Stranger at the Gates (34 page)

It had taken them three hours to dig the pit. Past experience made them as quick as professional gravediggers. They had stacked their shovels in a neat pile, and someone was boiling a metal coffee pot over a fire.

The noise made by the anxious birds continued for some minutes, while the S.S. NCO shouted directions to his five men. The machine gun was set up in front of a beech tree, its snout pointing at the yawning pit. To the execution squad it was a familiar routine. They had dug mass graves in Poland, in Russia, and in the makeshift camps set up for Eastern prisoners and Jews. They had shot and buried thousands of people of all ages and sexes. The cries of women and children had no meaning for them any more than the shrieks of the birds whose refuge they had disturbed. Some were married men with families; while they waited they joked among themselves and passed the time sharing cigarettes and talking. Two men were occupied with a crossword puzzle. The NCO inspected the pit, decided on the placement of the gun, and then stretched out under a tree. He enjoyed the pattern made by the sunlight as it filtered down through the thick branches. The railway was about half a mile away. They would hear the train. It would take time to march the children across the fields and into the wood. Depending upon how small some of them were. He closed his eyes and let himself drift. It was a very warm morning.

One of the digging detail brought him coffee. He sat up and yawned, looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. They were already late. He buttoned his uniform jacket, put his cap on straight and went to the edge of the woods, where he could see down to the railway line. There was no sign of the train.

The Major was also looking at his watch. He stood inside the doorway of the school, looking out onto the silent, sullen crowd. Behind him the schoolteacher and the children were ready. They waited with their satchels and books; a few were crying. He could hear them through the closed door and it irritated him. The Standartenführer was late. He had promised to be there in an hour, and it was already an hour and twenty minutes. The Major hesitated. The train was ready; the truck taking the children to the station was drawn up outside the school, surrounded by armed S.S. guards.

The longer he delayed in getting them out, the more the news of their removal was spreading through the village. There would be a crowd at the station. The Major smelled trouble. He was used to judging the temper of a crowd. He knew fear and indecision because he had seen it so often in the condemned. He also recognised revolt. He had been in charge of a group of Jewish and Polish prisoners once, when a riot broke out. Just before, he had seen a certain uniformity about the hungry, desperate faces. The same look was spreading through the crowd of men and women outside the school. The moment would come when they'd rush the lorry, regardless of the troops opening fire. And the Standartenführer had stressed his desire for an orderly operation. The Major made two decisions. He put the first into practice by going into the building. He came up to Madame Giffier. She was standing with an arm round two children who were in tears. He saluted her.

‘Madame,' he said, ‘it's time to leave. Before you go outside I have to warn you. There is a truck which will take you and the children to the railway station. There is also a crowd. If any rescue attempt is made, my men will fire. Not on the civilians but upon you and the children. I'm sure,' he said this with a slight smile, ‘that you're not frightened for yourself, but equally you won't want those two you're holding now, for instance, to be shot dead. I want you to go outside and tell those people what I've told you. Warn them not to do anything to interfere with your departure. Tell them that their children will die if they move.' He opened the door and pointed with his cane. ‘The responsibility is yours,' he said.

Madame Giffier looked at him. ‘Where are you sending us? Tell me, before I go outside. Or I won't go.'

‘To Germany,' the Major said. ‘To a detention camp. Nobody is going to harm you or the children. But their parents must be punished. After a time you will all be released.'

‘You give your word?'

‘Of course. Go out and do as I've told you.'

She blinked in the strong sunlight; there was a loud anguished murmur from the crowd, and a movement towards her. It was checked by the S.S. using their gun butts.

‘I've got something to tell you.' She raised her voice. ‘For God's sake listen to me! We're going away in a few minutes. We're being taken to Germany but we're not going to be harmed. The children are safe and nothing's going to happen to them! But if you try and stop us going, they'll shoot the children! Don't make a move, don't try anything, for God's sake!'

There was a scream from the crowd. ‘Janine—how's my Janine?' ‘Pierre, Marie—are you all right!' ‘Philippe …' ‘Raoul …'

‘That's enough.' The Major came beside her. ‘Go back inside and bring the children out.'

‘They're all right,' Michelle Giffier shouted. ‘They're all all right, don't worry! I'll take care of them!' She turned back into the school. Inside, the ranks of children waited, faces upturned towards her. Tears made her blind and for a moment she faltered. It was Caroline Camier who saved her. She put her arm through the teacher's. ‘Don't cry, Madame,' she whispered. ‘We're not frightened. We'll be together.'

‘You're a good girl,' Michelle Giffier said. She brushed her hand across her eyes and smiled; it was a painful grimace of her swollen mouth. The girl squeezed her arm. Her little face was set and stubborn; she was an ugly child who strongly resembled her father. She gave a look of hate at the Major.

‘Children!' Michelle Giffier called out. ‘We're leaving now. There's nothing to be frightened of, and we shan't be separated. We're going by train to a place where we'll stay for a few days and then we'll be brought home. File up in twos and do exactly as the soldiers tell you.' She turned to the Major.

‘We're ready,' she said. This was the Major's second decision. Vierken had told him to move the children; that was more valid as an order than his remark about coming down to see them off. The Major's men were waiting at Chemire, the crowd were still subdued by the teacher's warning. He couldn't wait any longer and hope to avoid some incident.

‘Good,' he said. He opened the school door. ‘Outside!'

There was a group of S.S. about a hundred yards up the road. Louise saw them and for a second she braked. There was a motorcyclist and three men armed with machine pistols. They were at the side of the road, stationed to stop anything travelling towards St. Blaize. Since there were no private cars in use in the area and people travelled on foot or by bicycle, no road blocks were considered necessary on the subsidiary roads out of the village. The motorcyclist was enough. She had little time to think; her first reaction of fear made her slow down, the second was to slam her foot on the accelerator. If they chased her, she would probably be caught; the way was narrow and she wasn't used to the heavy car. But they wouldn't chase the Standartenführer's private Mercedes flying its Nazi pennant, unless they had time to see that a woman was driving it.

She gripped the wheel tight and pushed the pedal to the floor. All she glimpsed as she roared past the group was a blur with someone saluting. She rounded a bend and almost ran into the verge; it needed all her strength to wrench the wheel back and straighten up. Then she slowed, listening. There was no sound of a motorcycle. They'd seen the car, and the driver was as much a blur to them as they had been to her. Louise let the speed drop for a moment; her body was shaking, and her hands were so wet that they slipped on the wheel. Lavallière was only four kilometres away. She picked up speed again, guiding the car round the bends and twists in the road; it hit a rough pothole that jerked her out of the seat. Her mind kept trying to switch back to the Château, to Vierken lying dead on the floor with blood seeping out of his wounds onto the carpet; Régine, ashen with shock, weeping for her lover. It was like a nightmare. It couldn't have happened; she had a sensation of panic, imagining that it was all an illusion, that at some point while she slept for those few hours, her mind had given way and she had woken to a hideous hallucination. Panic came and she fought it off; she opened the window and the rush of air was calming. Lavallière; one kilometre. Less. There was the encircling belt of trees that hid the open field. After they were married, Jean and she drove out there and picnicked once. She suddenly remembered the smell of the grass and the dappled light above their heads. She braked, and stopped. When she got out there was complete silence. She began to walk into the trees. If they had left the field already … Nothing. No aircraft, no sign of life. A hand touched her shoulder; she wheeled round with a cry. Albert Dumois, who worked in the butcher's shop in St. Blaize, was standing in front of her, pointing a sten gun.

‘Madame!' He was staring at her. ‘When I saw the car stop I nearly shot you!'

‘Where's the Comte?'

‘Across the other side! There, under the trees, can't you see the plane?' Now it was visible, shrouded under the camouflage net. Louise didn't answer; she began to run.

It was Savage she saw first; he caught hold of her and held her for a moment. She pulled away from him.

‘You've got to get to Chemire,' she gasped, breathless from that wild run across the field. ‘You've got to go now! They're going to shoot the children!'

By now she was surrounded; Jean de Bernard pushed towards her. He spoke quietly to Savage. ‘Let go of my wife. Louise—what's happened! How did you get here!'

‘In Vierken's car,' she said. ‘He came to St. Blaize, with Régine. Don't ask any questions, just listen! She'd found out they were going to murder the children in the woods; taking them on the train was just a blind. Oh God.' She stopped, and Jean reached out for her. For a few moments she clung to his hands. Then she stood back and faced them.

‘There isn't time to tell what happened. They were moving the children onto the train this morning. If we don't get there in time they'll be shot and buried in Chemire.'

‘You're certain of this? It's not a trick?' She shook her head at Jean.

‘No,' she said. ‘It's the truth.'

‘How did you get Vierken's car?' Savage asked quietly. ‘Where is he?'

‘At the Château. He's dead; Régine killed him.'

‘That's good enough.' Savage looked round at the group of men. The RAF pilot and his navigator had come to join them; they couldn't speak French beyond a few words and they didn't know what was happening. ‘Camier, you and the Comte take four men with you and ammunition. We'll use the Mercedes. How long will it take to get to Chemire?'

‘By the direct route, twenty minutes,' Jean de Bernard said. ‘But there's a longer way round. It skirts St. Blaize, and crosses the railway line about three kilometres down. There's a little hand-operated crossing gate.'

‘There'll be Germans manning it,' Camier burst out.

‘Why should there be?' Savage spoke to him quietly. The man's face was contorted; he looked as if he might fall down with a stroke. ‘They're not expecting trouble. Who usually operates it?'

‘Servard,' the Mayor mumbled. ‘Servard. He's over seventy; half the time he sleeps … God knows why there hasn't been an accident … Caroline … Oh Christ Jesus help me!' He dropped to the ground and covered his face with his hands. There was a sound of sobbing, harsh and inhuman in its agony.

Louise went to him and shook him by the shoulder. ‘Don't do that,' she said. ‘It won't help. We may be in time still.'

Slowly he raised himself; he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

‘Pardon, Madame,' he muttered. ‘Pardon. I was overcome …'

‘How much longer by the railway route?' Savage turned to Jean de Bernard. The sight of Camier's collapse wasn't helping the morale of the rest of the men whose children were under sentence of death.

‘Half an hour, forty minutes. Louise, how did you get through—weren't there any patrols, check points?'

‘Only one; a motorcyclist and some S.S. I drove past at top speed and they didn't see me. They must have thought it was Vierken.'

‘Then that's the route for the Mercedes. Jean, you go with Camier and take half the men with you in the van. I'll go with the Mercedes on the shorter route. If one of us gets stopped the other will get through.' He took a cigarette out and lit it; he handed it to the Comte.

‘Camier drives, like last time. Go to the crossing and wait. If you're in time and the train stops to unload the kids, move in on them. If it's already done so, join us at Chemire.'

‘And if we're too late?' Albert Dumois asked the question. He looked from Savage to the Comte. ‘If they're dead. Monsieur—what do we do then?'

It was Jean de Bernard who answered. ‘We attack and we kill every German we can find,' he said. ‘None of us will survive, but if this thing happens, none of us will want to. Louise.' He reached out and took his wife's hand. He kissed it. ‘God bless you. God bless you for your courage and resource in getting to us. Pray for us.'

‘I'm coming with you,' she protested.

‘No,' Jean said, ‘you are not. You will stay here, with our friends from the RAF. Take good care of her, please.'

‘Don't worry about that,' the young pilot said. ‘But what's up? What's the panic?' In spite of his attempt at being nonchalant, he looked unhappy.

‘We're going to get the children now,' Savage explained. ‘The bastards are planning to murder them. Give us three hours, and if we're not back by then, get to hell out of here. And make sure you take Madame de Bernard with you.'

He didn't touch Louise. He raised the sten gun and saluted her. ‘We'll get them,' he said. ‘And we'll be back.'