The Road Between Us (45 page)

The faces of the Germans are dirty, their uniforms tattered and unbuttoned. They look defeated and broken. Some have bandages on their heads or their arms in slings. Others barely have the energy to lift their boots. They look either too young or too old, but nothing in between. Their rifles are clanking against their helmets, their bayonets against their mess tins. Their packs give them a humped, misshapen appearance and Charles once more recalls the sight of the British Army retreating to Dunkirk. There are perhaps two hundred of them and those that notice the van as they tramp past look up with dead eyes.

They can now hear the gentle percussion of rain on leaves, but Lehague does not put the wipers on. And he does not start the engine again until the last of the Germans is out of sight – but even then he doesn’t put the van in gear straight away. His hands are shaking and he grips the steering wheel to steady them. Inis retches emptily and lights up a cigar to settle her nerves.

The road where the Germans have crossed is now churned up and their tyres make spinning and sucking sounds as they sink into the mud. One of the Germans has thrown away his helmet, and, once they are clear of the mud, Lehague has to swerve to avoid it.

It is nightfall when, following the contour of a hillside, they reach, or think they reach, the right village, but there are no road signs to confirm this. There is instead the sound of singing around a piano coming from an
estaminet
– melancholy German songs about lost love. The air is leaden and moist.

‘Wait here,’ Charles says firmly when Lehague opens his door.

The inn is crowded with Frenchmen, in one half of the bar at least. In the other, half a dozen drunken Germans in grey field uniforms are singing around a piano. The barman’s forehead has a sheen on it, as if he has been running. His hair is pushed back over a monkish tonsure.

Charles orders a Pernod.

‘Haven’t seen you in here before,’ the barman says.

‘This is Natzweiler-Struthof, yes?’ Charles asks out of the side of his mouth, keeping his eyes on the Germans.

‘Yes.’

‘I thought they had gone.’

The barman pours the shot. ‘They left a few guards.’

‘What are they guarding?’

‘Nothing. They get drunk all day.’

‘They are not guarding the camp?’

‘Most of them won’t go near the camp. Typhus.’

‘But there are still prisoners in there?’

The barman shrugs.

Charles drains his glass. ‘
Santé
.’

The barman smiles sourly and gives a sideways glance at the grey uniforms before saying in a low voice: ‘
Santé
.’

When Charles returns to the van to collect his rifle he says: ‘Six guards. Drunk. There doesn’t seem to be anyone up at the camp.’

‘Let’s take a look, then,’ Lehague says.

The sound of the singing fades into the night air as the three leave the inn and head up into the main part of the village. It is so quiet as they walk through it that they become conscious of the clatter of their boots and shoes on the cobbles.

When a dog barks in the distance they stop.

They then see Gothic lettering on a sign: ‘Halt!’ Behind this there are the black and white chicane stripes of a sentry box and a wire fence inset with photo-electric cells. On this is painted a sign with a skull and crossbones and the single word ‘
Typhus
’. Above this is a ‘
verboten
’ sign. Lining the fence are white rags.

‘Are they expecting visitors?’ Inis says in a whisper.

The burning smell of a coke brazier becomes noticeable but in the dim moonlight it is not obvious where it is coming from. Charles throws pebbles into the darkness of the camp to see if the sound will draw out any hidden sentries. Nothing stirs. He feels uneasy, though, and presses the spring plunger that releases the built-in spike bayonet on his rifle. He pulls it out, turns it round and, with a click, fits it back into the receptacle before advancing to the sentry box.

Inside he sees a guard sleeping, his head on the table, his back to the door. He is wearing a cape that conceals his shape. There is an empty bottle to his side, next to a whip. Charles is standing over him when he opens his eyes and, in panic, reaches for a snub-nosed pistol. Mechanically, Charles thrusts the spike as hard as he can, stabbing the guard between his shoulder girdle and neck. In the same moment, the man pulls the trigger and a parachute flare hisses out of the sentry box and illuminates the night sky. With a grunt, Charles withdraws the spike and, cupping the butt of the rifle, plunges it in again, this time stabbing the guard between the ribs as he rolls forward. He makes an answering gurgle as his punctured lung projects blood out of his mouth. A jet of it soaks Charles’s trouser leg and he finds himself staring at the man without anger or pity. This is his enemy. An obstacle. Only now, as the man’s body jerks and he slides down the door like a drunkard, his legs spreading out from under him in aV-shape, does Charles see he is wearing a skirt. Her head lolls back. A red bubble forms on her lips, blown by a final breath, and then it pops. Her dying eyes glaze, but do not blink.

As he backs away from the box, Charles realizes the butt of his rifle is wet with blood. He wipes his hands on his jacket and replays the sound of the struggle, as if it is a recording he has been listening to, a wireless play involving two actors. Lehague and Inis are standing frozen and spectral in the potassium light of the flare as it slowly descends. All around them sinister shapes are emerging: smouldering heaps of rags, abandoned boxes and vehicles.

‘Come on,’ Lehague hisses. ‘The flare will have alerted the whole village. We have to hurry.’

Charles shakes his head, coming out of his trance. He sees the camp is not so much a prison as a set of municipal buildings. The wooden watchtowers are empty. As they tread carefully behind the checkpoint, he notices a flat, sour smell like curdled milk and reaches for his hanky, holding it to his mouth.

The flare goes out and the returning darkness seems more absolute than before.

Not only has the camp been abandoned, it seems to have been closed down. Lehague, who is also holding a hanky to his nose, tries a tap. No water. Charles flips a light switch in the entrance of a tall building draped with swastikas. No electricity. A sign here reads: ‘
Kommandantur
’. It is dark inside. He shines a torch in and sees an unfinished game of dominoes. A portrait of Hitler. Plates of bread. The Germans have left in a hurry.

A loose iron sheet from the roof creaks.

Charles rejoins Lehague outside and shrugs. ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing.’

The camp falls silent again. The perfume of death is everywhere. Charles has come to recognize it. He directs his torch at a long building ahead of them and takes in a pile of green and purple corpses that have been left against the wall, stacked like sandbags, six of them awaiting burial. The lumps on their faces look swollen and putrefactive. They have grown obese in death: heat-swollen legs, bellies and buttocks. A few ribs are protruding from the cadaverous chest balanced on top of the pile and, as the torchlight passes over them, they appear to have a silvery sheen. Charles sees the maggots now as they lust after the corpse, a train of them filing into the gaping chest wound.

When Charles points at himself, then at the building, Lehague gives him a thumbs-up sign. As he enters he realizes this is the infirmary – a red cross behind camouflage netting. He flicks his torch around again. More bones in rags, but nothing living. There is a dead body on the nearest bed. It is moving with
lice. Charles scratches his arms, suddenly aware of their itchiness.

Death, the unmentionable odour, is overwhelming in here, searing the lungs and twisting the stomach. There is no language for it. Realizing he has entered the world of a nightmare, Charles fears even to breathe the polluted air. He presses his handkerchief hard to his face. ‘Anselm?’ The voice is hesitant, as if disturbing the silence will bring out demons. There is a scurry of movement in his peripheral vision. Rats on yet another body inflated with decomposition, half the head missing. He doesn’t make it to the door before vomiting.

The three walk back to the entrance of the camp in silence. Their journey has been futile.

‘What should we do?’ Inis asks when they are beyond the perimeter fence.

‘There is nothing else we can do,’ Lehague says. ‘When we get back to Nancy we tell the Americans that the Germans have gone. They can then get over here and round up the last of them, force them to clean up the camp and dig the graves. That’s the … What is it, Charles?’

Charles is staring at a large, pale building with a turret that seems to disappear into the night. He feels drawn to it by a gravitational tug, as if an electronic magnet has been switched on in his abdomen. That is the place, he thinks. After travelling nearly four thousand miles, and across five years, I have reached my destination. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ he says. ‘I want to take a look in there.’

‘Forget it,’ Lehague says. ‘We’ve been lucky so far. If we leave now we might be able to avoid the guards.’

‘Please.’

Lehague ends the discussion by turning and walking back in the direction of the van.

‘François.’

The Frenchman stops. Rubs the back of his neck. Turns. The two men hold each other’s glare for several seconds that are broken into smaller units, slower frames of time in which cold calculations are
being made. Charles can feel his sinews tightening. He squares his shoulders.

Lehague seems to see an energy in his eyes he hasn’t seen before. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. ‘OK, OK. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, we’re leaving without you.’

Two stone eagles either side of the front door seem to narrow their gazes at Charles as he approaches the house. He becomes intensely aware of his surroundings, hearing every murmur of every leaf in the tall trees swaying overhead. He tests the door. It groans open. Inside, the darkness is thick.

He hears the snap of a chain before he sees the animal attached to it. When he shines his torch, the Alsatian’s eyes glow eerily. It bares its teeth but is too weak to bark. Clearly it hasn’t been fed for weeks. On a nearby table there is half a loaf of mouldy bread. He places it at the dog’s feet and, as it sniffs it, he unbuckles its collar.

His torch now finds dry, unswept leaves, pigeon feathers and a display cabinet. As he takes a couple of steps closer, he sees that it contains butterfly specimens pinned to corkboards. He tries a light switch but, again, there is no electricity. Ghost-footing now, he enters a long room lined with tapestries and antlers mounted as trophies. It looks as if there has been a fight in here. Curtains have been torn down, chairs tipped over. There is broken glass and piles of papers scattered on the floor, some singed. Someone has been in a hurry to burn boxes of papers in the fireplace, but they have piled them on so heavily they have put the flames out.

A door in the far corner of this room leads on to a wide spiralling staircase. Charles looks behind him, thinking he has heard a noise. He then takes the steps two at a time.

There are eight doors in the passage at the top. One is open. He raises his rifle to his hip, pointing it in the same direction as his torch beam.

A four-poster bed dominates the room. There is someone lying on it, his face moving with flies. Were it not for his occasional blinks, he might be stone.

The man attempts to shield his eyes, but is too weak. Realizing
what he is doing, Charles lays the torch down, takes a step closer and sits on the bed cautiously, as if expecting it to collapse under his weight.

Bony fingers feel for his. They are dry and cold. When the wraith tries to speak, his breath is sordid and faecal. Charles edges closer and, brushing away the flies, leans over so that their lips can touch.

He can feel his heart blooming within his chest.

‘Anselm.’

PART EIGHT

I

London. Present day. Summer. One year, three months and eighteen days after Edward’s release

THOUGH THE TEARS HAVE DRIED ON HANNAH’S CHEEKS, INSIDE SHE
still feels saturated and heavy with grief. First her father’s symbolic ‘funeral’, then her mother’s real one, and now this. When her mother died, her grandfather became her family, her only surviving relative in England, as far as she knew. And though he hadn’t been able to communicate with her in any meaningful way in his final years, she had, nevertheless, found his company reassuring.

Now she is on her way to his funeral and the London sky is grey, sagging with the prospect of rain. Her clothes feel like lead on her shoulders, their blackness adding to their weight – black coat, black beret, black leather gloves.

Her father is in the seat beside her, holding her hand.

With a ticking sound, the first drops of rain appear on the sunroof. They form fat pools on the glass. The funeral procession, which consists of the black limousine they are in and the hearse ahead of them, has come to a halt. When they start moving again, the big sloppy drops drag into new patterns. Some of the pools are an inch across, ovals with one side lined black, catching the dark cloud.

‘Do you think there will be many people there?’ Hannah asks.

‘Doubt it. Don’t think Dad had many friends. A few cousins maybe. Perhaps there will be some people coming along out of curiosity after reading his obituaries.’

As her father lets go of her hand now, Hannah feels as if she might sink into the car seat, pulled down as if in quicksand, as exhausted as her tear ducts. She draws her arm back, rubs it and, laying her head back on the rest, thinks about her grandfather’s last request, as conveyed to them by a nervous-sounding probate lawyer. Apparently, he wanted to have his heart cut out before he was buried. The solicitor’s reassurances that there are precedents for this have not convinced either of them. He is not at liberty to say what her grandfather wanted done with the heart. It is to be removed and handed over to the law firm, and that will be that. She shivers at the thought. It seems such a macabre thing to do.