The Cyclist (30 page)

He closed his eyes. All he could see was the front of Brunner’s house and the sight of the man in slippers and a nightgown descending the stairs. Auguste sat up, he was sweating and his breathing had speeded up again. He wished his heart would slow but he knew it was simple anxiety. The long stress of what had gone before and the anticipated stress of what was to come combined to permeate his thoughts with fear.

A faint predawn light lit the barn. Auguste heard a cockcrow outside and he realised whether he slept or not the children would soon awaken and need him as much as they needed Odette. He wondered how they would take to a new life in another country. Zara would cope, he was sure, she was clever at school and knew both French and German already. Monique was a different more serious child, but who could blame her? She had no one but Auguste and Odette. He reassured himself they loved her and would do what they could to save her and nurture her when they built this new life, this future in the land of milk and honey.

Dawn broke and the gentle light filtered through the small barred window above the double pine doors. Auguste reflected the day was new and his life too had changed, nascent and fresh, free of the burdens of his old existence. The light in the window brightened and a beam of sunlight reflected off the roof of his battered old car. It formed a cruciate design suspended for a moment or two in the air before it changed and faded.

He was neither superstitious nor did he feel as religious as some but he felt empowered as if a sign had appeared to guide him. He thought it might have been the lack of sleep but the more he considered the more it seemed to be a sign. Was it reclamation? Was it forgiveness? He had no time to ponder as the girls began to stir and yawn.

He smiled. He felt lighter in some way as he stood and brushed the hay from his clothes. Brunner’s leather coat had kept him warmer than he felt he deserved and he removed it, wrapping Odette in the black leather. She stirred but remained asleep. He felt a tenderness touch him. She always evoked a feeling in him of wanting to nurture her, protect her. It seemed a contradiction. All he had done so far was endanger her with his personal sense of justice and now it was over, what had he achieved?

He watched her as the morning light waxed, her face illuminated by the daylight, dim and faint still. He thought she looked angelic. He shook his head. He wondered if he was going mad, absorbed in some religious reverie. He had things to do. He had to prepare for a long month of travel and he wondered whether the children would tolerate the hardship of it. He felt like a shepherd, preparing to guide his flock to the market eager to protect them from the wolves that roamed in the night.

He heard the girls, rapt in mumbled conversation, then he heard Monique yawn. He stuck his head around the post of the stall.

‘Shh,’ he said, pressing his fingers to his lips, ‘Your mother is sleeping. Let us go outside quietly and see if we can find something to eat.’

They made their way towards the farmhouse, Auguste, in the middle, holding a girl’s hand in each of his own. Another barn stood next to the farmhouse, from which the sounds and odour of cattle wafted on a fresh morning breeze. Auguste thought the farmer might provide some fresh milk. It threatened to be a long day. No one would be there to guide them until nightfall.

3

They rounded the corner of the barn. A military vehicle stood parked outside the farmhouse. Auguste pulled the girls back.

‘Papa, will we have real fresh milk?’ Zara said.

‘Shh. Things have changed.’

‘Things?’ Monique said.

‘There are soldiers here. We must hide. Run down to the barn and wake Maman, quietly now. Stay there. Hurry.’

Auguste stood hidden by the corner of the barn. The cock crowed again. He waited. He had no idea then how many soldiers there might be, but he checked his German-made Parabellum. The clip held eight cartridges and although no match for the semi-automatic fire of a Luger, it was the weapon he had trained and practised with.

He waited. He saw the girls running and they entered the barn. His hands were shaking. He needed to know what the car meant. Had they arrested the farmer? If they had, he would talk. Auguste and his family meant nothing to him after all. To him they were strays and whether or not the army was after them, they could not be worth dying for. He was breathing fast as he flattened himself against the wall.

Presently, he heard voices. He could not make out the words and he leaned forward to see better. He spotted two regular soldiers. Each carried a rifle. He saw one of them pass something to the farmer who smiled and thanked them. He pointed down the hill to where Odette and the girls hid.

The soldiers unslung their weapons and checked them. They were advancing down the hill shoulder to shoulder. They looked cleanshaven, eager and young, hardly older than twenty. Intent on the barn down the hill andneither looked around the corner of the nearer barn. Auguste heard the farmhouse door close. He let the young men walk five paces past him. He stepped out.

‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’ll kill you if you do.’

The gun trembled in his hand. His knees felt as if they might begin knocking together at any moment. He had an almost overwhelming desire to run. Sweat dripped, tickling, down his spine.

When it happened, it came fast. As one, the two Germans turned. They had no time to level their rifles. Auguste shot the one on the right in the chest. The soldier flew back as if hit with a pile driver.

The second, slower than the first, levelled his rifle. Auguste fired again, higher this time. He thought, through the smoke, he had missed. He threw himself forward onto the mud. His pistol remained pointing forward, ready. Nothing happened. The soldier stood for a moment and his rifle fell from his hands. He toppled forward. Auguste got up and looked. The helmet lay three feet away. A hole, the size of his fist oozed blood and brain at the back of the boy’s head. He pushed the body over with his foot. The face seemed marred only by a neat hole in his cheek.

Neither of the Germans moved but Auguste moved. He ran towards the farmhouse. He was breathing fast but he knew the farmer had a telephone and anyone could hear the sound of his gun for miles around. He had no time to lose.

He burst through the door. The man stood with his back to him. He clutched a telephone receiver to his ear. Fury raged in Auguste’s head at the treachery. Auguste raised the pistol as the man turned. He brought it crashing with full force into his betrayer’s face. It landed with a crunch. The farmer fell towards the wall. The receiver hung from its twisted brown cord and swung back and forth.

Auguste listened. No sound in the house. He put the receiver to his ear. He heard an accented voice say, ‘Are you there? Are you there?’

‘Yes, I am here.’

‘Hello. Who is this?’

‘My father is outside with your men. The people in the barn left in the night.’

‘They left?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know? You were told not to go near.’

‘Your men have checked just now.’

‘I ordered them not to do that. They were to wait for the others to arrive. Let me speak to them.’

‘They just drove off. Shall I see if I can catch them?’

‘No. More men will be there in a few minutes. What kind of car were the fugitives driving?’

‘A black Renault. They said they were heading to La Gréze. They looked like partisans to me.’

‘Very well. We will pay you well if we catch them. Let my men know when they arrive. Good work.’

The telephone went dead. Auguste wondered where the farmer’s wife was hiding. He heard the farmer groaning as he pushed the door open. He ran past the bodies of the two soldiers, but on impulse retraced his steps. Stooping, he picked up the two rifles and although he felt he wasted time, he took a belt with ammunition off one of them. He turned and ran.

Rounding the corner of the barn, he felt a blow on his shoulder. He stumbled.

‘Oh, Auguste. I’m sorry,’ Odette said. She held a length of wood.

Zara giggled.

‘Maman hit Papa,’ she said.

‘No time,’ Auguste said. He picked up the rifles and shoved them into the car.

He said, ‘We have to go. Hurry.’

‘What is happening?’ Odette said.

‘Germans coming, any minute now. We have to go and quickly.’

It took seconds to pick up their belongings from the hay and get into the car. They drove out of the barn and down the road.

‘Where are we going?’ Odette said.

‘We have to lie up until this evening. I know a place.’

‘A place?’

‘Yes. Trust me.’

She said nothing.

Monique said, ‘I never got my milk.’

Odette looked at Auguste. She squeezed his hand where it rested on the gearstick. The expression on her face spoke volumes to him. The reassurance of her touch seemed to Auguste like a cool balm on sunburned skin. He realised he had killed two men. He had no qualms now. If his soul was in jeopardy, then it might as well be for something worthwhile and besides, saving his family could surely be no sin under heaven or on earth.

Chapter 26

1

Auguste headed north. He was aware his gasoline supply was precious but he had to distance himself from the dead Germans and from Beynac. Two ten-litre cans stood in the back of the car but those were his reserves and he would have to conserve them. After twenty miles on winding potholed roads he turned left and began a climb up a wooded single-track lane. The Citroën’s temperature gauge complained on the steep climb but he drove without hurrying, in low gear, and on they climbed.

At the hill’s summit stood several buildings protected by a high, whitewashed, rendered wall. At the end of the track, a wooden door stood closed, a bell-pull swinging in the winter breeze. Auguste halted the car; he got out and approached the doors. He rang the bell and waited. He knew there would be a response.

Presently, the shutter opened and a face appeared framed in a brown hood.

‘Yes?’

‘Father, I am a traveller. I have my wife and two children in the car. I seek shelter and help.’

‘What kind of help my son?’

‘We are pursued by German soldiers. They are searching for us and can identify our car. We need to shelter until nightfall.’

‘You cannot shelter here, my son. We do not take sides in earthly struggles. We can give you food and drink but we cannot shelter you.’

‘I have been here before when I was a youth, on meditation with Père Bernard of Bergerac. Would you ask the Abbot? He might consider my pleas.’

The shutter closed. Auguste stood there facing the worn brown slats of wood, hoping. He shuffled from foot to foot. After several minutes, he turned and began walking to the car, shaking his head to Odette.

The bolts on the doors creaked as a monk opened them. The portal swung open and Odette started the engine of the ancient battered car. Auguste followed as she drove it in through the low archway. Entering the courtyard of the abbey, he heard the gates close behind them and saw a monk directing Odette towards a shed whose doors stood open and ready for the vehicle.

Odette approached, holding the children’s hands. Auguste picked Zara up in his arms, her weight sitting on his hip as he walked. They climbed the steps and a monk showed them into a narrow cloister. Turning left, they proceeded to a doorway, where the cold stone floor echoed to their footsteps. They waited and the monk opened the door to a large room where long tables with benches stretched before them. It was a high ceilinged room where fifty could sit and eat. Beyond the dining hall, was another short corridor to the Abbot’s office.

Auguste knew the layout, he had been here before, after all. He could never forget those three days. They were part of a happier life, one in which the future seemed so clear, so definite. Now all of it had gone, replaced by a shaky hope of better things to come, but a deep river of danger flowed in his path, one across which he knew he would have to venture.

The Abbott stood when they entered. He was an old man now though he stood straight and walked forward with no visible limp or stoop. Auguste found his face familiar and he tried in desperation to recall the name, though it eluded him.

The Abbott, tall and angular, with a face furrowed by time, wore the same brown cassock as the other two monks and his baldness made his tonsure into a ‘u’shape instead of a circle.

He reached forward to Auguste who took the proffered hand.

‘I am Abbott Fernand. You are?

‘I am Auguste Ran.’

‘You have been here before? In happier times perhaps?’

‘I was here for meditation twenty-five or more years ago. The memory has stayed with me ever since.’

‘You wish to stay?’

‘I need only shelter for my wife and children and our car until it is dark. Then we will leave. If the Germans get us we will be sent to Drancy and then? Who knows?’

‘Have you committed crimes?’

‘Crimes against the Germans. But no crimes against France or our people.’

‘You have taken lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Church does not condone killing even by the Maquis. If the Germans find you here, they will shoot all the brothers. You have put us at risk.’

‘Would they come here?’

‘Perhaps not. We are of little interest to them. The Bishop has made bargains with them and they leave us alone.’

‘You approve?’

‘I did not express my opinion, my son, but you can guess by your treatment what I and the brothers believe.’

‘I understand. I would not endanger you if I had any other choice. I have nowhere to run to.’

‘This is your wife?’

‘Yes, Father Abbott. Odette,’ he signalled her forwards.

Auguste made the introductions and the monk who showed them in led them away to the dining hall, where they were offered milk, bread and honey. Auguste watched as the children ate, observed by the monk.

His name was Brother Dominic. Auguste recognised the monk’s local accent. He estimated the monk was a similar age to himself.

‘Brother Dominic, you are from Bergerac?