One Day in Oradour (7 page)

What a stupid girl that receptionist was! It was painful watching her fumbling away trying to dial the number, and when she started stammering into the phone Dietrich couldn’t bear it any longer. Glaring, he had snatched the handset from her and impatiently ushered her away.

Besides, he needed to contact his French informants, too. It was essential that they were at the briefing to share the latest intelligence on Resistance activity and, hopefully, Klausner’s whereabouts.

Calls made, Dietrich had marched out of the building
and jumped back into his car, instructing Ragnar, his driver, to get him back to St Junien without delay.

Ragnar was used to following Major Dietrich’s orders. He had been Dietrich’s personal assistant ever since he became Battalion Commander and he wasn’t going to put such a cushy job into jeopardy by seeming unhelpful or incompetent. Ragnar had worked hard to build a good working relationship with Dietrich, which wasn’t easy. The Major was a volatile, unpredictable man. You never knew what he would do next. Ragnar did not like him one jot, but he knew what happened to people who got on the wrong side of Major Gustav Dietrich so he was never going to let him know his true feelings towards him. No, he was too smart for that, and Dietrich trusted him.

Ragnar could see that Dietrich’s meeting with Major General Scholz had gone well. Dietrich had a look of smug satisfaction on his face as he sat in the back seat of the car.

‘Everything all right, Major?’ he asked his boss as they sped along the main road out of Limoges.

‘If you call having to pick up the pieces of a shambles of a mission to find a top SS officer all right, then yes, I guess it is!’ remarked Dietrich sarcastically. He always felt he could let off steam with Ragnar. Whatever he said to him stayed with him. ‘You know, this hostage
situation is a whole lot worse than I thought. They’ve taken Major Klausner, Thomas Klausner, and they intend to execute him – and that cretin of a Major General in there is bumbling about without a clue. It’s no surprise that the Resistance are running rings around us with snails like that in charge.’

Meeting Dietrich’s steely gaze in his rear view mirror, Ragnar shook his head in sympathetic exasperation and frowned.

Dietrich went on, ‘But I’m in charge now. I’m going to start shaking the beehive, starting with Oradour.’

They arrived at the Hotel de la Gare just before eleven o’clock. Ragnar parked outside and waited in the car at the bottom of the hotel steps, rolling down his window to let in some air. The sun was now rising higher in the sky and it promised to be a very warm afternoon. He lit a cigarette and gazed up at the façade of the hotel. The pale blue painted shutters on the windows were all closed, and Ragnar tried to imagine what heated debate was going on inside the cool, dark rooms.

Dietrich was meeting with the Captain of the 3rd Company, Heinrich Krüger, the Gestapo secret police, and some French informants. Ragnar wondered whether the informants had any news of Klausner and, more importantly, if the poor devil was still breathing.
Dietrich had said that the Resistance intended to burn him alive, but Ragnar found that hard to believe. Surely they wouldn’t dare do something so horrific to a man like Klausner. They must know what kind of response they would get from the SS.

Ragnar kept an eye on the station clock across the road. He smoked four cigarettes, allowing himself one every quarter of an hour, and was just deciding whether to have a fifth when the front door of the hotel opened. Dietrich and Krüger emerged, and from their body language Ragnar could see that an unfinished argument still raged between them. Dietrich seemed incensed about something, and his whole frame was taut. He took an urgent stride towards the top of the steps but Krüger shot out a hand and caught hold of his arm.

Ragnar could just hear the note of desperation in his voice. ‘You can’t do this, Commander. It hasn’t been sanctioned. Don’t lead my men into this.’

Spinning round on his heels, Dietrich looked down at Krüger’s hand on his arm, his eyes wide with incredulity, as if Krüger had just injected him with poison. ‘You dare challenge my authority?’ he seethed. ‘I can do this, and I will! Your men are in my command now and they will do whatever I tell them to.’

Krüger dropped his hand to his side and took a step back, defeated. ‘I want no part of it,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ snapped Dietrich, turning his back and carrying on down the steps. ‘This is a mission for SS men, not lily-livered cowards!’

Krüger’s mouth fell open. Stunned into silence, he watched as Dietrich got into his car, his sculpted features set hard as he sat facing straight ahead and barked instructions to his driver. Ragnar saw a look of nausea on Krüger’s face, and watched his mouth form the words, ‘God help them all,’ before he turned slowly and went back inside.

Alfred was one of the last pupils to take his seat in the noisy, bustling classroom at the School for Lorraine Refugee Children that Saturday morning. Rarely was he keen to get to school (there was always something far more interesting to do besides staying indoors and having boring old lessons with Mr Gravois), but on this particular Saturday he found it especially hard to drag himself through the school gate. It was the day before Corpus Christi, after all, and as many children would be taking Communion for the first time in the Sunday Mass, there was lots of excitement and activity in the village. The residents had been preparing for
the festivities for days, appreciating the distraction from the worries and fears that accompanied German occupation.

So even as Alfred trailed behind his sisters, Christelle and Sabine, across the fairground on his way to school, kicking at the early morning dew on the grass, the village was already beginning to buzz with expectation.

The first tram had arrived from Limoges and a crowd of day-trippers scurried past Alfred down the street. A group of elderly men had stepped off first, helping one another to unload their fishing tackle before heading down to the river. Behind them came the ladies from the outlying villages, empty shopping baskets at the ready, eager to stock up on food provisions and beat the rush to find the freshest bread, the fattest sausages, the tastiest preserves, the plumpest apricots, the tangiest goats’ cheese or the freshest turnips – and the best of whatever meat was left after the Germans had taken their majority share.

It didn’t seem right to Alfred that the French farmers worked so hard yet they had to surrender the cream of their crops. Not only did the Germans demand more than half of all the meat that was produced, they also took a good share of the fruit and vegetables. He would never forget the look of disgust on the face of his friend Monsieur Demarais from the wine store when
he revealed to Alfred that the Germans had the nerve to claim eighty per cent of all the champagne that was produced as well. For Monsieur Demarais, that really was an arrow through the heart of French pride.

Like Alfred, the headmaster Monsieur Gravois did not seem happy to be in school that morning.

‘Alfred Fournier, if you don’t sit down right away and get ready to listen to what I have to say, you will be spending the morning scrubbing the toilet floor,’ he yelled, as Alfred ambled into the classroom.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Alfred mumbled, as he took his place on the end of the row.

Monsieur Gravois explained to the class how they were all going to have to sit and work very quietly that morning and get on with their essays about the fall of the Roman Empire. They would be called out, one by one, he said, to go and see Doctor Depaul for their health check and injection and, as there were so many children to see, including all those who had come into Oradour from the surrounding villages, they would have to come back into school after lunch.

As this last sentence was met by a communal groan from the class, Monsieur Gravois relented.

‘I know it’s no fun having to come into school on a sunny summer’s afternoon, but if you are all well
behaved and don’t dilly dally when it’s your turn to see the doctor,’ (at this point he looked directly at Alfred), ‘I might let you out for lunch a little early. And those of you who have already seen the doctor by then can have the afternoon off, as it’s a special day.’

A cheer went round the room and Alfred felt a little happier as he took out his pencil and exercise book and began to write. Alfred liked history and was fascinated by the stories Monsieur Gravois had told the class about the Romans. He found it hard to believe that, so long ago, they had already invented so many amazing things and built incredible structures like the Colosseum.

But Alfred was also intrigued by the way in which the Romans’ great love of art, of beauty and of poetry and literature, was offset by an equally great capacity for cruelty. He wondered if the people who lived in France in the first century BC felt the same about the Romans taking over their land as his family and friends did about the Germans coming.

As he daydreamed about life all those years ago, Alfred stared out of the window down towards the river. The meadow across the road from the school looked as though it was covered in a blanket of snow – in fact, it was a soft, undulating field of white narcissi, flecked here and there with dense pockets of dark purple pansies. On the far side, he could just make out
the fishermen he had seen earlier getting off the tram, dotted along the river bank, sitting patiently in the shade of the trees, waiting for a bite. Alfred imagined the pike and the perch darting around the rocks in the crystal clear waters and the carp lurking in the deep pools between the tree roots by the banks. He wished he was out in the fresh air too, and wondered if his friend Monsieur Babin the clog-maker would be able to take him fishing later on, after he had closed up his shop.

Just before noon, Monsieur Gravois let the children go off for their lunch break. Unfortunately for Alfred and his sisters, they were among the group who had not yet been seen by Doctor Depaul.

‘If you have had your medical check, you can go home,’ said Monsieur Gravois. ‘I want the rest of you back here for one o’clock sharp. The sooner we get started again, the sooner you will be free.’

Alfred, Christelle and Sabine walked together in the sunshine up the street towards the fairground, the sound of all the happy lunchtime chatter in the village centre growing louder with each step. This was the Oradour Alfred loved: bursting with life, everyone in high spirits. All the tables outside the street cafés were full of happy customers and the streets were a splash of colour, the perfect setting for tomorrow’s procession, lined with
tubs of pink and lilac petunias and with waterfalls of red and white geraniums tumbling overhead from dozens of hanging baskets.

At the bakery the children met up with their father, who had just finished his shift. He was bringing home three long baguettes wrapped in brown paper and the delicious smell of the warm, crusty bread made Alfred’s stomach rumble. He took his father’s hand.

‘What’ve you been learning about in school today, then, Alfie?’ his father enquired with a smile.

‘The Romans,’ said Alfred, ‘which is good, ‘cause I like them, but I’d still rather be outside playing. And it’s not fair. Christelle, Sabine and I and some of the other kids have to go back after lunch as we haven’t seen the doctor yet. The others get the afternoon off.’

Just then Alfred saw a long line of men outside the
tabac
. ‘Who are they?’ he asked, pointing to the queue. He only recognised a couple of the men. The rest must have come into village that day.

‘They’re queuing for their tobacco rations. How could I have forgotten! Today’s tobacco delivery day. I’ll come back for mine after lunch. I need to pick up my ration card from home first. Hey, look over there!’

Leon had seen their old friends Ethan and Rachael having lunch on the terrace of the Hotel de la Glane.

‘Come on, let’s pop over and say hello. I haven’t
seen them for a couple of weeks. But don’t forget, it’s Monsieur and Madam Bonheur now.’

Soon after he and his wife had arrived in Oradour with the Fourniers, Ethan had followed the advice of his brother, Joseph, and had changed their names to Emile and Rochelle Bonheur. Oradour had so far remained a safe bolthole for Jews but there was no sense in advertising their origins.

Ethan and Rachael greeted Leon, Christelle, Sabine and Alfred with warm hugs and kisses. Their traumatic shared journey across France four years previously had been the beginning of a firm friendship between the two families, and the old couple treated the Fournier children like adopted grandchildren.

‘Look at you,’ Rachael said to Alfred, ruffling his fringe. ‘I swear you get at least two centimetres taller every time I see you. Oh, and girls, you must come and see me soon. I have just bought some gorgeous floral fabric from the draper’s shop and I would be happy to make you a blouse each from it. I thought of you two when I saw it. The colours are perfect for you.’

Leon noticed Alfred gazing longingly at the mouth-watering roast pike laid out on the big oval platter in between Ethan and Rachael.

‘That would be very kind of you, Rach… er, Rochelle,’ he said, ‘but we mustn’t keep you from your
meal any longer. The children have to be back at school soon too, so we’d better leave you in peace. We just wanted to say hello.’

As Alfred continued on his way home alongside his father and sisters, he sensed a movement behind him. It was Bobby, eyes shining, bursting with pride at having found his friend amongst the crowds milling around the village centre.

‘Hello, boy,’ Alfred said softly, crouching to cuddle the little dog. ‘You are a clever thing, finding me today. There are so many people here. Fancy a race home?’

Straightening up, Alfred began to jog along the road, laughing out loud as, every couple of metres, the little dog leapt up into the air at his side like a spring lamb.

Behind them, Leon put one arm around each of his daughters’ shoulders and smiled. He suddenly felt content. Perhaps his family was finally beginning to move on. Charly, their old life, their eviction, it didn’t matter so much any more. What mattered most to him was right here, all around him in this beautiful village, and he realised how lucky they were to have found their way to Oradour, a place where they had friends, a haven of peace amid all the chaos and horror of the war. His family had been given a new chance, a new life and, at that moment, he realised that he would do anything, anything at all, to protect it.