The Cyclist Read online

  ‘You are unwise to talk too loudly even here. They have spies everywhere. I realise now you are a good man though, Auguste. Of course, you might be working for them, for all I know. Life is a gamble after all—la bonne chance.’

  ‘Someone else said that to me not so long ago. If it was true, I would not be sending all these innocent people to their deaths. Suppose the Gendarmerie were to have the list of internees and it got ‘lost’?’

  ‘Why, I would be furious with the man who lost it. I would have to kiss him upon both cheeks.’

  Auguste smiled. Arnaud was turning into the first ally he had come across. He was glad he was not alone.

  Arnaud stood up. ‘I must go. Would you send me the records so I can go through them? I can then let my men know where they will be expected to go. Of course, some of them have great difficulty finding their way around in this neighbourhood. Some of them might get lost or go astray.’

  ‘You appreciate the Germans will say we are incompetent?’

  ‘Well, vive la difference, is all I can say. I must go.’

  They shook hands and Auguste noticed the old man had a warm dry hand and a firm handshake. Arnaud had not found the conversation stressful. A spark of admiration grew within him and he smiled when the door made its soft click, as Arnaud closed it behind him.

  Auguste could hear the old man whistling. It was a military tune, he recognised. He remembered his father singing it, after drinking wine. It was from the first war, to do with love triumphing over all and the importance of duty.

  His admiration and nostalgia left him as fast as it had emerged; he felt sick. It was not the tune, it was his feeling of betraying his father, his country and his beliefs. He believed in God. God the Almighty, who gave ultimate forgiveness, ultimate absolution. Would his God —his Father, Son and Holy Ghost—forgive the internment and final murder of Jews because they had in some way, ancestrally, been instrumental in the Saviour’s Passion? He knew it was not so, deep inside. It was not the God he believed in. His God was kind. His God was one who forgave. He had never believed in Mortal Sin, unforgivable, eternal, final.

  He had friends who had sinned, it was true. They had committed adultery. Did his God judge them so finally? Hell had no meaning to him for he could not believe it was eternal. He thought if his actions resulted in the death of some Jews, saving the ones he could, it would counterbalance the evil he committed for the sake of saving his child, his woman.

  He realised his hand trembled, holding the pen. It was enough, he thought, to do what he could for the people to whom he had access. God would forgive him. Auguste would warn them. If they refused to run, refused to hide, then he could not help them at the expense of those whom he loved.

  His thoughts this time, settled him. He had made up his mind and had a course of action ahead of him. He felt as if the tension of his indecisiveness had resolved itself and the calm came as a peace, a tranquillity he had sought for days. He wondered if it was always the same, whatever the mental conflicts. Decisiveness brings relief.

  He stood and walked to the window. There was no Pierre, cycling in aggressive defiance. No marches, no protestations. The German occupation of his home, his country, had quietened them all, but he knew the fire raged, burned and consumed his countrymen. France would rise again; it had to. It was not a matter of God. It was a matter of justice. He had made up his mind and it felt good.

  2

  It was raining again as Auguste stepped from the car. For once, he did not care. He walked to his front door. A certain levity crept into his step, an elevation of his mood. He knew he was right and believed his God was there, helping him. He had never felt the presence of his God so strong, so emotive, before.

  Odette greeted him in the hallway. She threw her arms about his neck and her lips sought his. It felt like a rekindling of their adolescent love. He was surprised, but his feelings for her made it an expression of pleasure. He thought there was nothing in his world like the embrace of the woman he loved.

  ‘Auguste, I was so worried.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If anyone came to the house, what do I do with Monique? We have nowhere to hide her. All day it has been worrying me.’

  ‘I have been thinking. It is no good using the woods. We need a place where she will be able to hide for hours at a time. The woods are no good. It is freezing. I need to make a place of safety here in the house.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Call the girls and we will discuss it.’

  ‘The girls?

  ‘Of course. They are the instruments of the deception. They must know all about it.’

  Within minutes, the four of them sat at the kitchen table to plan a hiding place.

  Zara said, ‘Papa, we can lift the floorboards and make a place there.’

  ‘No ma fleur, it would be uncomfortable and Monique could not lie there for a long time. I think we should use the attic. We have a better chance then.’

  ‘The attic?’ Odette said.

  ‘Yes the gable end would be a good hiding place. I can brick it up, a few feet from where it ends and no one would know.’

  ‘And the bricks? Where would you get them?’

  ‘I cannot buy them. It would be noticed. I can dismantle the out-house. There must be enough bricks then.’

  ‘If she hides there, will she not be stuck behind the wall? She could not live in such a way. If anything happens to us she might be left there.’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ Auguste said, ‘I can make a door, faced with brick. Let’s eat and then I will start work. Until it is done, the woods will have to do. We must be disciplined and strong.’

  Odette looked at Auguste. She reached out and her hand descended upon his.

  ‘Auguste, you are a good man.’

  Something happened then. He felt a stab of pain. It was mental, not physical, as if some outside force had prodded his soul.

  He said, ‘I have no idea what goodness is. I know some men are good and it is obvious. There are others whom no one would recognise as anything but evil. Where I and my life fit into the scheme of things, I cannot tell. I want to be what you think I am, but my conscience is so weak. I have orders from an evil master, orders to cause the death and destruction of innocent people. I cannot save them all. I will try to do what I can, but death stalks me and I cannot stop it. I beg our Lord in Heaven to forgive me.’

  Auguste looked from face to face around the table. The emotions tugging at his heart were so powerful he felt they threatened to overwhelm him. He noticed the tears forming in his eyes. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He felt a breath cut short and realised he was sobbing.

  ‘Papa, don’t cry,’ Zara said. She rose and came to him, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned and embraced her and felt again the feeling he experienced in his heart after her nightmare. He reached for her not in body but in soul. His love overtook him then and he closed his eyes, feeling the depth of that love within him. Great fear and emotion seemed to Auguste, to be transformed to joy, as if love had converted everything to a bright white feeling arising out of the deep blackness of despair.

  Monique said, ‘Uncle, Are you frightened?’

  Again, he wiped his face on his sleeve.

  ‘Oh Monique. I am frightened for us all. I will protect you. We are all together here, a family. You are part of our family until Pierre returns. Frightened? Yes. But we will all together, make a place of safety upstairs and we will keep you safe.’

  ‘Will the Germans catch me, Uncle?’

  ‘No, my child. We will hide you and when this stupid war is finished, your father will come home. I am sorry if I make you scared. Are you frightened too?’

  ‘No uncle, but I wish my Maman was here.’

  He saw tears in her eyes and he realised expressing his own feelings to this child was wrong.

  Odette reached for her and as he held onto his daughter, she held on to Monique.

  She said, ‘Monique, my darling girl, I loved your
mother for many years. I will give you my love too. You are part of this family now. You belong with us and we will all love you.’

  ‘Auntie,’ Monique said, ‘I need to say prayers sometimes. Father taught me to. I don’t want to go to the church.’

  Auguste, recovered now, said, ‘Monique, you will do exactly as Pierre taught you. I cannot help you with it. On Sundays, we will go to church and you will remain here and say your prayers as you can remember them. It will be fine, don’t worry. We will be like little bears in a den. One family.’

  She looked at him and said nothing. Perhaps the enormity of the risk had finally come home to her too, or maybe, Auguste wondered, the absence of her only living parent insinuated itself in her mind, but she said, ‘I am only nine years old Uncle, but Papa told me about it all. He said you would help me.’

  ‘I am the one appointed to the task it seems, little one. We, as a family will not let you down, but you must learn to hide. It will be a kind of game for us to play. They will seek and we will hide, no? Now you two girls get off to bed and I will eat then start work on a hiding place to fool all those silly Germans.’

  They sat for an hour after he ate, talking about the war and the dangers ahead until Auguste closed the back door behind him and strode through the icy drizzle to begin his task of demolishing his brick out-house.

  Chapter 5

  1

  Auguste cursed the rain as he walked from his battered Citroën towards the Prefecture. Three hours sleep was all he had managed as he toiled into the small hours cleaning bricks and carrying them up into the loft. He drew his collar around his neck and pulled his hat forward as he passed the empty bakery window. He resolved to speak to Jules and find work for Bernadette. He was still scared but thinking about the work he embarked upon the previous night calmed him. At least he was doing something.

  By the time he reached the desolate cafe, he noticed the crowd. They had gathered in front of the Prefecture and he recognised faces as the gathering grew. He wondered what the fuss was about and pushed his way to the front. Claude Desour, his second in command, was there and the desk sergeant, George, tried to press away the accumulating crowd.

  Auguste pushed through the gathering of townsfolk and realised they were staring at something on the ground.

  ‘Claude,’ he said, ‘What’s...’

  He stopped. A feeling of irritation struck him first. A naked body lay face down on the cobbles. No one could mistake the body of a young woman, shapely even in death, limbs twisted into the unnatural pose only the flight of mortality could imbue. He looked around and realised his men were clearing the area around the body and forcing the crowd to keep a respectful distance, despite their curiosity.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said in loud tones and raising his arms to the crowd, ‘please go home, we will care for her now.’

  He turned to Claude and said, ‘What has happened?’

  Claude shrugged. He said, ‘It is as you see. A man came in and called George, saying there was a body.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  ‘You’ve called the city pathologist?’

  ‘I have called no one yet. I was keeping the crowd away.’

  ‘Very good. Call the pathologist and we will have her taken to the mortuary. I’ll have a look.’

  Auguste knelt at the side of the body. He felt her neck first to ensure she was dead. The flesh felt warmer than he expected. He looked at the ground around the body looking for bloodstains and there were none. She had clearly not been killed here. He stared at the face.

  Recognition began to come. Fear came too. He recognised her. He felt his heart beating, his breath came in rasps and he experienced a mounting and unreasonable anger. He knew her. He had spoken to her only hours before. It was Bernadette.

  He sank to both knees and turned her over. The eyes were open and he tried to shut them. They would not stay closed and within moments he realised the gesture was pointless.

  Auguste stood up in the drizzle and removed his overcoat. He draped the body with it and looked at the faces of the crowd. The faces had meant nothing to him moments before but now he felt an urge to explain. He had a desire to ask their forgiveness, he wanted to avoid their angry stares. Guilt took him.

  She had gone home to her mother and he knew she had been safe on the night he took her back. How could she be here, naked, lifeless and forlorn?

  Her feet peeped out from under his coat. Auguste noticed they were small, delicate and perfect in shape. Red-painted toenails stared at him, he thought, in anger. Red is the colour of hate, he thought. Had he failed her? Had this happened because he had discouraged her from her singing? Had she become a woman of the night, prostituting herself to earn a living and this had become the result?

  No, he knew her. She was a decent girl and nothing would persuade him to the contrary. Why was the body here? No clothing lay nearby, he could see that. She had died elsewhere and her body left in the square hidden by the bushes. But why?

  The noisy green van from the mortuary arrived. Two men in white uniforms emerged and after rummaging in the back, extracted a stretcher and a black body bag. Auguste wondered for a moment whether their white uniforms symbolised some kind of purity like the innocence of this girl’s youth. He felt only anger and he swore to himself he would find out who had done this.

  Bernadette, the beautiful singer, the child-like student of fine-art, the girl he had taken home, away from the leering, lecherous German that night in the Bonne Auberge.

  Brunner. Had he done this? Would he do such a thing? He was a man of no conscience but this would be stupid even for him.

  In his mind, he could hear Édith say Brunner had bad habits. Was this then, what Édith had meant?

  The questions flew in his mind and he had no answers. He knew he should speak to Brunner but Bernadette’s mother came first. If the German had done this, he would bring him to justice, to the guillotine.

  Bernadette, so young, so beautiful. In death, her beauty had grown in his mind. Her vulnerability had been so clear and made him feel so protective of her. His thoughts wishing Zara would become like her, frightened him now rather than reassured him. Was this how it could end?

  The two mortuary attendants stood nearby. They made no attempt to remove the body since the pathologist had not arrived yet. It was some minutes before he did.

  Claude returned and took a list of names from the crowd. Had they seen anything? Who was the man who had found the body? Auguste needed to talk to him.

  Dr. Dubois arrived. He drew up his bicycle and leaned it against a tree. He waited to see if it would fall and satisfied, he turned to where Auguste stood, musing.

  The doctor was a man who liked a drink but he did the post-mortems and prepared his reports with remarkable efficiency considering his wine consumption. Eight o’clock in the morning was of course a time of sobriety even for him so Auguste knew Dubois would be reliable.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ Dubois said.

  He was a small round man who reminded Auguste of an orange on cocktail-sticks. His globular body propped upon his thin short legs and his cherry-red cheeks belied a man of good intellect and Auguste knew this. He was after all, not a man who tolerated fools.

  ‘Good morning Doctor,’ he said.

  ‘This is where the body was found?’

  ‘Yes, I turned her over onto her back to make sure she was not alive.’

  ‘Always you do this. You know you make more work for me my friend.’

  ‘Sorry. I checked her pulse. Bernadette Leclerc. I knew her.’

  His words seemed to have a hollow ring to them. He knew her. It was more than a simple acquaintance. He had known her a long time, since her father had died and her mother was crippled. And here she lay, cold in the drizzle of the morning air, her toenails the only sign of warmth or feelings. He hated his job now. Politics and now death. Death and then politics, it had all merged in his mind until he could
not tell them apart. It was as if he faced a huge monster marching or crawling towards him, destroying all in its path, even young innocents. And she had been a young innocent, who had squeezed the last ounces of his desire to protect, from him. He had not been there for her and he hated himself for it.

  ‘Auguste, there is hypostasis forming even now,’ Dubois said.

  ‘Yes, I realised. When do you think she died?’

  ‘Auguste, please. You know, when the blood drains through the tissues into the lowermost part of the body at least two hours must have passed and the rigor mortis has only begun now which means about four hours.’

  ‘You called it something else last time.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes, you called it something else.’

  ‘Livedo gravitatas?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Auguste, my friend, please be patient. I will examine the body and you will get my report after the weekend.’

  ‘After the weekend? Are you mad? I need to know the cause of death and the timing today.’

  Dubois smiled.

  ‘You are joking?’ Auguste said.

  ‘Of course. You are such an easy target my friend.’

  Dubois slapped Auguste on the arm, ‘I can do it this afternoon. I will have the written report in your hands tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Can I come to the mortuary this evening?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me how she died?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have spectacles, my friend. You did not see the bruising around her throat?’

  Auguste looked at the exposed throat, where Dubois had pulled down the overcoat.

  ‘Yes, I see it now. Not very marked.’

  ‘Ah, the laryngeal cartilages will be crushed, wait and see. Poor girl.’

  Dubois raised his hand to his two porters and they came, black bag and stretcher. Auguste felt revulsion as they manhandled Bernadette into the bag and folded the edges. They were neat, practised in their work and it was another aspect of the matter filling him with revulsion. To be practised with death, to be used to handling dead bodies tugged at his feelings of disgust.