The House with Blue Shutters (30 page)

Papie told himself that he was not troubled when four soldiers arrived to take him away. He could remember 1870 perfectly
well, and considered himself to be too old to be afraid of anyone much, even of them. Besides, he had been arrested for distilling
before the first war, and the customs
men had started coming back every season a couple of seasons after it ended. They had fallen into a pleasant relationship
over the years, the same twosome setting up their hide on the high bank below Aucordier’s, so on sunny days Papie could see
the wink of their field glasses and wave. They didn’t bother him, and in turn he made sure that any more irregular customers,
who came with big flagons rather than stone bottles, appeared only during their dinner break, from noon until two, or after
they had left their post with the light, around four. On several particularly cold days Cathérine had struggled up the bank
with a flask of hot coffee, which had been most politely and thankfully received. After the last day’s brewing he would leave
a full litre pot on the fence post, and its punctual empty arrival on the barn lintel the following January would have acted
as a reminder, had he needed one, that it was time to bank the charcoal in the belly of the still.

It was not yet ten o’clock when they arrived, and though Papie had been about since seven, he had only just finished wheeling
the last barrowload of Chasselas down from the orchard store. He had to go slowly these days and his hands no longer moved
so deftly amongst the fruit, he warmed them over the fire to get them supple. When he heard a movement behind him, he did
not turn, assuming it was William as usual, but no hand plucked caressingly at the sleeve of his jacket, William’s silent
greeting since he had been a little boy, and when he looked around there they were in the doorway in their black caps and
long grey coats. The lieutenant or whatever he was had silver piping around his cap, you could see he was in charge although
he was so young, but it was another of them who stepped forward and spoke to Papie in surprisingly
clear French. For a moment it seemed an idea to pretend not to understand, to hump into himself and refuse to look at them,
but pride got the better of that and Papie walked as smartly as he could outside to the truck. He had never ridden in a truck,
but he grasped the sides at the open back to show them he knew just what to do, and pulled hinself up in one movement, though
the effort of it made his eyes bulge nearly out of his head, and he had to suck as much air as possible through his nose so
that they should not hear him panting. He said not one word to them, but sat up straight with his cap on his head and his
hands folded between his legs.

Cathérine came hurtling down the field, her skirt flapping and a rag in her hand, crying out. Laurent was doing his best to
keep up with her. The soldiers strode up to meet them, so that Papie was unable to catch their words, although the day was
so still. He waved to his grandchildren and shouted in patois, ‘Don’t worry about me. Tell your mother I’ll be back for supper!’
Then they came back and got into the truck, the silver braid cap next to the driver in front and the other two on either side
of him. They held on to the rail with a hand each, so he felt he could do the same without appearing nervous. The boards vibrated
beneath their feet as the engine started and they moved forward slowly enough over the track, but when they came to the road
they ran with such smoothness and speed, streaming along so the wind made him breathless and icicles formed and melted in
his eyelashes as quick as the silvered earth flew by. It was beautiful. Papie turned his head about, astonished at how things
rushed up then flew behind, at the ease, when they had slowed and turned into the gates, with which they picked up speed again
and whirred up the
avenue of the chateau. He opened his mouth wide to the wind.

Karl had felt horribly uncomfortable when
Obersturmführer
Hummel had fetched him to translate at the Nadl farm. He knew that Oriane’s brother, the simpleton, used to go down there
when she worked, but he had no news of her. There was no excuse he could contrive to give him a reason to ask, and though
he hoped every day to be ordered up to the camp, there was more work than there had ever been at the chateau, something big
was up. It surprised him how much he ached to see her, but he was also ashamed at his own proxy closeness to these people.
Arriving at the farm he saw that he was associated in some way now with this smelly old man and his disreputable activities,
that there was a connection between them that differed from that of ruler and ruled, which was how it was when one came down
to think of it. Like those men on the plantations who slept with the black slaves. Castroux seemed different in the winter,
not old-fashioned and charming, but mean and dirty, the people grubbing squatly over the land like so many bundled trolls.
He took less trouble than usual to be polite to the old man, and when they got him back he let the two privates take him away
immediately Hummel ordered it, knowing that they would be able to offer him no words of explanation or encouragement.

Having never been inside the chateau, Papie was disappointed when he was led under the archway to the stable yard and directly
through a door and down a flight of steps. A second door was unlocked and they went along a damp passage with the aid of an
oil lamp, passing vaulted, musty spaces until a third door was opened and he was pushed through it. From
the smell, Papie knew it was the wine cellar, and that made him smile, though when one of the soldiers handed him a lighted
candle he saw that the ranks of bins were empty, though their rich scent lingered. The room was swept clean, flagged in thick
cool limestone, though, since it was not oozing damp, Papie reckoned it had been dug in properly, raised on a bed of sand
and gravel. There was a stove, but it was cold. The d’Esceyracs had done themselves right, no doubt of that, lighting a fire
just to keep their precious bottles warm. There was a wooden stool, and, Papie saw when he set the candle holder on the floor,
a white chamber pot at the edge of where the shadow fell. As he looked around, the soldier said something in his own language
and the door was shut. Papie heard a key turn and two bolts being shot. Instinctively, he moved to the door and pushed stupidly
against it, noticing in the next moment that there was a bottle of water and a cup on the protruding stone where in old times
there would have been a statue of the Virgin. Every room in Castroux had one of those. For a few moments Papie prowled about
with the candle, imagining a forgotten bottle of champagne or burgundy, but the room, though high for a cellar, was not large,
and he swiftly saw that it was bare. That had been a fine bottle, that one young William had brought down from the chateau.
They might be cowards, these aristos, but at least the Marquis hadn’t left the bastards anything decent to drink. He poured
a little of the water and sat down on the stool. There was no sound except the slight wheeze of his own breath, and after
some time he began to wonder what would happen when the candle burned out.

Obersturmführer
Hummel gave himself permission to use the telephone. It was a waste in some ways, but he had to concede that he was not blocking
any more vital information from the exchange and moreover, the sooner the
Milice
took away the poor old man in the cellar the better. He shared
Obersturmbannführer
von Scheurenberg’s unspoken yet palpable conviction that such matters were beneath their dignity, insulting even. Minor insurrection
was not SS business. These people had no reason to be especially afraid since Hummel and his men had simply not attempted
to make them feel afraid. To suggest that silly breaches of discipline were a shortcoming on their own part was demeaning.
It was quite clear to Hummel. If they had been made to feel afraid you could bet there would be no more of this sort of business,
it was nonsense to mess around with half measures. Hummel did not despise the old chap any more than he despised the rest
of the people in Castroux, he reserved what contemptuous attention he had for the
Milice
men. He looked about for the day’s orders to check the telephone password, anticipating the smugness in the voice that would
use the code on the other end of the line. They took such pathetic pleasure in it, playing at soldiers, as if it wasn’t obvious
who was telephoning, as the line was only connected three ways. Hummel peered at the smudgy sheet, which was clearly marked
with an inky fingerprint in the top left-hand corner. Wurster was a dreadful typist.

Laurent thought that if he considered the possible consequences, the problem would not be solved. The translator fellow had
said that Papie’s transgression would be a
Milice
matter, which meant, immediately, that they would be back.
Yves would have to take Laurent’s place again, in case they came to Murblanc, but Bernard had put on a good show yesterday,
they were unlikely to return to the Teulière house, so that could be risked if both Bernard and Jean-Marc were kept out of
sight. Hilaire the baker could make a show of goodwill by presenting his papers, though Laurent himself had no idea whether
he had a document to prove he was milling, but Hilaire would have to deal with that himself, there was no time for anything
elaborate. That left the other four, Boissière, Nic, Marcel and Jean. They would have to move quickly, hide. Did Larivière
know where his son was? Laurent wished he could speak to JC, perhaps a telephone call could be made from the
Mairie
, but even as he pictured himself talking urgently into the instrument he knew it was impossible, JC would not have been so
careless. So that left him responsible, as the mayor had said. His mother was bewildered, she had been all for marching up
to the chateau and demanding Papie’s release, but they couldn’t see the connection, that this was about life and death. Laurent
smiled a little. Old Papie would be giving them hell, anyway, those buggers.

‘What about Georges? We should get permission.’

‘Christ, Eric, you’re as much of an old pussy as he is. We don’t need that fat gut-sack.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But I told you what he said on the phone. Just as well I took the call. I went upstairs to ask, but there was no one there.
We’ll explain when we get back. What, do you think we should leave a note? Have you never heard of security? Come on. You
can drive.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe you should count me out.’

‘Eric. This is a serious matter, very serious. Do you want people to, you know, start casting doubts?’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Course I’m sure.’

Thierry had taken the phone call from
Obersturmfuuhrer
Hummel, and it was true that he had gone next door (‘upstairs’ was a satisfactory metaphor, British-style, Thierry did not
consider whether his pleasure in it was appropriate) to ask permission, though he had taken the precaution of waiting until
the two senior duty officers had left for their lunch at noon. They would not return before three. He had been furious all
the way back to Cahors, wedged into the truck next to that disgusting Georges Tinville. It was obvious that there had been
funny business going on, that those wily country bastards had pulled a fast one. Tinville had been too busy stuffing himself
as usual to notice. Now a man had been denounced for illegal alcohol production in the same village, right under the noses
of the battalion. It was too much. Thierry felt keenly that the
Milice
were considered a bit of a laughing stock, and he believed that it was the lack of discipline and strict example amongst
what he had learned to call the populace that were driving things to the bad. It was no surprise that schoolteacher had turned
out to be a Communist, and Thierry wouldn’t mind betting there were a few more of them in that village. It was time to teach
someone a lesson, and Thierry knew that he was the right man to do it. It was tempting to tell Eric about the pistol, though
maybe that was better revealed when they were on the way.