Men ducked and ran, yelling, ‘Over there! No, underneath, behind the wheels! In the woods. Stop them!’
There was more and more firing, the constant racket of it and the crackling of flames, the sight of those burning cattle trucks as a great wall of sound began to rise. It was the terrified screams of those that were being deported and were inside. Fifty, a hundred-two hundred, four hundred? I wanted to scream at Schiller for he’d done it on purpose, but I was unable to run to their assistance.
Nicki raced through the flames. There was a burst of firing from the gun in his hands. Hot iron was flung away, and people poured from the truck, gasping for air. In ones, twos, and threes they were helped away, but I heard someone urgently shouting, ‘Leave it! There’s no time. We can’t just let the artwork burn!’
A ladder was brought. It was run through the milling throng by two men and leaned against the side of a truck. Clateau returned to fetch the cutting torch. Matthieu Fayelle was still helping people away from the fire.
Tommy climbed the ladder. There were flames on either side of him. He pulled a set of goggles down over his eyes and yelled something to Nicki, who stood at the base of the ladder. ‘Tessier … Vite, vite!’
Dynamite. They were going to have to blow the door. That gueule cassée appeared and went to work right in the heat of the flames. Two sticks, three, four, I don’t know how many, but something was needed to contain the explosion, a sheet of metal-anything so as to direct the force if possible.
With a bang, the door lifted off, and the men rushed in to fling out the corpses of the four German soldiers who had been sealed inside.
Not realizing that I would be outlined by the fire, I stupidly waited, though I knew I had to get home and that my job had been done, and when the muzzle of a pistol touched the back of my head, I wanted to cry out in alarm but couldn’t.
Paintings-large canvases not in crates or anything-were being hustled out of that railway truck and raced towards the waiting lorries and Clateau’s van.
‘Let go of the bicycle, Fräulein, and raise your hands.’
‘As you wish, but please, you must understand I’ve nothing to do with this.’
‘Save it for later. The hands!’
It was a German officer who had lost his cap and was burned about the face. Sweat clung to the scorched brow. Pain registered in his eyes.
‘Yes, I’ve been hit,’ he said in perfect French.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘In the guts.’
‘Then let me help you. Look, I don’t know who those people are. Honestly, I don’t. I’ve been to buy some beeswax for our church and am on my way home.’
Not for a moment did that gun of his waver, and I can see him still, even after all that’s happened to me. He wasn’t young or old, was a man with a family perhaps. ‘Have you children of your own?’ I asked. ‘I’ve two that are waiting for me.’
As I tore open his tunic and picked my way through the blood-soaked clothing, he kept that pistol at my head. Part of his intestines was showing in the light from the fire. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he said.
How had he managed to get this far? ‘Not too bad. Yes, it’ll be okay, I think. Let me cover the wound with something. I’ve a shawl in my carrier basket.’
Why should he trust me? he wondered but said, ‘All right,’ and I ran for it, headed straight for the woods and dove into them to roll about and hit my head against a tree!
Dazed, bleeding-scared, damned scared-I waited for him to end it all, but saw him teetering in the middle of the road with the fire and the confusion behind him. That gun had fallen from his hand. My bike was to one side, the block of wax having tumbled away.
Slowly, with difficulty, I crept forward and when I was at the edge of the woods, stood up. Our eyes met, and he began to drop for the gun as I raced for it, grabbed it, and pulled the trigger. I can still hear the sound it made and smell the cordite.
He was lying there, sprawled on his back, his face torn away, and the gun was still in my hand-it would always be there because I couldn’t comprehend what I’d done. In four days, I’d killed three people.
‘Maman, will Georges and Tante Marie go to heaven?’
‘I don’t know, chérie. Does it matter so much?’
She nodded, this daughter of mine. Those great big hazel eyes had such sensitivity. Her hair was then a light brownish, that soft shade of amber, and long. She was incredibly beautiful.
‘Rudi says it matters. That only if people are good to one another will they enter the kingdom.’
The kitchen was full of warmth and the aroma of baking bread, for I’d a full house: Schiller and two others, also Neumann and his adjutant, and Rudi, of course. Poor Rudi.
The Boche were conducting another sweep of the forest and surrounding district. Hostages had been taken. Eleven German soldiers and one captain were killed during the robbery, five of ours, all of whom had far too many relatives.
‘Me, I think God should punish the Boche!’
‘DON’T YOU DARE CALL THEM THAT IN THIS HOUSE OR ANYWHERE ELSE! ARE YOU CRAZY?’
She burst into tears and ran away to her room as I bowed my head and tried to get a hold of myself, but knew that for us, the agony had just begun.
‘Jean-Guy, go and see if there are any more eggs.’
‘I’ve just been.’
‘Then look, damn you! Wait … wait, please. I’m upset. Scared.’
‘You should be!’ he yelled and ran out the back, leaving the door for me to close as again I plunged my hands into the flour the Germans had begrudgingly provided. Kneading the dough, working it, I finally shaped a loaf. Would I make a dragon for Marie, one with big, woeful eyes and a long tail with spikes?
It was Jean-Guy who caused me a problem. It was always guns and tanks and aeroplanes with him in those days. ME-109s, Heinkels, and Stukas. Rudi and he had been talking constantly about the war, especially in the east. Our little German was very worried. The fire down the road was one thing; that corpse I cut up and he buried in the cellar, another, and then the robbery. Schiller had given him hell and had again threatened to bring in SS guards, having accused Rudi of being slovenly, and I knew in my heart of hearts that it was only a matter of time until he talked.
The aeroplane I made was a Spitfire, but I daren’t put British insignia on it and substituted that Maltese cross the Prussians had liked for far too many years.
‘Rudi, your lunch is ready.’
He’d been out by our gate for more than five hours, marching steadily back and forth across the drive and seldom, if ever, standing still, and the dampness and freezing wind had been heartless. ‘Madame Lily, it’s not safe for you to stay here. Obersturmführer Schiller has asked me about that old couple and their house. I’ve not told him the truth, have said we were all asleep, but that one, he didn’t believe me.’
The woollen cap I knitted protruded from below that helmet of his. There was also a scarf I’d knitted out of an unravelled sweater, a vest, too, and mittens, but there was no sense in my denying I was responsible for that fire. ‘Is it to be Poland again?’ I asked.