Clearly, they don’t yet know that I’ve already dealt with them, but again it’s Schiller who makes no sound, and as Dupuis continues to whisper, the other hunts for me just as they did that night I came back here. Using his silhouette, I see that the lieutenant is now standing on the path above and not three metres from me, his head cocked to one side. He moves away just like he did on that night, me to follow because I have to cut him off from Dupuis, taking out the one and then the other, no ‘lectures’ now because there simply won’t be time.
Yet they’ve anticipated things, for Dupuis has now come up behind me, and so it goes, the one ahead, the other behind, the path running from the caves through the forest to the little clearing where I left my bicycle.
Schiller must have traced it out that other time. Me, I thought I was so clever then, but when he discovers the bike this time, he can’t resist giving a snort of triumph, even though I’m almost upon him.
He turns and I feel him grabbing for me, hear Dupuis breaking through, but the Luger’s jammed! Schiller’s now got a hold of me! Rolling over and over, I try to get at the knife in my pocket, try to hit him with the butt of the Luger, but it’s of no use. A forearm is pressed hard against my throat, and he’s straddling me. I can’t black out. I mustn’t! I’ve got to get that knife. The blade leaps, and I stab him hard at least twice, maybe more, and he screams, ‘Dupuis!’ and rolls off. ‘Dupuis, the bitch has cut the hell out of my leg!’
Leaves, branches, trees-everything is in my way, and I know I must roll away from him and get up, but now it’s Dupuis. ‘Madame,’ he shouts. ‘Madame, your children …’
Hitting the side of the Luger with the heel of my hand to clear the mechanism, I fire at him twice, but he’s darted aside, and I can hear him crawling through the bushes. ‘Madame,’ he gasps. ‘Madame …’ Is he wounded, afraid, terrified and wanting to beg, or has he simply lost that gun of his?
Breaking through the woods, I reach the road and pause to catch a breath, hearing them still as they shout to one another, but they mustn’t find the Schmeisser in that carrier basket of mine. They’ll kill Matthieu if they do, so there’s no other choice. Me, I have to go back, must circle round.
As the dawn breaks, I see them on the road below me. The right leg of Schiller’s trousers is soaked with blood and he’s limping badly, has made a tourniquet that might not be working as well as it should since it’s high up on that thigh. One arm is draped over Dupuis’s shoulders and when they get to that little car of André’s, it’s Dupuis who reaches for the handle only to have Schiller shout, ‘Don’t! Look first.’
They’re both badly shaken by the sight of the grenade I’ve wired to that door handle, and they search the line of the forest for me. There’s fear in those looks but also the thought that I must be insane and that they’ll never really be able to figure out exactly what I’ll do next.
Finally, it’s Dupuis who cries out, ‘Madame, your children are alive!’
My children. Those faces haunt me. They’re all so little, so gaunt-eyed. One asks for water, another for bread, and I have to tell them I have none.
This they accepted. The oldest, a boy of seven or eight, sagely nodded and said, ‘Water tastes so good, isn’t that right, madame, but bread is much better.’
‘Have you seen two children from the Fontainebleau area? One is a girl of nearly nine, the other a boy of twelve. She has lovely soft brown hair and hazel eyes; his hair is black and the eyes are very dark.’
‘Their names, madame?’
I told them, but they shook their heads, and I heard the shrieks and felt the blows from one of the guards. It was not the first time for me. ‘Sprechen verboten, ja? Verboten!’ the guard shrieked. Always so many simple things were forbidden and always I had to search if I could.
Michèle tugged at my arm. For this, she was punched, kicked, and hit with the butt of a rifle. Somehow I dragged her to one side. ‘Your ribs?’ I asked only to see her shake her head and try to swallow.
The children were marched away. It was a long line of them that day. They were going for a picnic, eh? Down to the pretty little house with its garden gate of fir bows and its smoking chimneys. There’d be soup, bread, and maybe some cheese. Yes, cheese, real cheese, and warm milk.
My hands clasped Michèle’s head. The fuzz of her hair was still so soft I found it hard to resist stroking. It was so like Marie’s.
‘They’re dead, Lily. You know this. They died at the house. You do remember, don’t you?’
Simone de Verville found us, and we three went off to report for duty. We’d be sorting shoes that day, maybe handbags, who knew. They’d be baling them for shipment once we’d got them sorted.
There were mountains of clothes in the shed they called Canada. No one else seemed to be around, but it was warm in there and perhaps as safe as any place could be in that little corner of hell.
‘You … yes, you,’ said another guard.
Michèle stepped forward and he said, ‘Behind the bales.’ That was all, but in Deutsch.
The knife lays in the mud- and rag-strewn black earth that is constant to us. There’s blood on its blade. The SS possessed such beautiful knives but it’s cold and suddenly I’m freezing for I know I can’t escape.
I’ve done such a terrible thing. Me, I’ve killed the guard who attempted to rape Michèle in the shed they call Canada. The bastard lies beside his knife, only he’s not here, not now, and I’m in the woods, have come for my bicycle, yet can still hear Michèle sobbing her heart out.
With difficulty, I stoop to pick up my knife and wipe its blade on the leaves before closing it up and slipping it into a pocket. I wish I could have killed Schiller like I did that guard. They shot one hundred women and beat countless others senseless because of it, but they never thought to ask us. For a long time afterward, Simone and I kept a close watch on Michèle.
My bicycle is where I had left it. Schiller hasn’t touched the carrier basket. The Schmeisser is safe.
‘Some soup, a little bread, and ham, please, and half a glass of wine to which water will be added. Just a taste, you understand. The red, I think. Yes, yes, that will do and then a coffee with lots of milk, but later you understand.’
The proprietor of Barbizon’s Coq Royal looks at me as if I’ve just demanded the world, but I couldn’t care less. This place still reeks, and he doesn’t know me, not really. There were always too many Germans here. In the autumn of 1942, the Résistance from Melun asked me to deliver to the proprietor one of their little black pasteboard coffins: Its lid had a cross at the top, then the name, and finally the cross of Lorraine with a V for Victory on either side, and all in white chalk. The man had ignored repeated warnings. An example had needed to be made.
His wife’s brother came from Chailly-en-Bière to take over the business, but if you ask me, he was no better, yet I must have something to eat and a place to rest, and daren’t go back to Matthieu’s for fear Schiller and Dupuis will find out about him. So I sit here by the window where I can watch my bicycle and the street, and I have a cigarette and try to think.
That whole business at the caves was far too close for me. I can’t be dropping from the present into the past and back again like that. They’re bound to catch me out. And I’ve hurt my left hand. The middle finger is stiff, the others only a little less. Have I sprained it?
Schiller was only partly right about the cave. Tommy did seal it up, but there was far too much to hide. Some was simply left with the German lorries we had borrowed. Some went to the loft above Clateau’s slaughterhouse and then, piece by piece, to other places.