‘Auschwitz and then Bergen-Belsen.’
He’s watching me too closely, and I know I’ll have to kill him but say, ‘I couldn’t possibly know anything about those places. I’m simply going to see my sister.’
He touches the brim of that fedora of his. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.’
That’s so British, I’m taken aback, but you can never tell with these guys. The lack of guards could mean they’re just waiting to pounce.
It’s an anxious time, and when the train finally does come in, there’s only an engine and several passenger carriages, and this, too, I simply can’t understand.
Taking a last drag, I grind the butt out under one of those shoes they’ve given me as my bike is taken by this man who offered me a light and earlier came to the house. He’s sticking close, so okay, he’ll soon know he shouldn’t.
As I hand my ticket over to be punched, the chef de train, is startled. ‘Saint-Léger?’ he says. ‘Ah, non, madame, a moment, please. I will have to consult with the engineer.’
It could take ages. ‘Saint-Léger,’ says the one with my bike. ‘Would you happen to know a beekeeper there?’
‘Merde, what would I want with beekeepers?’
The chef de train comes back. I’ve caused a great fuss, but they’ll stop the train only this once. Climbing aboard, it’s like a century ago for me. The coaches are crowded, the uniforms different-American, British, and French, but I see only German ones, hear only their loud laughter and boisterous talk, know only that Gestapo is still watching me and that I’m going to have to kill him and a few of the others.
There were six coaches ahead and one behind, then the goods trucks, all twenty-two of them, among which would have been placed the Luftwaffe’s antiaircraft gun. With such a heavy load, the engine labours, and I told myself, no wonder there was a fuss about their stopping. I’d such a small part to play in what was to come, but since I had to ride my bike over that way, should I not at least see how it all went? After I got the wax, of course, but maybe Monsieur Raymond wouldn’t be there. Wax was so hard to come by those days-practically impossible.
Wax and petrol. The Gestapo were investigating the fire. The day before, a team came to take a look at the ashes. Jean-Guy was the one to tell me this, but I already knew of it because they’d come to the door.
‘Two old people, madame.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s very sad. My children are particularly upset, myself also. The Morissettes had been with my husband’s family for years.’
The train crossed the ring road that encircled the Fontain-bleau Forest. There were barriers then-new ones with lights. A car was patiently waiting, the beam of its headlamps catching me in the face, causing me to wonder about the blackout and think of Schiller and Dupuis as I heard their shrieks, felt the blows, saw that brimming bathtub and knew they were going to shove me under again!
Dupuis would come to take a look at the ruins of the farmhouse. He and Schiller wouldn’t let a thing like that lie, not with me around. They’d search for evidence, and I’d be charged with murder, and I wondered if I’d ever see the children again, only to hear the sound of those wheels. We’d gathered momentum. The Wehrmacht’s boys were singing loudly and laughing. Some French girls had joined them. Cigarettes had been offered, and the image of those girls was etched in mind by their wavy, shoulder-length hair, ersatz lipstick, rouge and bright, toothy smiles, their skirt lengths shortened then to all but above the knees.
Saint-Léger … It seemed to take an eternity and then, beyond the windows, everything outside was pitch-dark as the squeal of the brakes finally came and I heard the railway trucks banging their couplings one against another. ‘Saint-Léger, madame.’
‘Merci. Ah, mon vélo, s’il vous plaît.’
He tipped his hat again, that salaud of a Gestapo, and as the chef de train saw that the bike was handed down, I glanced back a last time.
The train would now be secretly switched on to the other tracks. A coach passed by me, then the first of the railway trucks, and I counted them off, all twenty-two of them, the last trailing away into the darkness.
The long barrel of the antiaircraft gun was clear enough, an 88 mm and perfect against Spitfires and others, but also an exceptional antitank gun, as was discovered in the desert war.
‘Wax? How could I have any? Those salauds take everything.’
‘Liar, I know very well you set some aside!’
‘You … Why you … Who the hell do you think you are coming here after dark to say a thing like that to me?’
Sacré nom de nom, he was a son-of-a-bitch himself, that beekeeper! ‘I’m Madame de St-Germain, damn you!’
‘That rich bitch, eh?’ He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, kissed his fingertips, shoved two of them up in front of me, and said, ‘Well, suck on someone else, my fine one. There’ll be no wax for you.’
‘But … but I have to do a commission for the Reichsmarschall Göring. I’m a sculptress. They’ll arrest me if it isn’t finished. I have two kids.’
‘The de St-Germains, isn’t it? Two kids, eh? Hey, me, Yves Raymond of Saint-Léger, now has you pegged, madame. My father, your father-in-law, and beeswax for his candles!’
His vulture’s eyes narrowed, the thin lips puckering in anger. He had a goiter, I was certain, and needed a shave.
‘Seven thousand francs, madame, plus the interest. You pay me what that family of your husband’s owes mine, and I will gladly sell you the necessary wax.’
‘My father-in-law’s been dead for years.’
‘But not your husband, madame. If I understand things correctly, he’s in the pay of the Germans.’
‘Look, all I want is ten kilos.’
‘Ten!’ He was electrified. ‘For that, you’d need to pay me ten thousand francs.’
‘And the seven your family’s been owed all these years?’
‘Of course. Twenty it is.’
The French never forget the interest. Me, I was so agitated I wanted to sit down to calm myself, but he said, ‘You’ll have to hurry if you’re to make it home before curfew.’
It had again been extended to midnight, which would give me a little more than five hours to ride the twenty or so kilometres, if I headed straight for home.
We went out to the shed where he kept the clarifier, the smoke pots, nets, and other things. He’d been making more hives, and the place smelled of pine sawdust, wax, and honey.
Patiently, he counted the money twice, to be certain. ‘As it happens, madame, the Boche and the cooperative allow me to sell ten percent, so you’re in luck.’
The block of wax he set in the carrier basket and said, ‘Happy sculpting or whatever else you do. Hey, wait a minute. De St-Germain …? Yes, now I remember.’
‘More debts? I haven’t a franc left.’
‘Wasn’t there a bad fire up your way? Two old people …’
He knew damned well who they were, but I told him anyway, and that their stovepipes must have needed a good cleaning. ‘I was always telling Georges this, as was my husband.’
‘But did you see it happen? The flames?’ he asked. ‘The corpses?’ Like the French everywhere, he really wanted the details.
I shook my head and heard myself saying, ‘We were asleep, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. My hands and face would have been badly burned trying to rescue them.’
‘Peut-être,’ he said, giving me a knowing smile before pinching his windpipe and adding, ‘Some are saying things aren’t right with that fire.’
Stung by this, I pushed my bike into the darkness, but the lane seemed to take forever and only when I reached the road did I look back to see him still standing in the doorway of his house, ignoring the blackout.
I was some three kilometres almost due east of the robbery, but long before I got there, I heard the sharp bursts of a Spandau and knew the worst had happened. There was the crump of an explosion, the broken, agitated, and far-too-rapid sounds of inexperienced rifle and pistol fire, but the Spandau stopped, just like that! I hurried, came to a rise, and looked down on a scene of utter chaos. Two of the railway trucks were burning. Men were racing about. The antiaircraft gun was being readied. They were aiming it at our lorries! Clateau was racing for his van. Tommy had leaped up on to the flatbed. A German soldier turned. There was a burst from Tommy’s Schmeisser, and the man fell back to lay half on and half off the flatbed as others swarmed in on the antiaircraft gun, with more bursts of firing and ragged shots all along the train. One of our men fell, and then another, and I called out to Tommy, ‘ON THE ROOF!’ only to realize he’d never hear me.