Of what great crime had they been guilty? Of gentleness, perhaps; of goodness — illicit qualities in this new world dominated by murder and destruction. Of innocence, certainly; a far greater and more dangerous crime. As innocent as Jadzia, who saw in the war only the possible aggrandizement of Germany and the Nazis. What would be her reaction now? She had always been so fond of his parents, even as they loved her and had looked forward with eagerness to her becoming their daughter-in-law. How would she justify this murderous crime? Or would it make her open her eyes to the monster headquartered in her home?
In the distance a train wailed; the rusting rails before him began to hum. He came to his feet slowly, numbly, automatically dragging his battered suitcase to a safer margin from the platform’s edge, and then stood mute and drugged among the chattering cluster of passengers and well-wishers as the hissing engine crept into the station spitting steam. He waited until only the stragglers had not been accommodated, managed his way into an overloaded compartment, slid his suitcase into the overhead luggage rack on top of somebody’s poorly tied bundle of clothing, and then edged to the comparative freedom of the narrow corridor. The train had finally ingested its human cargo and was straining to be off; one last exhortation by the uniformed guards to the couples locked in a final embrace across the compartment sills, and the engine started up asthmatically, tugging at itself with groans and clanks.
Mietek stared out of the dusty window, his rigid face a mask. Beneath his feet the worn linoleum of the corridor began to throb with accelerating clatter from the uneven rails. Gru-ber! they said angrily; Gru-ber, Gru-ber, Wil-helm Gruber, Wil-helm Gru-ber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelm Gruber, Wilhelmgruber, Wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruber, wilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruberwilhelmgruber... The engine in front responded with a hoarse scream.
Huuygens stirred restlessly in his chair and shook his head as if to clear it. The room was now completely dark; the moonlight filtering in between the curtain and the sill was lost before it reached the rug. He sighed. What memory next? The wasted eight months in Paris before the capitulation of Vichy? Wasted because they had been spent in vainly trying to contact Jadzia — or rather, in waiting for an answer? Certainly one of the letters he had managed to smuggle into Poland should have been delivered!
A pointless consideration, then as now, he thought with wry bitterness. Forget it. Go on to that night in the cave. There’s still work to be done when we’re finished...
Georges was in the lead, as always; slim, intense Georges Claremont, slogging along in the thick mud, his rumpled beret pulled low, his tattered sweater buttoned to his chin, now coughing almost constantly, and suffering even greater spasms from attempting to stifle the racking sounds. November in the Auvergnes was no place to be: the upper slopes threatened snow, and the Boches were thick in the vicinity. Behind Georges came André Martins, the giant from Perpignan, his own rifle slung over his back, that of Georges in one hand, and his ever-present suitcase in the other. Both bandoliers were slung about his corded neck like grotesque necklaces. He carried the load effortlessly, swinging along easily behind Georges, softly humming a flamenco tune from one of the border gypsy tribes. Third in line he came, Kek Huuygens now, one year in the underground, attached with fierce pride to the men he worked with, even as he was attached to the killing. He cradled their precious battery radio wrapped in a bit of oil-silk recovered from an abandoned parachute; his rifle was hung carelessly from his shoulder like an afterthought. And finally, in the rear, Michel Morell, quiet, watchful Michel, a lashed pack on his back which contained their worldly possessions: two spare pair of socks per man, far too little ammunition, and even less food.
The trail they followed lay beneath sodden trees, dripping from the late autumn storm which had passed but now threatened to return, possibly carrying sleet or snow from the summit above. Georges suddenly halted, caught in a paroxysm of coughing, doubling over, fighting uselessly against the violent attack. André moved forward at once, laying aside his burden, reaching out to support the smaller man, almost raising him with his enormous hands. Georges bit his lip and then exploded in another coughing fit. André turned to the others, worried.
“We’ll have to find someplace to spend the night...”
They looked about silently, their breath steaming in the cold dampness. The gray hills, mounting ever higher, were losing their outline in the growing mist and darkness. The trees, black against the gray, stood like sentries, watching. Georges fought to bring himself under control; he pulled back, straightening up, loosening André’s grip from his sweater, panting.
“We can still make another hour tonight. Kek has to be in Mauriac tomorrow with the radio. Without fail. And we’ll be getting our instructions on the eleven o’clock broadcast tonight.”
“So we’ll wait for our instructions,” André said harshly, and shrugged. “What difference does it make? Here or higher up? Where it’s even colder and nastier?”
Georges shook his head stubbornly. “I’m sure we’re going to be told to meet the others in the neighborhood of Saignes. Soon, sometime in the next day or two. And the more we make tonight, the less we’ll have to do tomorrow. And the higher we go, the less chance of running into the Boches...” The coughing fit returned, interrupting him. He bit down on it, struggling to catch his breath.
Michel eyed him a moment and then leaned forward. “There’s a cave near here we can stay in,” he volunteered with his usual quiet levelness of tone. “I used to come up here for walks on Saturdays...” The others regarded him with surprise; Michel had never mentioned being from this district. But then he had mentioned very little of himself in the nearly eleven months they had been assigned together. “Yes,” he added quietly, and nodded. “I used to teach grammar school in Cantal. My home is there.”
André frowned. “Cantal? Your home is there?” He tipped his head toward Georges, lowering his voice. “Is there any chance...? He’s a lot sicker than he thinks, you know.”
“No.” Michel’s voice was completely emotionless. “My wife seems to prefer the Boches. It would be impossible.” He turned, staring up the mountain, studying the terrain. “The cave is less than a quarter of a mile from here. Up above. We’d better get there before the rain starts again.”
He moved to the front of the group, taking the lead. They swung from the trail behind him, moving silently through the gaunt stands of chestnut and pear trees, their legs soaked from the tall grass and thickets of sodden bushes. André slipped the second rifle across his shoulder; his free hand was used to support Georges. Kek slipped on a muddy patch and went down, but he held the radio high, protecting it, and then clambered back to his feet and followed.
The cave was a darker shadow on the gray hillside, ringed by a series of gorse clumps, offering small protection from weather or sight. Michel held up his hand; they paused, panting, while he crept forward alone to investigate. A moment later he was waving them forward.
Georges was placed as far to the rear of the shallow depression as was possible; the huge André stripped off his thick jacket and wrapped it about the other’s shoulders, refusing the weak protests. Michel dropped his pack near the entrance and took up his position there, squatting down and staring out into the dusk and the drizzle that was beginning again, his rifle nestled in readiness across his knees. Kek unwrapped the radio with almost loving care, placed it on the folded oil-silk for protection against the mud of the cave floor, and knelt beside it, turning it on, warming it up, and rubbing his hands for warmth as he did so. The small box came to life with a sharp squeal, instantly muffled by the boy’s hand. From the rear of the cave Georges began to say something and then was caught in a torrent of coughing. He forced it down, speaking harshly.