A Good Death Read online

  Later that evening, she had been making the children’s supper, when she heard the Germans coming back, the roar of their lorries, the shouting through a loud hailer, ‘Raus, raus.’ She ignored it, just as she had ignored the Maquis’ arrival earlier in the day, but a soldier came knocking at the door, waving his machine gun at her, grabbing one of the boys and pulling him out with him into the street. She had had no alternative but to take the other children and follow him and all the others who were being herded into the square.

  Here her indignation evaporated, burned away by fear. For when they had been sorted with shouts and blows, men on one side by the Mairie, women on the other by the school, she saw that there were seven men, she could see their faces, tied up under guard in front of the oak tree. A soldier had taken a ladder and propped it against the huge trunk. He was almost hidden in the foliage, but his purpose was suddenly made apparent when a noose snaked down from the branch on which he was perched. That tumbling rope struck terror in them all and in silence they watched him secure five more ropes to different branches.

  They were addressed by the major from Bonnemort. He spoke in German and he had a soldier translating who repeated what he said in very bad French. Five German soldiers had died that day, he said, because of the action of terrorists. Seven of the criminals had been captured and would pay with their lives. Their deaths were to be witnessed by the whole town, so that everyone would understand that the Germans still controlled France and would severely punish any disorder.

  She thought: well, they had it coming to them. The so-called Resistance never thought of ordinary people and how they had to pay the price for their criminal activities. This time at least it was the Maquis who were going to suffer. As long as it stopped there. A chill went through her when she thought of those other towns, Tulle, Terrasson, Oradour, where the populace had been assembled by the German army to learn some lessons.

  Then she saw them leading them up. Pierre Rouget of Cavialle, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen was first. He was as pale as death already, but he wasn’t crying out or weeping. They stopped and she saw Henri Menesplier at the end of the line. The major was pointing to the six nooses, the seven men. A soldier ran off to look for more rope, but the officer was impatient. He looked at the row of Resistance fighters, walked up and down in front of them, prolonging the decision. He was enjoying that drawn-out moment of choice. She had been caught up in it, waiting to see what he would do. Finally he pointed to one of them. Henri Menesplier was led forward.

  He had been good to her, Henri, after Lucien had been taken, in quiet ways, leaving food, calling in to see if she needed a hand, at a time when other people were steering well clear of her. She must have trapped him into working for her, just as she’d got Lucien involved. She was death to anyone who came into contact with her. Tears came into her eyes as the firing squad was formed. Tears for Henri, tears for Lucien.

  She had never seen anyone die before, let alone shot. They hadn’t put a bandage around his eyes and she wondered how they could do it, the firing squad, look him in the eye as they took aim. Henri had a broad face with wide brown eyes. You could see everything in his expression in the endless seconds while he was tied up, before the order was given: his wife, his children, the grandchildren he would never see. Everything was there. She had cried out when they fired. It was so quick. Henri crumpled to the ground and a stain spread through his shirt. Then the hangings started.

  * * *

  The memory of her fear brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘And why was Henri caught, they’re asking,’ she said. ‘The Germans were ready for them. The Germans had divided themselves into two and their second party came up in the rear, once the attack started. That’s what they say. Henri and his men must have been betrayed. Who would have denounced them, that late in the day? That’s what people ask. Who would have bothered to try to save the Germans, when they were bound to leave anyway? Everyone knew they were on the run. It wasn’t someone who hoped for a reward. Oh, no. It would have to be someone committed to them, who wanted to save the Germans’ skins at all costs.’

  ‘You’re saying that there were dedicated Nazis in this region?’

  She looked sly. Then she burst out, as if she couldn’t hold it back, ‘Committed Nazis, no, they weren’t so common round here. We knew nothing of the Germans before they came to Bonnemort in June last year. Someone in love with a Nazi, more like.’

  He rose and kissed her hand, as if they were at a dinner. She had had her revenge, he thought, scattering her rancour as widely as she could. A wife betraying and a friend betrayed: if her object was to sow suspicion, she was successful. Her own suffering was repaid with his. Ariane was accused and convicted on both counts, of resistance and collaboration.

  ‘Your husband was one of the bravest men who served France in this war,’ he said. ‘It was my honour to have been his friend.’

  Her twisted smile accepted his statement and denied his sincerity. ‘I’ve talked too long about the trivial incidents of the war here to someone who has been a witness of great events.’

  ‘I needed to know what happened here at home. Village war is not less significant than world war. In fact, village war is world war.’

  She saw him out and watched him ride off, before turning back to her washing. She’d tried to have her revenge once before, on that b— at Bonnemort, but her letter, written anonymously, had produced no result. This had been more profoundly satisfying. Telling the story had comforted her. He had understood what she had said, and what she hadn’t said. She’d settled a lot of scores that morning.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Let me take that.’ Theo put out his hand for Micheline’s basket, filled with vegetable debris, cabbage stalks, carrot scrapings, leek tops.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  He followed her into the yard where the rabbit hutches were stacked neatly in a double row. Flickering whiskers, quivering nostrils pressed against the netting at the sound of Micheline’s voice. She began at the top left-hand cage, opening the door, pulling out the occupant by its ears and slipping it into the cage below while she cleaned out its soiled straw.

  ‘Madame Maniotte told me about her husband’s arrest.’ Micheline was already talking. ‘Sabine usually does the rabbits. She and Suzie liked to gather leaves in the paddock and feed them every afternoon. They cleaned them out and gave them all names. Now I can’t get her to do anything.’

  ‘She’ll have to stay here a bit longer,’ Theo said shortly. ‘Paris is no place for a child at the moment. Madame Mamotte … Can we send her something, a rabbit, a chicken?’

  Micheline shrugged. ‘If you want. It won’t make her like you any better.’

  She had finished the second cage and the rabbit hung from her hand in a long rope of fur. She put her other hand beneath its scut to insert it into the cage and it bunched itself into a ball. Theo took some leaves from the basket and fed them to the freshly cleaned rabbits.

  ‘She said that Henri was in the same network as her husband.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Micheline, please tell me about what you did in the Resistance.’

  She was working her way back along the lower row, bending to peer inside the hutches. ‘Look out for that one, it’s the buck. He has a nasty kick. It wasn’t every day, you know. We had the farm to run.’

  ‘How did Henri get involved?’ That seemed to him now almost the most interesting question.

  ‘I suppose Madame persuaded him.’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Madame your wife. Our first guest was a friend of hers, a communist, and she turned to the doctor for help.’

  * * *

  They’d got into it without realising, or at least she had. Henri perhaps knew better what he was doing. He used to have long talks with Madame about the war and the Armistice and what it all meant. But for Micheline, looking after the communist was no different from looking after the old ladies, or Madame, or Sabine, or
her sons and the farm workers. The communist, Gauthier he was called, stayed the longest, at least a month before they’d worked out a way for him to leave. He’d turned up just before Christmas in 1940 and they’d hidden him on the top floor of the house. He had seemed happy enough up there, with his papers and all the books Madame Ariane gave him. He’d been professor, Madame Ariane told her, who’d been sacked from his job by the Marshal for being a communist. He used to chat when she brought him his food and he’d been a pleasant enough fellow, though he sometimes made remarks about Madame Ariane being so rich, as if he thought she, Micheline, ought to agree with him. She hadn’t liked that. He was supposed to be a friend of Madame’s, after all. Of course it wasn’t just a question of hiding them, the runaways. They had to be moved on; they had to have papers. She knew that Henri helped to organise all that with the doctor. There was even an arms drop early on. Henri was very excited about it. He disappeared for two days and when he came back, riding in on a lorry by night, he brought guns with him. She had seen them, maybe a hundred or so English Bren guns, when she’d helped him and Madame store them down in the natural caves which were hollowed out of the rocky face of the cliff below the house. For centuries these had been used as barns and had been equipped with heavy wooden doors to keep out the weather. They’d carried them all through the night and hidden them in the storerooms where the Germans had lived last summer. But the guns had gone by then. That was the big event of the first two years of the war. There was no one else doing it then, at least round here. That’s where the trouble began, when the other groups formed up. But that was later.

  They started to get more Jews, after ’42. Before that it had been mostly communists, Spaniards, foreigners. But for some reason, from ’42 onwards more and more Jews came through, all trying to get to Spain or to the Italian zone. She used to feel really sorry for them. They’d lived quiet and peaceable till the present, why start persecuting them now? Once they’d had a Jewish lady from Poland, an awfully nice woman, who’d lost her husband, taken off somewhere. It was really sad. And the kids so sweet. They never ran or shouted, just crouched inside the house, like pheasants in the grass. None of them had any money; they’d been forced out of their businesses and homes. It wasn’t right.

  Looking after them, the Jews or the others, was nothing compared with what happened in ’43 when the Nazis started taking workers to Germany. It was compulsory for young men, like the call-up for military service. At first it didn’t matter to her personally. Georges was exempt as an agricultural worker, and Roger and Claude, too. The young men who came to them then were from the towns, and couldn’t get exemptions, and said they weren’t going to go to Germany, whatever anyone said about good wages and how it would be doing our prisoners of war a good turn, since one of them could come home for every three workers that went over there. That was a bad bargain, as any peasant could tell you. Why couldn’t the prisoners work in Germany, if it was so great, and they were over there already?

  Then things got worse and the government withdrew the exemptions for farmers. Georges’ call-up came and he said, ‘No way.’ There was a group of lads already living in the forests the other side of Montfefoul and he wanted to go with them. They’d kept the boys well out of all Henri’s business with the doctor. They’d thought it better, safer for them, if they knew nothing. But later, she wished she’d let Henri use them. Georges might have learned that you can’t be too careful. One day he was picked up by the police in the market place with half a dozen others. Fortunately, they didn’t deal with him as a terrorist. They just sent him straight to Germany. They must have been short on their quota of workers and he and his mates fitted the bill. She didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. If he’d been held in prison he would have been nearer home, but who knows what might have been the outcome. But Germany was a long way off and it couldn’t be too good there now with the bombing and all. She worried about him a lot. More than about Roger and Claude. They’d taken to the maquis the moment Georges was arrested. They didn’t waste a minute.

  Food was what concerned her. Young people eat twice what an older person does, especially when they’re living in the open. Bread was a problem. There wasn’t so much of it, even on the ration. Potatoes too, unobtainable. Sometimes they stole things from the Milice, the French paramilitaries. Henri kept his boys on a strict regime and there was a rota of supply from all the neighbouring farms. Some Resistance groups would terrorise the peasants into giving them stuff from their farms, but Henri was against that. He said it just led to denunciations, so there was no point. She was glad when the liberation came, because they had eaten her out of house and home.

  * * *

  ‘You look as though you still have something left,’ Theo said. A flock of guinea fowl ran towards them, gabbling in their hope of grain.

  ‘They make new ones of their own accord, thank God. It’s natural.’

  ‘Are any of Henri’s group around?’ he asked as they walked back.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Anybody who was with him during that last attack?’

  She shrugged. ‘Many of the young ones have now joined up, like Roger and Claude. They’re not here any more, they’re in the army.’ She paused. ‘You could talk to the Russian, I suppose, Mr Nikola at Pechagrier. I don’t take to him myself, but he helped Henri with the boys, drilling them and all that. He was like Henri’s lieutenant. He might have been there.’ She took back the basket that he been permitted to carry to the kitchen door. ‘Florence went out with the dog,’ she said. ‘If she had luck, we’ll have an omelette with truffles tonight.’

  * * *

  He walked from the farmyard to the front of the house, then took the path down to the lake. There he stood watching the water reflecting the late afternoon light in its mirror-smooth surface. He took out a cigarette, a precious Camel from a packet given to him by an American colleague. Between Madame Maniotte’s Ariane, trading favours with the Germans, and Micheline’s, starting an escapeline for persecuted communists and Jews in the earliest days of the Occupation, there was a world of difference. Incredibly, when he tested them against his memory of her, he could believe both of them.

  Soon after he had first met her, Ariane had invited him to Normandy where her father had an estate. In accepting he had assumed it was a shooting party. The house was enormous; there was room for dozens, but no other guests appeared; even her father was absent. They went out together with their guns, and she proved to be a good companion, a tireless walker and an excellent shot. She concentrated so intently on the day’s sport, was so lacking in coquetry, that her manner contradicted the evidence that she had arranged everything to be alone with him. All along the initiative was hers: the lunch with the Socialist member of Parliament, now this day’s shooting. However, he came to understand that her concentration was characteristic; in the evening the focus of her attention swung back to him. After dinner they sat together in the vast hall, lit only the log fire, and talked easily, as if they had been friends for years. From one moment to the next he intended to act, but the camaraderie between them held him back.

  When the last log rolled forward on the bed of glowing ash, she was still taking the lead. She rose and pushed the log back into position with her shoe, remained standing looking down at the dying fire. In the silence the wood cracked and she said, ‘Kiss me.’ She walked into his arms and when he kissed her gently, feeling the softness of her upper lip between his, she reached up to take his head in both her hands. Very slowly her tongue ran along the edge of his lower lip where it was rimmed with a day’s growth of beard. It was impossible to forget the astonishing erotic power of her eagerness and her kisses. When they drew apart, she took his hand and said, ‘Let’s make love now.’

  He did not move. ‘Do you do this often?’ he asked. She understood at once the importance of the question.

  ‘Never,’ she said. He had believed her, then.

  That Ariane, so erotic, so determined, seemed equally t
o fit the possibilities of the woman described by Madame Maniotte, and by Micheline.

  * * *

  He looked at his watch. The dusk was drawing in; school would be finishing and it would be a good moment to visit the school master. He must make some arrangement for Sabine before he left, for a few months until he could find a new boarding school. He would stop at Pechagrier on his way home. He took Florence’s bicycle and set off once more for Lepech Perdrissou.

  Chapter Eight

  In the centre of Lepech Perdrissou was the Place de la Republique. It was a very rural spot, simply a grassy space with a huge oak tree in the centre, supposedly planted for the birth of Louis XIV in 1638. Around its perimeter stood the principal buildings of the commune: the Mairie, the school, the church, the baker’s, the grocer’s, intermingled with cottages, their glass-paned doors opening directly onto the dusty road. The playground was empty and Theo could see no lights in the school itself. He rang the bell of the schoolmaster’s apartment above the classrooms. No reply. He walked into the square and, seeing a passer-by, asked where the teacher was.

  ‘He’ll be in his office in the Mairie,’ was the reply. So he was the replacement for the old mayor, whom he’d known in the old days. He tried the door of the town hall; it was unlocked and he went in. He rapped on the counter and said, ‘Is anyone there?’