take off in a car park, a meadow, a country lane. Merz loves it.’ He fell silent, watching as the little plane disappeared towards the east. Then he closed his eyes again. ‘One day the Storch will be all we have left, Mr Angell. No more 109s. No more Focke-Wulfs. Just the Storch. And you know who will fly our leaders out of Berlin? When there’s nothing left to destroy? Dieter Merz.’

  28

  Klimt drove Billy back to the Château de Neaune. Expecting him to turn in at the gate and drive up to the house itself, he was surprised to be dropped on the road. Klimt announced that he was returning to Paris. Herr Angell would please present his compliments to Madame Lafosse.

  Billy watched the Mercedes roar away in a cloud of dust. It was a lovely evening, still warm, though Billy could see a tumble of clouds in the east. Six months on a bomber crew, sitting through briefing after briefing, had taught him a great deal about weather patterns and he recognised the onset of the warm front. Rain later, he thought. And then sparkling sunshine and a drop in the temperature as the wind shifted round to the north.

  He set off up the drive, taking his time. In some ways, he thought, his job was done. He’d planted the lie about Dunkirk, first with Hélène and then with Klimt. He sensed that they’d both believed him, in part because it seemed to serve their purposes. For whatever reason these people were in serious trouble and the longer he’d listened to Klimt beside the river the more obvious became the man’s disillusion. You didn’t have to be a Quaker to realise that the war, from everyone’s point of view, was madness. The fact that Klimt appeared to believe that this madness extended to the
Reich itself was additional comfort.

  So what would Klimt do with his windfall tip about Dunkirk? What kind of space would Billy’s phantom brother occupy in the files of Abwehr intelligence? Where did information like this belong in the jigsaw of Allied intentions? Would Berlin, above all, really believe that the invasion forces would swarm back over those same beaches that had witnessed the evacuation? Barely three years ago?

  It was an arresting thought, a neat twist to recent history, but Billy doubted whether it was true. Why plant information like this when you needed, above all, to maintain total secrecy? Why invite German reinforcements to a coastline you intended to attack? The blow has to fall somewhere else, he told himself. All I have to do is avoid the attentions of anybody who’d put my story to a serious test.

  Easier said than done. During the final briefing, Billy had pressed Tam for a radio. He was fully trained. He understood how these things worked. But Tam had turned him down. The kit was too bulky. Travelling in public, he said, would draw the wrong sort of attention. Communication from the chateau, he’d hinted, wouldn’t be a problem. Just let matters unfold. At the time, barely days ago, Billy had been happy to accept Tam’s reassurances but now he wasn’t so sure. How was he supposed to trigger the return of the Lysander? Did Hélène keep pigeons? And, if so, did they have MI5’s address?

  He was back at the chateau now. Malin, the old clockmaker, let him in and took him through to the kitchen. The blackout curtains had already been drawn and the candles threw a dancing light on the thick stone walls. Billy counted the faces around the table. There were three, a man and two women. They looked sombre, fearful. None of them answered Billy’s smile of greeting.

  Malin was fiddling with the bolt on the kitchen door.

  ‘Hélène?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Madame Lafosse has been arrested.’

  Billy stared at him.

  ‘A couple of hours ago. Müller came again. He had soldiers with him. I was upstairs. I heard it all.’

  He said a farmer had been killed in the village. Witnesses had seen Madame Lafosse outside his property. She’d been waiting in the Mercedes belonging to the man Klimt.

  ‘That car will kill us all,’ he said. ‘They know who that car belongs to. They know who drives it. And they hate Madame Lafosse.’

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We don’t know. Maybe Madame Lafosse still has protection from the Germans. Maybe not. Maybe Müller will come back. Search the place. Arrest all of us. Maybe not. For three years we’ve had a kind of life here. The mistake is to believe that anything lasts.’

  Billy nodded. The image of the dead farmer lying naked on the bed had been with him all day. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  ‘Good news about the horse, though,’ he said brightly.

  ‘Fuck the horse.’

  They sat in silence. Billy’s gaze drifted from face to face. This was bad. Worse than bad. The man he’d never seen before had his arm round the woman beside him. Billy suspected she’d been crying. The other woman was much younger, much fatter, her face cratered with acne. Slumped in the chair, she was biting her nails.

  At length she met Billy’s gaze. She looked resentful, angry.

  ‘Ask him why he chose this place.’ She’d glanced at Malin, putting the question in French. She obviously didn’t speak English. Malin obliged.

  ‘I didn’t choose it,’ Billy said. ‘I found my way to good people. They put me in touch with the Résistance. They brought me here.’

  ‘You didn’t know about us before?’

  ‘No. How could I?’

  ‘Because maybe you’re a spy.’

  ‘I’m a flier,’ Billy said. ‘Ask Madame Lafosse.’

  ‘We’ve had other fliers here. They were never like you. They came at night. By next day they’d gone. You? You stay.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Madame Lafosse. She says you’re injured. Another lie.’

  Billy could feel suspicion spreading around the table. A nod of the head from the woman. A rap on the table from her companion. At times like these, people needed someone to blame, someone to answer for their worst fears.

  ‘I’m in the RAF,’ Billy said quietly. ‘I flew in a bomber crew. I worked the radio. Something went wrong. I had to bail out.’

  ‘Agnès has a radio set.’ This from Malin.

  ‘She has?’ Billy was staring at him.

  ‘Of course. She’s a résistante. The Germans want to kill her. That’s why she’s running. That’s why she’s here.’

  Billy nodded. Tam knew about the radio, he thought. Because Tam also knew about this woman. Maybe that’s how he knew about the chateau, too. About Hélène and her German lover. Maybe he has Agnès to thank for his abrupt change of career.

  ‘Does Agnès’s set still work?’ he said carefully.

  Agnès didn’t need a translation. She nodded.

  ‘Oui,’ she said. ‘Ça marche.’

  ‘May I use it?’

  A translation this time. Agnès wanted to know why.

  ‘Because I need to tell people at my airbase I’m still alive. They’ll pass the message on to my family. It’s a favour, that’s all.’

  The old man was staring at him. It was hard to read his face in the candlelight but Billy knew he wasn’t smiling.

  ‘You think you’ll be getting out of this alive? Good luck, my friend.’

  *

  Hélène returned shortly before midnight. The couple at the table had retired hopelessly to bed with a candle, resigned to whatever might happen next. Through the open door, Billy had watched the woman pausing at the foot of the stairs. First she stared at the front door. Then she crossed herself.

  Agnès was still at the table when Billy heard the growl of an engine and the crunch of gravel outside. She’d talked no more about the radio despite Billy’s best efforts and had ignored his questions about what exactly had brought her to the sanctuary of the chateau. Now, Malin was on his feet, braced for the worst. When the knock finally came it was remarkably light, even gentle.

  Billy watched the progress of his candle to the front door. The bent old figure wrestled it open and then peered into the darkness. Hélène stepped past him. She appeared to be alone.

  Billy was on his feet. Agnès hadn’t moved. Hélène gazed round the kitchen. No one had touched the carafe of wine from last night.

  Hélène poured herself a glass and settled at the table. She looked exhausted. She sat in silence, the glass as yet untouched. From time to time her fingers found her wedding ring and she twisted it round and round, a gesture as revealing as it was unconscious. A moment of crisis, Billy thought. A moment when the life you’ve led taps you on the shoulder, and a life to come appears all too unlikely.

  At length she looked up at Malin.

  ‘I have no news,’ she said. ‘But at least they let me go.’

  ‘For now?’

  ‘Until tomorrow. Tomorrow they tell me they will have more questions. It’s a game, Malin. They’re playing with me.’

  ‘With us.’

  ‘Indeed. You have my fullest sympathy.’ She reached for her glass. ‘Please leave me alone, now.’

  Malin wanted to continue the conversation, to find out more, but Hélène waved him away. All three of them got to their feet. Billy was about to head for the darkness beyond the open door when she nodded at his empty seat.

  ‘Not you,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

  Billy sat down again. He could hear footsteps receding up the stairs. Then an abrupt silence.

  ‘Go to bed, Malin.’ Hélène was shouting. ‘Do as I say, for God’s sake.’

  She went to the kitchen door, listened for a moment, and then shut it. Back at the table she swallowed the rest of the wine. Billy fetched the carafe.

  ‘You’ll need a glass, monsieur. And another bottle.’

  She kept the wine in the cave below. Billy descended with a candle and selected what he thought might be a promising vintage. Back ups
tairs, the carafe was empty.

  ‘The Bouchard Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’ Hélène was eyeing the bottle. ‘Excellent. There’s more. We might as well drink it up.’

  Billy opened the bottle. Hélène watched him pour two glasses. The Boches, she said, had posted men around the estate. It might still be possible to get out but you’d need cat’s eyes in the dark and somewhere to head for afterwards.

  ‘They’ve bottled us up, monsieur. They’ve sealed us in. We’re just like the rest of France. Solidarity, quoi.’ She lifted the glass. ‘A toast, perhaps?’

  ‘Solidarity…’ Billy mumbled.

  He wanted to know why she’d been arrested. Had she made enemies?

  ‘You want a list? Everyone hates me.’

  ‘But someone in particular?’

  ‘Of course. The local man in charge is called Müller. He’s an oaf. Perfectly reasonable in his own way but a fool. I have no difficulty with Müller. Put Müller in a uniform and he gets ideas above his station, especially where women are concerned, but he’s also a realist. No…’ she shook her head, ‘… Müller is a puppy. I have no problems with the man.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Hélène gazed at him for a moment. Her eyes were pouched in darkness.

  ‘His name’s Huber,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And he hates you?’

  ‘He hates someone close to me. Huber is also SS so his kind of hate matters.’

  ‘And he’s here? In the village?’

  ‘Of course not. The SS always play to an audience. They prefer cities to places like this.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Yes. And Brussels. And Amsterdam. And Berlin. And Vienna. And wherever his journey takes him next. Someone once told me the SS are pilgrims, sworn to the faith. There you have it, monsieur. Huber the pilgrim, Huber the zealot. Huber the crusader. Men like Huber are only interested in the next step forward, the next bend in the road. The view never interests them. Only the destination.’

  ‘Where did you learn your English, madame?’

  ‘Call me Hélène. I like it better.’ She frowned, staring at the glass. ‘I studied in Oxford. Before the war. It was a privilege and a pleasure. I have a husband, Nathan. He likes the English even more than I do. Which is probably why he’s in London.’ She lifted her head. ‘You like art, monsieur? Fine art?’