Landscape of Shadows, page 15
“Who says?”
“Egon Wolff.”
Bruno emits a sharp bark of unbelieving laughter. He wheels around and looks at Max as though he has suddenly discovered himself to be in the company of a madman.
“Egon Wolff?”
“That’s what I said.”
Bruno tosses the shrunken butt of his cigarette into the great fireplace.
“My God, I think you’re serious.”
That night it is an unhappy Bruno who leaves the Picardie and heads home. His mood is foul.
Max goes upstairs, lowers all the blackout blinds, then does the same downstairs.
He stays away from his private quarters and Sophie. He goes through to the bar, stands behind the counter, runs his hand along its cool surface. It glows like silver. More colors flash from the mirrors and bottles than he could name. He thinks of the colors in Sophie’s gray eyes.
The quiet of the empty building folds itself about him. Like the streets and shaded alleys he cycled through today, the Picardie will carry on when he is gone. It is a hard thought to bear, but perhaps there is also a comfort in it.
He goes out to the grounds at the front of the Picardie. Bats are busy overhead. He skirts the old maze and stands under the plane trees.
Their leaves are still; they have nothing to say to him.
CHAPTER 38
THESE ROOMS WERE a prison where Max oppressed her with his presence; now they are a prison because of his absence.
The day crawls along but he does not come to her. What a fool she was to believe he would. She watches the mirror’s little oval reflection flit across the walls of the bedroom until the daylight dies and the room falls dark.
His absence is all the more troubling because she is certain that something is going on, something bad; and it concerns him.
Voices float to her here, wisps of words and phrases, always incomplete. There is the shrill, silly woman who beats rugs and mats in the courtyard. She seems incapable of doing her work in silence. Her lamentations drift to the glassless window like the clouds of dust from her efforts.
“Monsieur Max” is how she refers to him. Monsieur Max this, Monsieur Max that. This afternoon her beating of the rugs was punctuated by bursts of sobbing and sniffles. There was mention of someone called Paul—“young Paul” and “our Paul”.
Then there is the chef, Bruno. No mistaking his bad-tempered tones. But today when she heard his growl it was edged with misery.
She is convinced there was also fear. What would strike fear in such a great ox?
The one voice she has never heard, the voice she has waited to hear—has been desperate to hear—is Max’s. But there has been nothing, no footsteps in the corridor, no scrape of a key in the door. He has not returned.
So she frets and chafes, lost without him, abandoned, angry because of her helplessness.
There is more than dust in the air, something more than disconnected voices hovering in the heavy atmosphere. There is something ominous, a threat, tension before a lightning strike. There is danger here. Danger for Max.
What danger?
She dreams of the dead again, and of that other prison cell, cold and damp and frightening. A police cell in Paris.
Every day the police cross-examine her, over and over until she can hardly think straight. Always the same questions. What did she know of Gérard’s plan? How did she help him? Who owned the gun? Where did it come from? How did Gérard obtain it?
She has no answers for them. She tells them the truth, that she knew nothing of her brother’s plan. That she did not help him in any way. That she has no idea where the gun came from. That she would have stopped him if she had known anything of his intention.
“I would never have let him do what he did,” she pleads. “Can’t you see? Why can’t you understand?”
She is sick with fear, and sick with the loss of Gérard.
He has shamed the police by demonstrating that they are not in control of their city. They are afraid of the Germans and they keep on and on at her. They pick over her life and Gérard’s life in every detail. They tell her that her friends are being questioned. Also Gérard’s friends. Also her parents’ friends. They tell her these people are being seized in the night, thrown into cells, intimidated and shouted at for days on end.
She is told that Maman and Papa are somewhere in these same police cells but she is not allowed any contact with them. She knows they will be at their wits’ end—not only because of Gérard’s death but also because of their Jewish faith. His body remains uncleansed, unaccompanied by anyone who loves him. Unburied. They cannot sit shiva. Until he is buried his soul cannot be at rest, it will drift lost and confused between two worlds, the earthly and the spiritual.
All this bears down on her, day after day, as they question her and threaten her, always the same weary inquisitors with the same maddening questions.
And then one day, without warning, the routine changes. Someone is waiting in the room to which she is brought for another round of questioning. Not one of the usual inquisitors, this person. It is a man in uniform. But not police uniform. He is wearing German uniform. He is a German officer.
There is a medical dressing on his face.
She knows at once who he is, recognizes him. This man with his unforgiving blue eyes and Iron Cross and gleaming jackboots is not just any German officer come to check on the local police at work. She recognizes him as the man Gérard wounded, the man who shot and killed Gérard.
He does not speak, never once, asks her no questions and offers no comments to her inquisitors, only stands there, hands clasped behind his back, a back as straight as if he is standing to attention. He watches and listens as she is questioned yet again. Over and over and over.
After a time, he leaves.
But she knows she will never forget that face. That handsome, ravaged German face.
CHAPTER 39
FOR MAX IT is a day of final duties.
A final stocktake. This he does in the sleepless hours before dawn.
A final reckoning of the Picardie’s business accounts. The numbers are small, the task correspondingly easy; the job is done by the time Bruno comes puffing up rue de la République.
A final handwritten invoice for Wolff’s account.
A final farewell to Virginie, prompting many tearful cries of “Oh, Monsieur Max!” and much wringing of her hands.
Then there is Bruno.
His temper has not improved overnight. He does not try to hide his anger. He prowls his kitchen, avoiding Max’s gaze, checking things that do not need to be checked, wiping surfaces that need no wiping.
“Sit down, Bruno. You’re making me dizzy.”
The chef grunts. He sits down and lights a cigarette.
“The Picardie is to be yours, Bruno.”
A cloud of cigarette smoke. “What?”
“After Geneviève’s death, I amended my will. It’s with the notary. On my death the Picardie passes solely to you. You know as much about running it as I do. It’s right that you should have it.”
“Max, I can’t—”
“Do the best you can to keep the place going. Maybe one day it’ll provide a decent livelihood again.”
He passes the account books and stock records to Bruno, then presses on, leaving him no opportunity to argue.
“We’ll attempt the handover of the airmen tonight. Wolff’s attention will be elsewhere.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Obviously Juliette won’t be able to do it. You’ll have to handle it.”
“So we come to it, Max. You won’t change your mind?”
Max shakes his head.
“I don’t agree with what you’re doing. You know I don’t. I can’t and I never will.”
“I know.”
Max takes him through the how and when and where of what must happen, all of these details different from the usual procedures. Despite his anger, Bruno pays close attention.
“There’s one other matter,” Max concludes.
“What?”
“Sophie.”
Bruno scowls but continues listening.
A final visit to Juliette.
“It can be done,” she reports. “I was very specific about the timing and location, and they understand. The guides who’ll come are the most experienced, and they’ll bring no other escapers or evaders with them. Their only charges will be the ones we pass over to them.”
Max turns to look at her cabinets with their bottles and jars.
“I have a further request, Juliette. It concerns your magic potions.”
She regards him warily, remembering her previous clumsiness.
“Don’t take anything tonight,” he tells her. “Stay away from your potions.”
She is dismayed. “But, Max, I’m sure to weaken—”
“You must do as I say, Juliette, you must not take anything. You’ll be safe.”
“How can I possibly be safe?”
“You will be. Trust me.”
Her frown deepens. Then she takes a deep breath as if to steady herself, and nods her agreement.
Auguste is as good as his word. The three identity cards are not only ready; they are perfect.
He sighs as he hands them over, a ragged, uneven sound, as though it might easily have been a sob instead.
“My final job for the escape line.”
“You’ll be a hero to Marie.”
“Yes, I intend to be.”
They embrace, and Max departs.
The little Chinese mannequin has nothing to say for itself today, no messages to signal to Max or the world. On this occasion its expression is unreadable, from any perspective.
Pierre has not yet set out on his morning calls. The patients in his waiting room acknowledge Max with murmurs and glances, some of them tearful on seeing him. He is shown to a separate small room, and a few minutes later Pierre joins him.
“You’re busy, Pierre. Even today, even at this early hour.”
The doctor shrugs. “People still have their aches and pains. And broken bones. Yvette Dompnier, for instance.”
Max looks at him questioningly.
“She broke her arm this morning. I had to set it.”
“How did she break it?”
“Tripped on a stool and landed badly, she says.”
Max feels his anger rising. “The same way Madame Dompnier falls down stairs? And you believed her?”
“I repair and cure as best I can, Max. That’s all I can do. I don’t cross-examine my patients.”
“I know, and I apologize,” says Max, ashamed to have chastised the old man.
He moves on to the practicalities that have brought him here.
“Bruno has agreed to take over from me. He can be ruthless, but that’s good. He’ll make a good leader. Better than me, I think.”
The doctor purses his lips. “Anyone can be ruthless. The test is knowing when to be merciful. You’ve always been able to do that. We must hope Bruno can follow that path.”
They regard one another in silence. Their business is done. Max can leave now and the doctor can return to his patients.
But neither of them moves.
Max looks at this man who diagnosed Geneviève’s illness long before the fancy specialists in Amiens; the man who advised him when her final days were drawing near.
He steps forward and puts his arms about the doctor. And is astonished that this frail old man can still make him feel safe and protected. Even with what lies ahead.
Though it was not his plan to do so—not until he heard about Yvette Dompnier—he goes to the gendarmerie. He is received with cold indifference. No, the police chief is not here. No, there is no one who knows where he is, what he is doing, or when he will return: it is not for his men to question their chief’s activities. But yes, they can take a message to inform him that Monsieur le Maire wishes to see him urgently.
Max departs, perfectly well aware that the message will not be passed on or, if it is, it will be ignored by Dompnier.
CHAPTER 40
THROUGHOUT THE MORNING and early afternoon there is a steady stream of callers at the Kommandantur, all hoping to persuade Wolff to reconsider, braving his wrath and for some the risk that he might add their names to his next death list.
Hortense provides Max with a commentary, knowing that all of the callers will want to look in on him as well. First to arrive are the employers and foremen of those arrested, then local teachers and school principals, then Père Bastien. They crowd the entrance hall shared with the mairie, and afterwards pack themselves into Max’s office.
There is more than this local traffic. From other townships and communes come representatives of their businesses and farming associations, along with mayoral officers and leading citizens who know they are potential notables should that idea catch on, all of them anxious to prevent this worrying precedent. Even the Préfecture in Amiens sends a delegation.
Max and Hortense are soon worn out by all of them.
All these individuals and groups converge on the little railway station at Rue, which has never seen so much activity before. From there they hurry on foot or by bicycle along the dusty road to Dinon, clogging Wolff’s roadblocks and testing the patience of his troopers, pushing them and their snarling dogs dangerously near to breaking point.
In the late afternoon a long black Citroën sedan draws up outside the Kommandantur and mairie.
“Well, well, look who it is,” says Hortense drily. Max goes to the window.
The driver emerges and opens the rear door for his elderly passenger, a round-faced individual who climbs out slowly, stiff from the journey. He is dressed uncomfortably for the heat of the day—a cassock piped and lined in purple, a purple scarf about his waist, an unyielding white clerical collar at his throat. As he reaches up to grasp the door for support, the sunlight flashes on his gold ring with its purple amethyst. On his chest rests a large cross. As he straightens up, he positions a purple skullcap on his head.
This is Lucien-Louis-Claude Martin, Bishop of Amiens, in whose diocese Dinon is situated. With an effort he steadies himself and steps uncertainly forward. To the Kommandantur.
“To the den of the beast,” says Hortense.
“He won’t call here,” says Max.
“Still not seeing eye to eye, you two?”
Max knows no answer is needed.
His prediction is right. Monsignor Martin leaves Dinon without darkening his doorway.
The day passes. The sun burns in a cloudless sky. Heat rises in visible waves from the cobbles of place de la Mairie. A strange hush holds Dinon. The town’s children are nowhere to be seen or heard. The day is defined by one thing alone: the midnight to which it will lead.
Max revisits the gendarmerie twice, on each occasion without success. There is still no word of Jacques Dompnier.
In the Kommandantur, Egon Wolff receives all his callers, every one. He listens to them all, every one.
And disregards them all, every one.
CHAPTER 41
HORTENSE TIDIES MAX’S desk for what they both know is the last time.
“No tears, please, Hortense.”
“I wasn’t offering any, Max. It’s been many years since I cried over you.”
But there is a prolonged embrace as she departs.
In the square outside, a German personnel carrier is cruising slowly past. A trooper is standing upright on the passenger side, repeating the same announcement over and over again through a megaphone.
“Achtung! Achtung! On behalf of the German Reich, this is an important announcement to the citizens of Dinon-sur-Authie by the Militärverwaltung in Frankreich, the Military Administration in France. Any person breaking curfew tonight, whether a citizen of Dinon or elsewhere, risks being shot without prior warning. All night-time passes for tonight are canceled. The only exceptions are the four citizens required to present themselves for arrest. Achtung! Achtung! On behalf of the German Reich …”
The same announcement is echoing through other streets and squares as German vehicles cruise through the town.
Max closes the door. He spends a few minutes in thought. No, he has not changed his mind. Yes, it is the right decision; there can be no other. He sought a different perspective and has found it: the only one possible. And now it is time for him to set everything in motion.
He crosses the hall to the Kommandantur, strides through the outer office, disregarding the objections of Wolff’s clerical staff, and flings open the Feldkommandant’s door. Wolff is at his desk. He sits back in surprise.
“Monsieur le Maire. Can I help you?”
“I’ve come to help you, Major.”
“Indeed? How so?”
“I can give you the assassin.”
A rasping voice cuts in before Wolff can reply.
“How will you do that, Max? The assassin is already in custody. Paul Burnand has confessed to the crime.”
Jacques Dompnier sidles forward to bring himself into view from the corner behind the door. He looks pleased with himself, his chin thrust forward as if to carve through all obstacles.
So now his whereabouts today are explained. He has been in the German barracks where the condemned men are being interrogated. Paul’s so-called confession has been beaten from him, more than likely by Dompnier himself.
“You’ve got it wrong, Jacques. Paul Burnand is my employee and he’s no troublemaker.”
“Employee? That’s a little grand, don’t you think? He’s a kitchen skivvy. An uneducated hooligan.”
“He’s an honest worker with no stain on his character. He’s as innocent as your own daughter. And you know it.”
Dompnier blinks at the mention of Yvette. Max allows him no chance to speak.
“Have you told the Feldkommandant about Paul’s relationship with your daughter? A relationship you detest. Have you told him about the rows in your family over it? The one I witnessed won’t have been the only one. But they’re not really family rows, are they? They’re your rows. Have you told the Feldkommandant how you threatened to use violence on your wife and daughter? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve beaten your wife. A good smacking, you told me they needed. And now your daughter has a broken arm—how did it come to be broken, Jacques?”
