The French Promise (21 page)

Max knew Nic was right.
Logic told him he should leave it. It was none of his business. It did not impact on his desire to learn more about his father. But his heart was hammering, demanding he pay attention to what he’d discovered.

‘Max?’ Nic pressed. ‘Leave it. It’s going to bring grief to someone. This happened twenty years ago.’

Max spoke slowly, considering his response, knowing somewhere deep his instincts served
him well. ‘In Australia
is a man connected to my father, connected to Lisette, connected to von Schleigel,’ he began. ‘Luc Bonet … Lukas Ravensburg … Luke Ravens – whichever name he goes by now – he is the final piece in the jigsaw. Perhaps the most important piece, Nic, because he was with my father when he died.’ Max sat back and closed his eyes. ‘I can’t leave this alone because, above all,
he is connected to Rachel, whose story I can’t get out of my head. If I can, I would like to give her back to her brother. He deserves to know and I feel obligated to tell him.’

‘What about Lisette? She’s specifically warned you to keep this from her husband. Why rake over old ground? It won’t bring Kilian back!’

‘I have to know what happened between him and my father. This is personal,
Nic. You can’t understand because you can’t stand your father. I haven’t even had the luxury of being able to make that decision.’

‘Yes, but that’s not Lisette’s fault or Ravensburg’s … or even yours. It’s just how life has panned out. I’m poor, you’re rich. I don’t go around bleating about it.’

‘That’s a pathetic argument,’ he snapped, but again Nic’s logic resonated. He just didn’t want to admit
it. ‘Ravensburg should know what happened in Auschwitz.’

‘And hearing about the day his sisters were taken to the gas chambers and choked on Zyklon B is really going to improve his life’s outlook, isn’t it?’

‘I’m going to write one more letter. I’ll send it to Ravensburg this time. Then it will be over.’

‘Will it?’ Nic demanded. ‘I doubt it, Max. You’re a lawyer, with a passion for human rights.
I can hear it in your voice that you are a long way from being finished with this. What
aren’t you saying?’ Nic got up, exasperated. He left the room and Max heard him run water and light the stove for the kettle before disappearing into the bathroom.

Max had been trying to ignore the demon in his mind that had been nagging at him ever since he’d found Alicja’s witness report. He’d managed
to keep it to a whisper – that way he could pretend he couldn’t hear the taunting. But natural human curiosity and that other human quality – a need for justice – were overriding his instincts to banish the voice.

In the momentary silence of his apartment, with only the guttering of the fire, the low rumble of the kettle warming and the distant sound of soft laughter filtering up from another
apartment, he could hear the whisper distinctly. It goaded him, and he was sure it was Rachel’s ghost speaking to him.

Find von Schleigel
, it taunted.

Lisette walked down the hill carefully balancing a tray, engulfed by her signature broad white hat. The air was pungent with feral, herbaceous aromas – hardly a pleasant smell and yet she’d learnt over the years this was the very odour that meant a good harvest. There were times when she could barely believe that this extract was as precious as gold,
but Europe, and increasingly America, couldn’t get enough of it.

Jenny had grown up with the smell. It was a perfectly natural part of her calendar; in January, this was the aroma that spiced the air around Bonet’s and carried for miles. She barely seemed to notice it. ‘The rows change dramatically once harvested, don’t they?’ she asked.

‘Yes, bright blue for such a short time and then suddenly
red.’

‘They’re pretty the way they sweep around in such neat lines.’

Lisette was privately impressed by the way her daughter’s sharp mind worked. She was adept at numbers and more than adequate in science but her creativity was beginning to shine through. Jenny drew and painted beyond her years. Others had noticed and teachers had remarked that Jenny was gifted artistically. But Lisette didn’t
think her daughter’s bigger view on life, or her talent, were suited to their quiet lifestyle in Launny. Lisette already felt that Jenny was ‘larger’ than Nabowla and was convinced she’d be too restless for Launceston by the time she soon hit her teens.

‘Yes, your father is very clever,’ she replied. ‘Do you know why he’s planted the lavender in these long sweeping curves?’ she said,
pausing despite the fierce heat and her load.

‘Drainage,’ came the answer, fast as a bullet.

‘You’ve paid attention, despite your head being buried in fashion magazines.’

‘Mum, perfume, like a handbag, is something women of your age don’t leave home without. It’s a habit,’ Jenny observed but without condescension. ‘You are given a bottle and you are happy with it. But I think a time will come
when we will wear all sorts of perfume depending on our mood, perhaps what we’re wearing, and even who we’re wearing it for. So I think it will become fashionable and therefore it does interest me, Mum, a lot more than you think.’ Her mother raised an eyebrow, always taken aback by her eleven-year-old’s mature manner. ‘Besides, Dad said we’re going to need both Harry and me to run this place if it
keeps getting bigger.’

‘It looks so bare up there,’ Lisette said, sweeping a gaze over the barren rolling paddocks behind them. Just days
ago they had been a frenzy of colour, and now, dusty and monotone, they led the eye towards the host of purple hills in the far distance that encircled them.

‘This is the last section,’ Jenny replied. ‘Next year harvest will last even longer, when
Dad plants out Ned’s field.’ Ned was a horse they’d inherited from Des Partridge.

Lisette smiled as she watched her child. Jenny was petite and dark like her but she was sure that’s where the similarities ended, for Jenny did not possess her mother’s reticence or her social skills. Even so, the youngster was already far too pretty for her own good, her mother thought, and despite her small stature,
walked to her full height with a straight back and an elegant way of moving. Lisette often believed her and Luc’s daughter had inherited their combined worst traits: she was strong-willed with a determination to do things her own way, on her terms. It was daunting to witness it in one so young. Meanwhile dear Harry … he was such a sweet fellow. He had always been an easy child to raise and he’d
only become easier, mellowing into a teen who aimed to please. Everyone loved Harry, from his schoolmates to the harvest crew. In contrast he seemed to possess the best of her and Luc’s combined qualities, with his eager manner, strong work ethic and his love of family. Lisette had no doubt that Jenny could up and leave them in a heartbeat if she chose to, but she wondered whether Harry could
ever leave. She hoped neither would, if this farm was to thrive. But Harry in particular loved the farm and his simple life. He hated having to leave it each day to go to school and was happiest in the far paddocks, or down in the shed with his dad, learning. Harry had big footsteps to fill but Lisette suspected he might well outgrow
them; the boy was embracing the knowledge of lavender so fast
that he was already making suggestions to Luc about how to improve their yield.

Long discussions would be held over their evening meal about the farm’s productivity. Luc was bringing on loads of new hives, determined that the bees be given free rein. And he’d convinced Lisette that she could shoulder a new role in producing lavender honey.

‘Just like the precious gold from Provence,’
he’d jested. ‘I think we should call the honey “Jenny’s Gold”,’ their daughter decided.

It was Harry who had suggested giving the curious white lavender a chance to prove itself, and any moment she would discover if their youngster had been right.
Maybe the pup could teach the old dog a new trick,
Lisette thought. She smiled to herself, recalling the conversation.

‘Dad, you should give
the white lavender a name,’ Harry had said excitedly.

‘Any ideas?’ he’d asked.

‘Lisette,’ Harry had replied. ‘What else?’ he’d said, giving his mother a shy grin.

‘White lavender?’ Lisette had queried.

‘I’ve been waiting for the full moon. I’ll show you tonight,’ Luc had promised with a wink.

He’d kept his promise. That night when the children were asleep, he’d arrived with a lantern into the
kitchen where Lisette had been sewing a torn patch on Harry’s trousers.

‘What’s this?’ she’d laughed.

He’d put a finger to his lips. ‘
Viens, mon amour
,’ he’d whispered. Whenever he spoke French, which was rare now, she melted. ‘Come where?’ she’d whispered.

‘Ssh,’ he’d insisted, taking her hand to lead her from the back door.

‘Luc, where are we going?’

‘I will show you. Put
your boots on.’

It had been a full moon, they had been just days from harvesting the fields and he’d led her down through the rows in front of the cottage and up to the back blocks, hidden from the house by a sentinel of trees that were their wind breaks. They could talk without whispering now.

‘It’s so gorgeous at night. We used to do this when the children were young.’

‘Romantic, eh?’ He’d stroked
her bottom suggestively.

‘Oh no,’ she’d said.

‘Oh yes!’ he’d assured her and given her a wicked grin.

He had taken her hand and led her up a small rise and at the top she’d sucked in a breath in a small gasp. Bathed by the moon was a field of pale lavender, silvered by the ghostly light.

‘
La lavande blanche
,’ she’d whispered in awe.

Luc had nodded. ‘I can remember the first time I saw
it. It wasn’t a field like this but a patch within the blue. A night like this – full moon – and it was as though the patch had been painted silver by fairies. I took my grandmother up the next day to show her and she was overcome by its beauty and begged for seeds. I thought no more about them because they were so random. I was only interested in the blue. She had tied some seeds of the white into
a small twist of silk. I’d forgotten about them until we arrived in Tasmania and started planting. I gave them their own field at Harry’s bidding … just to see – and to remember her.’

‘Oh, Luc, it’s beautiful.’

‘Harry popped me to the post,’ he’d said. ‘I was always going to call it “Lisette” because it’s wild and unpredictable, like you.’

It was meant to be a romantic moment but she’d
laughed as he’d leant in to kiss her.

‘
Qu’est-ce?
’ he’d frowned.

‘It’s “pipped”, not “popped”,’ she’d giggled.

‘There’s a price for laughing at me and I shall exact it now,’ he had threatened, pulling at the zip of her dress. She’d squirmed, laughing harder.

‘Oh, Luc, we can’t.’

‘We can.
Je me suis prépare
,’ he’d said, nodding behind her. She’d turned and there was a blanket and two
glasses with a bottle of wine. Heaven only knew where he’d purchased the wine.

‘Just like old times,’ he’d whispered. ‘Welcome to my bedroom,’ he’d grinned.

She felt herself blush now at the memory; couldn’t remember a more loving time with Luc. His demons had gone quiet and she had finally been able to say she believed both of them were blissfully happy. A voice broke on the rim of
her thoughts. She blinked. ‘Pardon, darling?’

‘I said, you’re spilling the lemonade,’ Jenny admonished. Lisette righted the tray and smiled inwardly. Yes, indeed, life had taken a wonderful new turn since meeting Nel and Tom. They’d bought their lavender fields and had negotiated for Des’s farm as well. The family even had a proper home now, too. After Jenny’s arrival in November 1952, their family
had felt complete. And once the French lavender seeds had taken and thrived, Lisette had admitted she’d never seen him like this. It was as though the Luc she’d known throughout the
war – the dark and broody one – had entirely disappeared.

The success of the lavender and the security of his own family around him had released the old Luc, it seemed, and she was revelling in the glow.
Now his laughter could be heard in the fields and he’d walk in after a long day, teeth gleaming a smile out of his healthy, tanned skin; eyes so bright and full of amusement that there were moments when she could barely believe he was the same person. She loved him all the more for it, of course. And she hoped there would be celebrations tonight when they learnt whether Harry’s idea had merit.

More than a decade of happiness and calm had been theirs. That’s precisely why she had not mentioned Max Vogel’s letter, which had arrived the previous month. She hated to keep a secret from Luc but Max churning up their past, bringing back Kilian, raising the issue of the dead Bonets and the hated von Schleigel, was more than she could bear. She and Luc had done their part for the war. They’d suffered
their wounds and bore the scars but they didn’t need to keep paying a penance, especially not now that Luc had found a sense of peace.

She’d felt obliged to respond to Max’s letter. He certainly had a charming manner, but most of all it was the small photo he’d included of himself, taken in one of those photo booths that she and Luc had once used on the pier, pulling faces just before the flash
exploded.

It was such a shock to learn of Max’s existence, but staring at the tiny photo of him she could have been looking at the young Markus Kilian. It had upset her for days afterwards to see Markus so alive in his son.

She’d written to Max on the day Luc had taken the children Christmas shopping, and then she’d kept the sealed
letter close and secretly posted it at her first opportunity.

Her guilt was the only blot in an otherwise perfect life. She’d given Kilian’s son all she could and wanted absolutely nothing to do with learning anything more about von Schleigel. She hoped he was dead by now – hoped he’d bitten down on the cyanide capsule that some people believed all German officers involved with the death camps carried.

Sylvie, a French Resister who had helped Lisette
in Paris, had once shown her a cyanide capsule. It had belonged to an SS officer who’d not had a chance to swallow it. ‘He swallowed one of our bullets instead,’ she’d remarked. Lisette had never seen one of those thinly rubber-lined death pills before, but she’d stolen the oval ampoule from Sylvie and had never quite known why. Maybe seventeen years ago she’d been frightened that Sylvie might
use it. A few years after the war had finished and Luc was in his bleakest moods, she’d begun having a recurring nightmare where she heard someone biting down on the suicide pill. But she could never tell who it was or see the person’s face, and it had terrified her. Anxious that Luc might be tempted to use it, she’d lied that she’d thrown it into the sea on their way to Britain from France in
1944. She’d not thought about it since, but kept it hidden as a reminder perhaps that she had once lived an extremely different sort of life in her youth.

‘Come on, Mum. It’s too hot out here,’ Jenny urged, ‘and you’ll burn.’ Lisette roused herself from her thoughts and hastened after her daughter down the paddock to where the all-important distillation was taking place, happy to be distracted.

She waved to the men standing by the hungry furnace.

‘Cold drinks,’ she called up to them.

One tipped his wide-brimmed hat. ‘We’ll just get this load compacted, Mrs Ravens,’ and she stood back, her hand lifted to shade her eyes as she watched the two men begin to stamp on the lavender. It never failed to fascinate her that with each new harvest, the farm became a little more mechanised. No more
hand-reaping with sickles; now harvesters did the work of a dozen men in double-quick time, the old Commer ute that used to rumble around the fields to pick up the sacks had finally been retired and tractors were now doing a lot of the heavy work. Still, this part – which harked back to the old ways – remained labour-intensive and she was glad of that.

‘Don’t let the ice melt, boys,’
she warned and stepped into the shed where the smell was aggressive and the steam from the distillation process hit her like a club. She could pick out distinctive heavy pollens and honey-like hints; she always joked that you couldn’t live with Luc and not become a specialist in ‘smells’. Beneath the first blast of dense sweetness rose the volatile soluble aromatics that would not remain in the extract.
There really was nothing pleasant about it. It gave her an instant headache but here stood her husband and son, two blond heads close together and staring into the glass-collecting jar where a light golden oil was gathering, drip by precious drip.

Luc had built his own distillation equipment based on a machine he called
Le Cygnet
from his days on the farm in Saignon.

‘Lemonade break!’
Jenny called, hurrying over to join them. She hugged her dad and pulled the ear of her brother affectionately. Lisette watched Luc embrace his daughter, pulling her close so she too could stare inside the collecting jar.

Harry turned and beamed Lisette a smile. ‘Look, Mum, here it comes. Our best ever.’