In at the Kill Read online

  ‘I have to warn them about Thérèse in any case. So at the same time I’ll tell them you’re here.’

  Tell them… Struggling to think straight… The only person she wanted to know anything about her was Michel himself. On the other hand – thoughts of that unknown gazo driver in Gestapo hands: hence – potentially – extreme urgency. And Luc must know the contact whom Michel had mentioned – ‘king pin in the Resistance’, he’d called him – who had access to an SOE réseau. Might well be this so-called ‘associate’. In any case, contacting Michel – or Luc – was her only good way out of this. She nodded to Marie – who’d perched herself on the edge of the other bed – upright, gauntly dark, white-faced, long muscular-looking neck, straight nose jutting: posed there like a cormorant on a rock – who might take off, alternatively might spread her wings to dry… Smiling – Rosie was – not only at the imagery, but liking her, for being – well, frankly unprepossessing, not getting much out of life but still putting it – her life – on the line, for those airmen for instance, and now for her. She nodded, to that question about telling Michel and Luc and whoever else it was – ‘Yes, tell them, please. But – incidentally – Thérèse was worried for Michel too. Couldn’t she have got news of him the same way?’

  ‘No. I am the communications link with that person.’

  ‘Then she could have, through you?’

  ‘Perhaps. But one tries to minimize—’

  ‘Of course.’ Lines of communication were potentially insecure: the less you used them, the less that applied. Thérèse probably hadn’t liked to ask. OK, it made sense… ‘Marie – I will tell you. Better you should know, anyway. I’m an agent of SOE – Special Operations Executive. I was on the run and the Boches caught me, now I’m on the run again.’

  ‘But they think you’re dead?’

  ‘I hope they do.’

  ‘And you’re English?’

  ‘My mother is. Father was French – so I am. He died, she took me to live in England. But that’s – who, and what.’

  Slow nodding. ‘One understands – Ravensbrück… But I wonder also – is your aim now to return to England?’

  ‘Oh.’ Shutting her eyes for a moment. Still not entirely sure. She temporized: ‘A lot depends on Michel.’

  ‘The two airmen we have here, you see – I can’t say how long it may take, once I send them on, but—’

  ‘I could go that way too, you mean.’

  Thinking about it: concentrating… Imagining herself in that situation: what one might call the line of least resistance. A parcel – to be passed from hand to hand, shipped out, no longer functional… Looking up again, meeting Marie’s questioning, perhaps slightly impatient gaze. She shook her head. ‘Only if we can’t contact Michel. All right?’

  Chapter 5

  July 31st

  Just post-dawn, with the sun coming up out of Germany and gilding the round-topped mountains. It looked clear up there, those balloon-tops already hard-edged, although at this level mist still hung like smoke. Rosie adding her own small quota to it – smoke from a Caporal: all right, Occupation-type Caporal, naturally, with probably as much sawdust in it as tobacco, but still a smoke – courtesy of Marie, who’d be reimbursed eventually by ‘F’ Section SOE for all of this, and not least for the risk of her own and her father’s life.

  Rosie had told her ten minutes ago, when leaving the kitchen to get herself ready for departure, ‘I’ll never forget you or Thérèse, Marie. Or cease to be grateful to Michel…’

  ‘Give him my regards, when you see him?’

  She wasn’t sure she would be seeing Michel. Or even that he was still alive. Marie was simply assuming that he was, that he must be. So OK, share that faith… But Marie’s telephone call had come from Luc and had said nothing except that this priest, Father Gervais, would be coming to fetch her. Hadn’t even said that – only that he’d be passing, fetching some woman who’d been staying with cousins in Colmar but whose ancient mother was dying and asking for her, and Luc had told him the Destiniers were good friends and very hospitable, would surely give him/them a meal and a bed for the night. It hadn’t been necessary to say more – there was only one way it made any sense. Father Gervais had duly arrived – last evening, and stayed overnight; it was for him that Rosie was waiting now in the yard. He’d been out here before breakfast, to flash up the charcoal burner on his gazo: she could see the red glow of it over there, beside the barn. The gazo belonged to some well-heeled parishioner who often allowed him the use of it, he’d told them. Parish of Dieuze, forty kilometres east of Nancy, on the road from here to Metz. That was how he’d put it: whether it meant they’d be taking her on to Metz she didn’t know, but it had sounded like it. Made no odds, she was in their hands – for the time being, in this padre’s – and she didn’t have to know – beyond the fact that she was now Justine Quérier, and had papers to prove it. She’d memorized the details – date of birth, home address – her mother’s – mother’s name Hortense – et cetera. The scars on her forehead were attributable to her having been injured in Rouen in an air-raid: she’d had a teaching job in Rouen at that time, but since sustaining the injury to her head that night she hadn’t been able to concentrate too well.

  The real Justine was deceased, a former resident of Sarrebourg, where she’d been a teacher in kindergarten. (Ostensibly – fictionally – before moving to Rouen, of course.) Height and weight were all right – roughly – but for the date of birth, which also matched Rosie’s approximately, grey hair was definitely wrong. Her scarf would cover it, as long as she was careful, but if she was going to have to rely on these papers for any length of time she’d have to bleach and dye herself back to normal. A bit of a toss-up either way: she felt she needed the grey hair. While the photo on the identity document was a bigger and more immediate problem: would have been fairly miraculous if it had resembled her at all: and it did not. The most fundamental difference was that Justine’s face had been fat, with virtually no bone-structure visible, and the only solution or partial solution – arrived at in discussion last night between Rosie and Marie – had been to put padding in her cheeks, strips cut from an old shirt and folded over and over into wads.

  She still didn’t look like Justine. Different, certainly: not much like Rosie Ewing either.

  A voice behind her: hand on her shoulder: ‘Keeping you waiting, is he?’

  Otto Destinier – Marie’s father. Jerking his head back towards the kitchen, referring to the priest: Rosie moving out of the doorway, not only making way for him but having learnt to keep a certain distance. He was in his sixties, tall and stooped: clearly it was from him that Marie had inherited her hop-pole figure. Rosie had made friends with him during her few days here by taking an interest in his vines and wine-making equipment and techniques: old oak barrels which he’d said his grandfather had used, for instance.

  ‘Early to work, M’sieur?’

  ‘No earlier than usual.’ He had a pipe going, with tobacco in it that he’d grown himself. A lot of tobacco was grown around here, apparently. ‘But it’s high time you and Monsieur l’Abbé were on the road.’ Thin smile, then: thin face, sparse grey hair, blue eyes – which his daughter had not inherited. Poking at Rosie’s arm with a gnarled forefinger: ‘Be sure he keeps his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel, eh?’

  Imagination stemming from his own inclinations, no doubt. And for ‘smile’, read ‘leer’. Like an old goat – truly not unlike one, and regarded locally as pro-German. Marie had surprised her with this information when discussing arrangements for getting the two RAF men away – Bob, who’d been the Halifax’s flight engineer, and Arnold its mid-upper gunner. They’d left on Saturday in the van, sharing the back of it with a dozen twelve-week-old lambs – Marie’s third delivery trip in the course of the weekend. In reference to the chances of being stopped and searched she’d told Rosie that, thanks to some well-publicized remarks attributed to her father in the early thirties, both he and she were regarded by th
e Boches as ‘V-männer’ – Vertrauensmänner – meaning trusted people, French pro-Nazis. Otto Destinier’s mother had been German – hence the name he’d been christened with – and a decade ago he’d gone on record as saying that Adolph Hitler was the sort of man they needed in France, the country being stiff with Jews and bolshies, and so forth. He’d changed his views since then – Marie had added, if they’d ever been his views, not just ill-judged self-advertising when he’d been standing for the office of president of some wine-growers’ association in which the Germanic element had been numerous – but some of the local people of French origin, the Destinier family’s natural friends and associates, were still wary of him.

  ‘In some ways it’s advantageous. For instance, this business now – if they’re searching—’

  ‘Won’t come here?’

  A shrug. ‘Can’t guarantee they wouldn’t, but on the other hand we aren’t automatically regarded as suspect – despite our French blood. So as far as other French-origin Alsaciens are concerned – you can imagine—’

  ‘When the Boches are kicked out, will you have problems?’

  ‘No. Or anyway not for long.’ She’d pointed to the blue- hazed mountains. ‘Plenty up there, who’ll put the record straight. And plenty down here who’ve done damn-all, who’ll have that to answer for. Resistance friends elsewhere too – in particular, I might say, the man I telephoned, who passed my message on to Luc. He carries weight, that one.’

  Michel’s ‘associate’, no doubt.

  Old Destinier had stooped, giraffe-like, kissed her cheek. Stubbled face, rank tobacco smell. ‘Leave you now. I’ve already taken my leave of Monsieur l’Abbé. I wish you a safe journey and a long and happy life, Mam’selle Rosalie.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough – you and—’

  ‘Thank her, not me. Adieu…’

  Shuffling away, as the others came out. Marie was carrying the priest’s small bag of personal effects, since he was laden with bottles of the previous year’s Destinier Riesling. Marie told Rosie, ‘Half of that’s for Luc – or Michel, or both.’

  Rosie smiled at the priest: ‘Isn’t she kind?’

  ‘One of her virtues, surely.’ He was about Rosie’s age: anyway not more than thirty. Slim, of average height, with a rather long, pale face, humorous mouth and eyes. Taking his bag from Marie, carrying it and the wine over to his gazo; the dogs were snuffling around. Rosie picked up her basket – right-handed, still wearing the sling, although the time might have come to discard it now. ‘You’re very efficient as well as kind, Marie. To have arranged this so quickly—’

  ‘Luc’s doing, not mine.’

  ‘Those others weren’t. The aviators. And you did set this up.’ She shook her head. ‘The one really awful thing is Thérèse; if you do get word of her—’

  ‘I’ll pass it along.’

  The priest had conducted a Mass for Thérèse, last night. Since the Gestapo had taken her there’d been no news at all. Marie had paid a neighbourly call down there on the Friday evening, had found nephew Charles coping all right but knowing nothing beyond the fact that the place had been ransacked and his aunt had been arrested.

  ‘Well – first thing he found was the dog’s corpse in the yard.’

  ‘Oh, God, I should’ve buried it, or—’

  ‘How could you, you had to clear out quick.’

  ‘But poor Charles!’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s no softie. Got his head screwed on, that kid.’

  He’d found the place deserted except for hungry animals and an unmilked cow – on the Thursday evening – and next morning his mother had called at the police station, where they’d only confirmed that her sister had been taken into custody by ‘the military authorities’. Marie had let the boy believe this was the first she’d known of it. But she’d be going back down there this evening to see if there was anything she could do – might for instance bring the cow up here so at least he wouldn’t have the milking chore. He’d have more time soon anyway, with school holidays starting in about a week.

  She said quietly – about Thérèse – while Father Gervais was busy with the gazo, ‘If they decide they’ve reason to keep her – or send her away—’

  ‘Please God they won’t.’

  ‘– if they do, they’re liable also to burn her place down. It’s happened before – teach the rest of us a lesson… But her best hope may be that they’ll soon be racing to put the Rhine between themselves and us. Unless they try to hold the mountains. My father thinks they will. They’re thick enough on the ground in the valley here, God knows, he may be right…’

  There’d been good news, over Swiss radio. The Americans had smashed their way through at St Lô – on the Tuesday, and the day after – Wednesday 26th, the day Rosie had arrived here, limping into this yard at about three in the morning – they’d taken Coutances, which according to the commentator was a major strategic gain.

  Crossing her fingers. Still a hell of a long way from here. Something to be said for that, too: Boches still in Paris, Gestapo presumably still in Rue des Saussaies, ‘Hector’ – touch wood – not yet gone to ground.

  A shout from the priest: ‘Are you ready, Mam’selle?’ He had the engine running: then the gazo rolling out. Father Gervais braking, then leaning over to push the passenger door open. ‘All aboard!’

  * * *

  They came up the winding mountain road into a sudden blaze of sunshine – then plunged back into forest. Sun breaking through again intermittently as the road cut to and fro. Roller-coaster country, with impressive views occasionally where the trees thinned or drew back briefly from the unpaved, winding road. More a track, in fact, than a road. Father Gervais had a pencil sketch of his route, with notes and names of villages: one called Villé, they’d just passed through.

  ‘Pretty, eh?’

  ‘Yes. But – so different…’

  ‘You mean Germanic?’

  ‘I suppose. I was thinking Austrian – even Swiss.’

  ‘You could be right. The carved sign on that inn, for instance… Life’s hard up here in winter, I’m told. Did you notice how the houses have their backs to the road, open into their own small courtyards?’

  ‘Yes – I suppose so… But you’ve been over these mountains before, have you, Father?’

  ‘Not for years. And not this part, even then. No –’ touching his crumpled map – ‘without our mutual friend Luc’s guidance, we’d be nowhere.’

  ‘D’you know him well?’

  ‘No. Not well. You?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll even recognize him when I see him. If I’m going to. Even Michel – whom you don’t know well either, I heard you tell Marie.’

  ‘Getting round to the question you really want to ask, how come I’m involved with these people at all – eh?’

  ‘Well.’ She shrugged. ‘One’s curious, naturally.’

  ‘And the answer’s simple. If a blacksmith can be a résistant: if a baker or a bank-clerk can be – and if priests can serve in armies, in uniforms of sorts?’

  ‘Of course… But do your superiors know about it?’

  ‘Would the bank-clerk’s branch manager know?’

  She shrugged. ‘Only if he was involved too, I suppose. Obviously you’ve been asked such questions before.’

  ‘May I ask some of you?’

  ‘Why not? Long drive ahead of us, after all.’

  He’d taken a right turn on to an even narrower, rougher track. They were up high, by this time. Glancing at her… ‘I think first I’ll yield to temptation, and accept the smoke you offered me. Mine are in my case behind us – as I don’t usually smoke before midday, I thought I wouldn’t—’

  ‘No excuses are necessary, Father. I’m dying for one.’ She fingered two of Marie’s Caporals out of the packet, and gave him one. For the past hour or so she’d been resisting the temptation, under the impression that he was a non-smoker and might prefer it if she didn’t. But a box of matches had materialized in his nea
rer hand. ‘If you wouldn’t mind—’

  ‘Of course.’

  He explained, ‘Going this way – from that last turn, if you noticed – not much of a road, but –’ leaning over to the match, then back again – ‘thanks. If we’d held straight on, the way I came yesterday, we’d end up passing through a village called Rothau – just south of Schirmeck – where in the first place they were stopping everyone – all right, may not be doing so now, and nothing so very alarming about it even if they were—’

  ‘And in the second place?’

  He glanced at her, looked away again. Expelling smoke… ‘Going this way instead – avoid Rothau, that’s all.’

  ‘But what in the second place, Father?’

  ‘Well.’ Shift of gear. ‘If you insist…’

  ‘I don’t, if it bothers you so much.’ The explanation hit her, then: she nodded. ‘Natzweiler’s somewhere around here, of course.’

  He’d grimaced. ‘Sooner not have mentioned it or gone near it. Rothau’s the station for that place, though, and it’s – very picturesque.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Well – I should take you to task—’

  ‘Yes – I’m sorry—’

  ‘– but in the face of that…’ He’d paused. Shaking his head. ‘There’s also a stone quarry – right beside the road – in which they work their prisoners to death… But listen, now – by way of changing the subject. Dress-rehearsal – imagine they’ve stopped us, I’m a German quizzing you. I’ve taken your papers, I want the answers off pat – OK?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Justine Quérier.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Sarrebourg. Well – Souillac, Rue Celeste.’

  ‘Place and date of birth?’

  ‘Sarrebourg, 1917 – November 13th. About a year older than I really am, therefore.’

  ‘Father’s name and occupation?’

  ‘Joseph Quérier, post-office clerk. Mother Hortense Quérier, née Lebarque. She’s dying, she sent you to fetch me.’