The Cyclist Read online

  He entered the restaurant and made for the tiny semi-circular bar opposite the door. A sense of loneliness took him. Odette had pushed him into a dangerous situation but he was now in the wolves’ den and alone. He felt he was facing the Germans without allies, without support. He it was, who ran the risk of them noticing some change in him. He wondered in a vague ponder, whether there could be some outward sign of the Jewish child hiding in his home. Some way they could detect her on him, on his clothes or even his demeanour. He knew it was nonsense and he discarded his thoughts as the ruminations of a frightened fool.

  He sat on a stool and asked the barmaid for a Vichy water. He had no wish to come home drunk as if he had been carousing with these Nazis.

  Seated next to him was a young girl. He knew her and he smiled to her when she looked round.

  ‘Good evening, Bernadette,’ he said.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector Ran,’ she replied.

  Bernadette was short in stature but Auguste noticed her beauty as if it was a beacon on a dark night. It shone. She had curly blonde hair lashing her shoulders and a smile radiating warmth and friendliness. Her white teeth flashed in the lamplight when she smiled. She had blue almost iridescent eyes echoing her smile. He knew she was eighteen and like any man, he appreciated the gentle curves of her body and the relaxed way she moved. A young man would fall in love with her without any more difficulty than an old man would give her advice.

  He compared her to Zara and knew his only feelings for this girl were paternal. He drank his drink, feeling good about the quality of his thoughts. He felt protective, he knew her after all.

  ‘Bernadette? What are you doing here? Are you meeting a boy?’

  ‘Inspector Ran. I am singing. Mother has been ill and so she cannot take in washing any longer. I study during the day and sing at night. What else can I do?’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Well you know, since the accident she has trouble walking and...’

  ‘This is not a good place to earn your money. It is full of men. They are not the kind of men you should be singing to.’

  ‘I will finish at midnight. I never stay. Bernard makes sure no one molests me. Thank you for your concern.’

  She turned away to leave him there. He had an urge to cling to her presence as one might to a lifebuoy in a dark sea. He had a feeling that if he could make her stay with him, the night would be less threatening, less suicidal.

  ‘Bernadette, I will take you home. My car is outside.’

  ‘But I am singing tonight.’

  ‘No, I meant when you have finished.’

  ‘Very kind of you. I do not get a police escort every night.’

  Her smile lit up his life for a brief moment. He felt it was as though her presence would save him. Although he did not think of himself as a deeply religious man, it was almost like seeing some saint who had visited him in a time of distress. Beauty, he reflected could do such things to a man, it can uplift the spirits.

  He looked into his glass as she began to sing. The words of the song were familiar. He wondered what regrets a child like Bernadette could have? She sang she had none, but she had not even sampled life. He was feeling older by the moment and worse still, he was aware of it.

  He reflected on the first time he met Odette. At the time, she was a friend of Murielle’s and Pierre had suggested they meet. She had charmed him, captured him and held him so he felt he was walking on air. They had talked and walked along the riverbank. By the end of the evening, they were holding hands. He had been eighteen. His inexperience helped him to love her immediately. Their marriage had changed things but the love remained. He knew in that moment of reflection there would never be another in his life.

  2

  Brunner’s arrival interrupted his thoughts. A hard, bony hand descended upon his shoulder and he turned, looking up from his seat.

  The pink lips, moist and repulsive to him, parted in the familiar smile.

  ‘Ah, Auguste. I’m sorry to be late. We had some matters to clear up before we came. Have you met René Bousquet, my friend and associate? René has plans for reorganising all the French police, so you had better make a friend of him too. He might reorganise you out of a job and we couldn’t have that could we?’

  A tall angular fellow stood beside Brunner. Auguste thought his face looked as if someone once stretched it on the rack. Surmounting it was a head of greying black hair. The eyes were narrow and blue and gleamed in the lamplight like a man who is allergic to flowers. The lines on the man’s face seemed to Auguste to be vertical and the man pursed his thin lips as if he was used to sucking lemons. He did not smile even though Brunner was laughing at his own joke.

  Auguste stood and shook hands with them and though it was painful, he smiled.

  ‘I thought you were bringing Linz. I did not understand.’

  ‘Oh well, Linz couldn’t come. He is questioning a prisoner. I will tell you all about it. Now we need to drink. The table nearest the entertainment I believe will be required. Garçon!’

  Brunner turned and snapped his fingers. The Auberge’s owner appeared as if by some conjuring trick, Brunner having summoned him from thin air. He was a short, balding man and he bowed his head in an obsequious gesture of capitulation. To witness how his compatriots made obeisance to the Germans evoked nothing but disgust in Auguste and he realised his whole thinking had changed in only two days.

  The three men sat at a small table with a chequered tablecloth and a half-burned candle, perched somewhat askew in the end of an empty bottle of Chateau Malartic Lagraviére. Auguste wished it were full. Such wine was hard to come by these days. All of it was destined for German palates not French.

  Bernadette sang behind him. He questioned what any passerby might have thought of the local police inspector, dining with a German wolf and a French giraffe. The description in his head made him smile. He thought it apt. His life was becoming a circus.

  Brunner said, ‘We are having champagne, then we can get to the more serious wines. I love this country. You have the best of everything. Wine, women, food and angels to sing for us too.’

  Bousquet said, ‘You are a man with excellent taste then, Helmut. Is he not Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, excellent,’ Auguste said.

  Brunner leaned towards Auguste and said in confidential tones, ‘That girl, the one singing, she has a wonderful voice.’

  ‘Yes, her name is Bernadette. I have known her since she was a child. Her father died in a car accident and her mother cannot walk through the same disaster. She studies fine art at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.’

  ‘Then you must ask her to join us. She is beautiful. Such wonderful women you have here.’

  Auguste said nothing. He could not imagine Bernadette would be anything but horrified.

  They ate duck. Brunner had cassoulet of duck and the others had confit of duck leg. They ate in silence preferring to listen to the music. The wine was a local one, since any others were scarce. The label said it was a Bergerac but the best in the house and Auguste began to feel drunk. He was unused to alcohol nowadays and after sharing two bottles of champagne and two of red wine, he began to become incautious. He slapped Brunner on the shoulder

  ‘Well isn’t this a wonderful French meal. Better than sauerkraut eh?’

  Brunner looked at him. The expression was one of distaste mixed, Auguste thought, with contempt.

  ‘You think there is anything in your country matching mine? One German is worth ten Frenchmen any day of the week. We proved it when the Fürer took France almost with just a telephone call. The Vichy Government is his theatre and Pétain is his puppet. You would do well to recognise the fact. I can have anything in this room only for the asking. Can you?’

  Auguste knew he could have said, ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend,’ or he could have said, ‘Of course you are right.’

  He felt a sudden surge of anger. He controlled it but he realised his pride in his country and in himself
too, was gripping him by the throat and it felt like it squeezed the life out of him with every moment he spent in Brunner’s company. He had a sudden urge to shoot the man.

  He said, ‘I meant only the food.’

  Brunner looked at him; his eyes cod-cold.

  Bousquet said, ‘I travelled to Germany before the war. I visited Bavaria. I found the food and hospitality second to none.’

  Brunner said, ‘My mother is from Bavaria.’

  ‘Indeed? Such lovely people,’ Bousquet said.

  ‘Ah her cooking is wonderful, I miss home nowadays. Mutti makes a lamb stew with sauerkraut men would die for.’

  Auguste looked at Bousquet with gratitude. He was uncertain where the conversation might have taken him and for the first time in his life realised he was slipping out of control. Whether it was the strain of what Odette had made him take on, or whether it was the question of the internments, he did not know; he had such a turmoil wheeling in his mind, the wine served only to confuse and bring these thoughts closer to the surface.

  He was aware of Brunner and Bousquet conversing about the beauty of the German countryside but it took the proprietor’s presence to bring him back to reality.

  ‘Of course sir,’ Bernhard said.

  Jolted back to reality, Auguste said, ‘Sorry, what was that? I can’t eat another thing; your hospitality has been so generous.’

  ‘Hospitality? You don’t think SD officers pay for this type of lowly fare do you?’

  ‘Oh,’ Auguste said, ‘I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘On the house man. On the house. The proprietor is pleased to have us as guests and that means you too Auguste.’

  ‘What did you ask him for?’

  ‘We are having some brandy. Armagnac of course. It is much favoured in Germany. I also invited the singer to join us.’

  ‘I don’t think she is that sort of a girl.’

  ‘Nonsense man, all French women are at my disposal. See if they aren’t.’

  Brunner waved an expansive arm towards the rest of the tables. The wine seemed to have affected him too.

  ‘I promised her mother she would be home shortly after midnight. I agreed to take her home. If I do not, I will have broken my word to a sick woman.’

  Brunner was silent then. He stared into his glass and became serious.

  ‘Let us see if she wishes to go with me. I am often persuasive. You’ll see.’

  Presently, the brandy arrived and Bernadette followed behind. She drew up a chair, her face pale, she looked as if she was about to be shot by a firing squad.

  Brunner stood up and smiled a lascivious smile. He gestured for her to sit and the fool clacked his heels and bowed at the hips.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you. You sing wonderfully. Like a bird of paradise. My compliments.’

  She said, ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

  Brunner sipped his Armagnac, never taking his eyes from her. Auguste thought the man was obsessed. He could see beads of sweat on Brunner’s balding forehead and he knew what the German was thinking. He recognised the thought had in some form, been buried in his own head. The drink made his thoughts muddled but he recalled his fatherly feelings for the girl. He would not allow Brunner anywhere near her and he knew it then.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ Brunner said.

  ‘No thank you. I don’t take alcohol.’

  ‘You don’t? And you work in a place like this? Nonsense, I’ll get you a brandy.’

  He summoned the waiter and ordered more drinks. He grabbed the bottle from the waiter’s tray and set it on the table. He waved the man away.

  Auguste had not finished the first one and he did not intend to drink more with Brunner. He detested the man and this performance confirmed his hatred. It was not as simple as revulsion, Auguste pondered. It was to do with his pride in being French. This man was a German interloper. A beast from the forests troubling his country since Roman times. He also recognised he felt protective of Bernadette and he knew he needed to get her away from Brunner.

  ‘Well it’s getting late I’m afraid,’ Auguste said, looking at his watch.

  Brunner said, ‘You entertain all these men with your mouth. Perhaps you would like to entertain me with it too? In private of course.’

  Auguste looked at Brunner. The man was oblivious. It was now beyond his control, he had to leave. He stood up before Bernadette could reply.

  ‘I’m sorry Helmut, but I have promised to take her home. I’m sure another occasion will present itself. I bid you a very good night and thank you for your gentlemanly company.’

  He stressed the word “gentlemanly” too hard and he realised it. Perhaps it was the drink but there was something more in his mind. It was impossible for him to hide his contempt.

  ‘But we have only just begun,’ Brunner complained.

  Auguste took Bernadette’s hand and led her away. He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the door. Brunner was scowling and talking to Bousquet. He leaned forward. His elbow slipped and he almost hit the table with his face. Auguste realised the SD officer was very drunk. He hoped he had not caused a permanent breach in relations, because he needed Brunner in the long term. But some things, he reflected, were beyond any man’s control.

  The battered Citroën came to a halt in the narrow cobbled street. The lacklustre bonnet gleamed with a dull shine in the light of the overhanging streetlamp. Auguste turned to the girl seated beside him.

  ‘Bernadette, you can never return there.’

  ‘But I have no other way of earning money.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The man is evil. If you go back there he will cause you trouble. He is an SD officer. Secret police. Never go there again. I will speak to Jules, the baker and see if he can find you some night work in the bakery when it opens again. You can trust Jules, he is old enough to be my father let alone yours.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Will it be soon?’

  ‘Yes, my little friend,’ Auguste said. ‘I will ask him tomorrow. Do as I say. I am the police after all.’

  She opened the door and turned to Auguste. Her eyes shone and they reminded him of Odette in those days when their love was new.

  ‘You are a good man, Inspector.’

  Stung by the words, he said, ‘I wish it were true. If I were a good man, I would not do the work I do. God will judge. I have much to make amends for, my child.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Te absolvo,’ she said, grinning as she slammed the door shut. He watched her skip across the road, until she reached and opened the painted door to her mother’s home.

  Auguste drove home. He drove fast, the puddles scattering in shiny spray as his tyres hit them. For the first time in his life, he watched the rear view mirror at every turn, to check for following cars.

  Chapter 4

  1

  Auguste expressed his impatience by tapping his foot on the linoleum. His office felt cold and he had promised Odette he would be home early. He levelled his gaze at the portly Gendarme Colonel in front of him.

  ‘Colonel Arnaud, I have no choice in the matter,’ he said.

  Arnaud, an old man for his job, shrugged. He wore a grey moustache and his baldness seemed exposed as he fiddled with his cap. He shifted in his seat, as if he was sitting on something irregular. He was a relic. He was one of those left over from the old war, a German war and one still burning within him, as far as Auguste could see. Relics, he thought, should be locked up in museums, not administrating the Maréchaussée.

  Colonel Arnaud said, ‘Inspector. This is not a military matter, as I see it. This is political and so does not fall under my jurisdiction. If it had been a criminal matter in the countryside, of course we would be involved. We are always first in line when it comes to our duty, but rounding up Jewish people because of a change in policy, well...’

  ‘This is a matter in which I need your help. I can send word to Lyon and you could be made to cooperate.’

  The two men were silen
t for a full minute as they looked at each other, then the Colonel said, ‘Very well. Two men to a truck. How many trucks will you have? I cannot supply any. It is hard enough to get fuel nowadays. I cannot waste the little we have on this kind of nonsense.’

  ‘Brunner has instructed your men may not be armed.’

  ‘What?’ Arnaud said.

  He leaned forward in his chair. It creaked. Auguste could smell the garlic on Arnaud’s breath and he wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Brunner will commandeer trucks and I have to supply the names and locations,’ Auguste said.

  ‘Tell me Inspector, what do you really think is going on here.’

  ‘Well, one hears rumours...’

  ‘Rumours?’ Arnaud said.

  ‘Yes, rumours. What have you heard?’

  ‘I heard the internees will be deported to camps in Poland and Germany and they are places where they may not come out.’

  ‘You mean death-camps?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that,’ Arnaud said.

  ‘I have heard similar stories. I don’t know what to make of it. I have lived here all my life. I know almost everyone in the town and the surrounding district. I know many Jewish people too.’

  ‘Why don’t you just say no? Let the invaders do their own dirty work. That was what I meant before, until you persuaded me.’

  ‘Suppose they were warned?’

  ‘How could that happen? They are not allowed radios or telephones. Your men saw to that, only last year.’

  ‘You trust me?’

  ‘We are both French. If the Vichy government chooses to collaborate with these invaders, then they can. I know to whom I owe my allegiance, and he is exiled in London’

  ‘But he is not in France now. All we have is Pétain and God knows if de Gaulle will ever return. Some don’t even think that is his real name. The Germans will defeat the Rosbifs and all of Europe will eat sauerkraut.’