‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded, taking in my corduroy trousers, hastily tucked-in nightgown of heavy, coarse flannel, the cardigan, the torch.
‘I thought I heard something at the rabbit hutches.’ I was still in the doorway.
‘What’s that in your other hand?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, Herr Obersturmführer.’ I had quickly dropped the woollen socks and heavy sweater behind a chair.
‘Give me the flashlight, and I’ll check the rabbits for you. It’s not safe for a woman to go out at night. There are still too many transients.’
‘As you wish, Lieutenant.’
‘Johann … Please, Frau de St-Germain, it’s not always necessary to address me by rank.’
‘It helps to keep things in their proper perspective.’
‘So, the rabbits, yes. What was it you heard? A fox perhaps?’
It had been a lie, and he knew it. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought I heard something.’
‘Brandy … do you like it, Lily?’
Is he a little drunk? I wonder, and shake my head.
‘Then sit down anyway. This war will soon be over. Perhaps you had better get used to things.’
‘In what way?’
Again, there is that smile. ‘In lots of ways. By telling me the truth, by no more late night walks without permission. After all, there is the curfew to consider.’
And it’s against the law to be out there after it, even here.
‘We’ve heard reports,’ he says. ‘News travels fast. I just thought I should let you know.’
‘Reports of what, Herr Obersturmführer?’
The drawstring of my nightgown is still undone, and as his eyes fall to it and my chest, he says, ‘The Wehrmacht and Oberst Neumann won’t always have the upper hand. Things will soon change. Security is bound to be tightened. The Gestapo …’
‘And the SS?’
‘Of course.’
‘But aren’t you in the Wehrmacht, too?’
Setting the brandy aside, he takes the torch from me but lets his hand linger on mine, then leaves the pistol lying on the floor as he says, ‘I’ll check the rabbits for you.’
The firelight flickers. Sparks erupt from a knot of pine, and these awaken me to the smell of drying herbs, yeast, soup, so many things as I glance again at what he’s deliberately left, my knowing Tommy and Nicki are waiting for me.
Had he seen the rucksack I had packed for them and left ready in the storeroom? Had he already found the food, the wine, and the letter I had written, telling Tommy about Marie and where she was buried and that Jean-Guy still insisted she was alive?
Had he found the two Lebel revolvers that were still wrapped in their oilcloths?
Touching my throat, I waited. Staring at the stove and not at that gun was difficult, but had he left it loaded? I wondered. It was a question I couldn’t answer, though I knew that it was what he would have done.
‘Nothing,’ he said with a toss of his head and a grin. ‘All present and accounted for.’
My back was to the stove, and he’d boxed me in, and I knew what he wanted of me, but he said, ‘Your flashlight, Frau de St-Germain.’
Again, there was that grin. I pressed my knees together and held on tightly for I feared I was going to flood the place and he knew it, too. ‘Think it over,’ he says. ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’
Leaves cling to what is left of the whitewashed glass of my little potting shed. I nudge the door open and step hesitantly inside. There are two trestle tables, one on either side of the heavy planks that form a narrow walkway between. Shards and pots, bulbs that have shrivelled up long ago, remind me of memories I want, so many of them.
‘Tommy …’ I managed and was in his arms and fighting for his lips. As I cried, he held me tightly.
‘Lily … Ah, mon Dieu, how I’ve missed you. Are the kids okay?’
‘There’s no time. I’ve brought you some things. Go now. Go quickly.’
‘Are there Germans staying in the house?’
‘Three.’
‘Schiller?’ asked Nicki.
I told them it wasn’t safe. ‘I’ll try to arrange something. The stream … the tower.’
For a moment, we stood under the stars. ‘Did he see us this afternoon?’ asked Tommy, still holding on to me.
‘I really don’t know, but I left him not twenty minutes ago, and at supper he asked if I’d been meeting someone at the tower.’
‘In that case, is your mother’s house safe?’ asked Nicki.
‘With him, with them, it’s too hard to tell.’
It’s Tommy who asks, ‘Can you get us into Paris?’
Very quickly, I let them know I’d need travel permits from the Feldkommandantur in Fontainebleau, and that these are very hard to get. Every second I’m with them is too many.
‘What about your sister?’ asked Nicki. ‘Could she help us?’
I told them I could only try. ‘For now, check out the farmhouse carefully, and if you stay there, light the stove only late at night. Draw all the curtains. Don’t shine a light, even a glimmer, or it’ll be seen from a distance and they may be watching the place. I just don’t know.’
Each of them embraced me. Tommy slipped into the straps of the rucksack as I handed Nicki the duffel bag, and he said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be all right.’
Tommy kissed me, and I whispered, ‘Please be careful. Something isn’t right. Schiller knows more than he’s letting on.’
Five minutes … was it even that long we were together?
I had several good gardens out here, dug by hand, no horse and plow for me. Rabbit and chicken manure were budgeted plant by plant, old leaves and humus worked in, horse manure, too, when I could manage it, well rotted, of course.
Walking down the long tunnel of my orchard, picking my way through the fallen branches, things come at me hard. Tommy and Nicki, the children, always them, their shouts, their laughter, the little squabbles that were so important to them. Michèle and my sister, even Jules.
Stepping into the house, I make my way upstairs to find the bedroom in ruins. Rubbish is everywhere, no furniture, no paintings on the walls. Someone has tried to light the fire, but the act of doing must have been interrupted and a litter of cartridge casings for a Schmeisser lies not far from the darkness of the bloodstain he must have left. The sheath of his knife has been cast aside and is empty, and as I stare at it I’m right back in time. There was no sound. The room was in total darkness as I came to stand beside that bed in which Schiller was waiting. Could I do such a thing? Must I? It was seven or eight kilometres through the forest and across the fields to the farmhouse, probably a lot more for Tommy and Nicki since they wouldn’t know the terrain as well as myself.
My belt came undone. I lowered my trousers, stepped out of them, and dropped the nightgown at my feet. Tommy would understand, but the thought of Schiller was almost too much for me. It was freezing. A hesitant step was taken. He had given me an ultimatum, but would he let the matter go if I climbed into bed with him?
He stirred. I waited. I clutched the covers I had lifted and listened hard.
The bastard was asleep.
Two or three days passed. I can’t remember exactly, but the war of nerves continued, then Schiller was called away and I took a chance.
The Feldkommandantur was in the hôtel de ville along with all the other civic departments. Guards flanked the entrance, over the top of which a swastika flew. Though it wasn’t yet dawn, everyone was at work since being on Berlin time in the autumn and winter meant getting up an hour earlier in the dead of night. Still, I hadn’t got used to it. They would ask me questions. I would have to have a very good reason for going to Paris.
Jean-Guy had said good-bye. Lost in thought, I watched as he rode his bicycle down the street and turned the corner towards the school. Rudi would look after him and if not Rudi, then Georges and Tante Marie. I only knew that I had to get to Paris. Tommy and Nicki couldn’t chance waiting long at the farmhouse. My mother would return, and that would only complicate matters further.