The Cyclist (29 page)

Auguste grabbed Brunner’s wrist. He squeezed hard, using his left hand. Brunner could not bring the weapon to bear on his foe. They lay there, Auguste on top, Brunner with the gun in his hand. Each of them strained against the other with all the strength he could muster.

The pistol began to descend. Brunner was stronger. He was using his right hand. Auguste grasped it hard. The pistol still descended. It was slow, but inexorable. The barrel almost reached Auguste’s face.

For one second, he had a fleeting glimpse in his mind of Odette’s face, Zara and Monique standing behind. It was as if his whole life floated, suspended before him in one moment in time. One tiny second of weakness and all would be lost. Not only his life, but the lives of the ones he loved most in the world.

His whole brain screamed ‘No!’

In this one vital moment, he felt the release of a cryptic, unfathomable strength. It was as if some superhuman force took his arm. He jerked his hand with all his weight. It was with a strength born of desperation. It was enough. Brunner’s wrist bent. The arm gave way. The pistol lay between them as they struggled for control.

To Auguste the report felt as if a horse had kicked him in the solar plexus. It threw him bodily off the German. In panic, he glanced at his chest. A powder burn and blood, thick red blood, stained his coat.

Yet he could move. He could stand. He had the use of his limbs. Glancing at Brunner he realised he himself was unscathed. Brunner lay sprawled, eyes wide, the gun still in his hand. Blood welled up from the hole in his chest and from behind; it pooled and layered around him. Auguste watched as it seeped between the floorboards into the dark places below. He breathed hard. He checked himself again and floods of relief washed over him. He sat down on a chair and dizziness threatened to drop him to the floor.

It was over. He had done it. He forced himself to his feet. He checked Brunner’s dressing gown pocket but there was no weapon, only a neat folded handkerchief with the embroidered initials HB. He used it to try to wipe the blood from his overcoat but in seconds realised it was hopeless. It was like wearing a red badge proclaiming he had shot Major Brunner of the Bergerac SD.

Panic took him then. What if some neighbour heard the shot? The Germans were coming. There was no time. He realised he needed to leave as fast as he could. He could not walk down the street in his blood stained coat. Without a coat, he would look even more suspicious. He ran into an adjacent room. He found a wardrobe. He pulled open the door, finding a leather coat with a wool lining. It was not as warm as the one he wore but it would have to do. He donned the coat and bundled his own beneath his arm.

He stopped then. Should he leave Claude’s weapon or take it? He decided to leave it and at least no one could link it to him. A wine rack stood at the bottom of the stairs. He could not resist it. He reached for a bottle and in the lamplight shining through the open door, he read the label.

‘Chateaux Malartic Lagravière; Grand Cru Classé de Graves; Pessac Leognan 1923.’

He shrugged and took the wine too. He walked with a brisk but unhurried step to his car. Thrusting the soiled, bundled coat in front and setting the bottle between his legs, he started the engine and drove. In the rear view mirror, he saw trucks arriving. Turning the corner at the end of the street, he saw green uniforms on soldiers emerging from the trucks. He knew then they would soon pursue him if they gained access to Brunner’s house. Would Schultz prove as evil as Brunner? Would he be as intelligent?

He felt safe. He would be out of Bergerac in minutes, before they even found the Major’s body. It would not be long before a general order of arrest circulated.

It struck him how in the end, Brunner’s death was not the execution he had planned. The gun went off by accident. Perhaps his soul might be safe. He knew however, deep inside, his thinking was flawed, but he clung to his thought as a man may cling to a denial of marital infidelity or a dying man to a crucifix.

Chapter 25

1

Auguste drove with care. He kept his speed down because he wanted to be certain to arrive without skids and without mishaps. He felt as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from him. His goals now had a clarity he had not experienced since the letter from Tulard arrived from Lyon. All he wanted was to find Odette and the girls. He wanted them safe from the Germans, from the Brunners of this world. He knew also he had only cut off one of the hydra’s heads. More would come, more Brunners, more evil people spreading their message of cruelty and intolerance. He had now freed himself of it all. A new life and a new beginning awaited. Switzerland beckoned. They must need police officers there. He could become another man. He could become less confused about good and evil. In a neutral country, surely the margins were not as blurred as they had become here, in his home, his Bergerac.

He drove the road out of town until he came to the canal. He pulled his car up on the grass verge getting out with care. His head buzzed from the blow Brunner had dealt him and his stiff back ached again. Wondering if his fight with the German had caused his back pain, he walked up the bank to where he had left his family.

‘Odette,’ he called.

Silence greeted him.

He walked to the bushes where he had left them. No sign of them. Walking along the bank, he called Odette’s name repeatedly. A deep loneliness filled his heart. Anxiety now replaced the release he experienced over Brunner’s death. He had done his part, where were they? Had a police or military patrol picked them up?

Walking further, he decided to turn back and wait. At the bushes, he stood, feeling cold. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, he kept his hands in his pockets, then lifted them out. He paced and he turned back again. The cigarette packet in his trouser pocket summoned him. He took one and tried to light it but the breeze extinguished the match as soon as he struck it. Only five matches remained in the box. Placing the cigarette in his mouth, he opened his coat and obtained enough of a windbreak to light up.

The smoke burned his throat but the nicotine was welcome. His head whirled for a breath or two in the familiar carousel-ride reminding him of his youth.

‘Auguste?’

He turned. It was Odette.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for ages.’

The two girls, unanimous now, ran to him and he knelt before them, arms wide to receive their hugs. It made his heart soar when they threw their arms about him.

‘A military patrol came so I took the children across the road to the wood.’

‘We must hurry.’

‘What happened?’

‘I’ll tell you in the car,’ Auguste said.

They crossed the grassy slope and got into the car. Auguste noticed an early frost had made the grass yield a crunchy feel underfoot and he realised time was passing.

‘Well?’ Odette said as he started the engine.

‘We have nowhere to go. We have to wait until tomorrow evening before Pierre’s man will meet us on the Cazenac road.’

‘What happened?’

‘Brunner?’

‘Yes Auguste, I am not enquiring about Pétain, am I?’

‘Sorry. Perhaps we should talk when the girls are asleep.’

She looked at him, a quizzical look adorning her round face. He glanced at her and he smiled.

‘Enough to say, it is a threat which will no longer bother us.’

‘You took a big risk. If anything had happened to you, what would we have done? I would have been lost and alone.’

‘Alone? With these little monkeys in tow?’

‘Yes, alone.’

‘I know.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m not sure. We have to hide and hide the car too. Do you think we can find a barn big enough for the car? Maybe a farmer would let us hide.’

‘Maybe the farmer will turn us in to the soldiers. You are not the most popular of men in your uniform.’

‘No. I have clean clothes in the back.’

They drove on in silence until Odette said ‘They sleep. Now tell me what happened. You killed him?’

‘Yes... No.’

‘What?’

More silence.

Auguste said, ‘We tussled over the gun. He hit me and as we fought, the gun went off. It blew a hole in his chest.’

‘Papa who are you talking about?’

Odette turned and said, ‘Hush now ma petite. Try to sleep while we travel.’

They waited longer and drove through St Cypriene. Auguste turned right at the end of the big pond. The open Sarlat road now lay before him and he found his breathing settled down and he no longer sweated.

‘Auguste, tell me properly.’

Auguste told her the full story. She nodded and sucked her teeth.

‘It was close then?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you are sure he is dead?’

Odette glanced over her shoulder to ensure the girls slept.

‘He is dead. Justice has been served and I did not kill him. It was an accident.’

‘It makes no difference Auguste. You went there to kill him and you did. I hope there is a just God in heaven. I fear for your soul, my husband.’

‘This is war. There are no peaceful options for men like me. I am glad he is dead. I am glad he will not do to any others what he did to Bernadette.’

‘Did she really mean so much to you? You hardly knew her.’

‘Odette, if you had seen her tortured body in the mortuary, you would understand. She had a voice like an angel and she was beautiful. Then she was dead on a porcelain slab. You think I can breathe the same air as the man who did this?’

He reached down to the floor. His hand emerged holding the bottle of wine.

‘I took this,’ he said.

‘You stole?’

‘No, the owner was dead. Would you have left this for the Germans?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Do you remember when Pierre’s men killed Linz? They did it in a barn near Le Castanet. I think I can find it. We can hide the car there and sleep. Tomorrow evening we drive down to Beynac and then take the road where we meet Pierre’s man.’

‘They will be searching for us. Is it safe to hide in one place for so long?’

‘We have no alternative; I don’t know where we can cross the border. The Maquis know every crossing place.’

‘The Maquis hate you and see you as a collaborationist. They may not help. Oh, Auguste I wish none of this had happened. We have lost everything.’

‘No. We have gained our honour as French people everywhere one day will do. We are together and it is all that matters.’

She reached for his hand where it rested on the gearstick. The contact reassured them both as Auguste turned off the main road. Five miles on after ascending a steep incline, Auguste got out, outside the barn where Linz had met his end. A farmhouse perched on the top of the hill a quarter of a mile further up the road.

He changed his clothes and trudged up the icy slope towards the farmhouse. He hoped they would help. The farmer had to have Maquis leanings or they would not have chosen his barn.

The farmer and his wife took little persuasion once they saw the children in the back of the old Citroën. The farmer’s wife warmed soup for them all and they hid the car in the barn.

As Auguste shut the barn doors behind them, he realised people like the farmer and his wife were the true patriots of France. The men and women who supported their countrymen, who changed German slogans on walls, who resisted in the only ways they could. He realised also he had joined them. Despite his fears, a relief descended on his troubled, anxious mind. He was home.

2

‘I have a corkscrew on my knife.’

Odette said, ‘We have no cups.’

‘Do we need them?’

‘You will drink it all. I know you.’

Auguste smiled.

‘Here,’ he said and gestured with the bottle, ‘Madame should taste the wine perhaps.’

They drank from the bottle, the wine felt like a mouthful of blackcurrant mixed with plums and cedar wood. Odette looked up at her husband. Her careworn face lit up with a smile.

‘You were right to take the wine. It is too good for those German palates. I love you, my husband.’

‘Are you sure they sleep this time?’

‘We have only a few hours before dawn. Should we not sleep too?’

‘Sleep is good. This is better,’ Auguste said.

He reached for her and their lips met. His hands were everywhere, furtive, desperate. She responded mechanically at first; then overwhelmed by her feelings, she yielded to the passion welling up inside her. The pace of their touches and kisses slowed. They made love with gentle unhurried movements for they knew each other’s bodies, and they both felt they had a right to this moment together. He, feeling desperate to blot out the world around and she, determined to take this one moment in a world where the future loomed uncertain.

After they finished, they lay on the straw of the stall and he drew her in close, to warm her and caress her. Auguste sighed, hearing the children moving in the straw behind the slats of wood separating the stall from where they lay. He closed his eyes and recognised he should have made different choices long ago, when it mattered. He knew also it would have changed nothing in the long term, unless he had become a political figure or fled the country. Exile in London with the Free French held no attraction.

He wondered why Arnaud had stayed. His allegiance was with the exiled French army, yet he stayed. He remained ready to create his own form of resistance. Brunner brought an end to it. Auguste was glad the Germans had not succeeded in torturing the old soldier who, like Pétain, was a relic of heroic times in the First War. Auguste wondered whether old soldiers retained their allegiances and if so, what was Pétain doing? He preached collaboration, but it was collaboration with Satan himself. Genocide. Such was unforgiveable in anyone’s doctrine. He sighed with relief at his escape from the servitude cooperation which the Germans required of him. He finished the bottle while Odette slept, curled up against him.

No sleep came to Auguste. He could not understand why, but he was fully awake all night. Thoughts about the night before haunted him. He wondered whether all the ruminating and self-examination had been in vain. He had done what he thought was right and the pain of it came now. He kept seeing Brunner’s dead body sprawled on the Turkish rug, blood running from it, staining, damaging, as if even in death, the German had been as destructive as he had been in life.