The French Promise (31 page)

‘… So my baby brother and I went alone to Inverness, my father went to war and my mother went slightly mad as a result. Dad didn’t return from the Front. His body was never found,’ Jane said. ‘Although Nigel and I finally came back to London, Mum had already managed to get lost in her mind,
I think. It was her coping mechanism.’ Jane shrugged. ‘I’d got used to playing the mothering role to Nigel so while I could have used some comforting myself, I was able to protect him from most of her bad days.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Very healthy, still at home but we have some live-in help now to take care of her daily needs – ablutions and meals. To be honest she’s really happy but nevertheless
she has disappeared; there’s a stranger walking around in our
mother’s form. Nigel and I could be anyone. She still talks about a man called Peter – that’s Dad – but doesn’t know why. She can sing all the words to “Amazing Grace” but doesn’t know what she ate for breakfast or the names of her grandchildren. It’s so terribly sad. She does, however, have fabulous recall for her own childhood so
that’s where she lives, permanently as an eight or nine-year-old in the previous century.’

‘And Nigel?’

‘A banker – married, three children. His wife, Peggy, is pretty, a great mother and a lovely sister-in-law. He has all the right trappings. He lives in Chelsea. He’s a good father, good husband. We’re close.’ She sounded wistful. ‘With our parents effectively gone, it’s just the three
of us and the children.’

‘And you? I can’t believe you’re single, Jane.’

Her eyes dipped. ‘I wasn’t. Or rather I didn’t expect to be. I’m a divorcée.’ Her gaze suddenly blazed up at him. ‘Do you disapprove?’

‘Why would I?’

‘In England divorce is still taboo.’

‘Taboo?’ he frowned. He’d never heard this word.

‘Er … frowned upon.’

‘Ah.’ He understood now and risked touching her hand. ‘I have always
believed you have to walk in someone’s shoes before you can pass judgement.’

She gave a small sigh of derision. ‘Not everyone is that far-sighted, Luc. I often tell strangers I’m a widow – it’s so much easier. My marriage lasted not quite four years.’ She glanced up again. ‘I can see the surprise in your eyes. But I can’t blame you. John was …’ She sighed out her breath
slowly and seemed to deflate
before him. ‘Well, he was a complex man with problems.’ She gave a sad smile now. ‘I left my mad mother to marry a mad husband. He was a danger to both of us.’

‘He hurt you?’

She nodded. ‘I knew he couldn’t help it but I was the closest person to him and was the easiest target. He’s now getting the right help. I’m sure there are many women suffering the same and I can only feel sorry
for men returning from war with these problems.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Shellshock is insidious. Did you ever experience any battle in your time as a Maquisard?’

He nodded, forgetting himself momentarily. ‘You can be as tough as stone in your body but no one can prepare your mind for it. The battle noise is so intense and disorienting. People die around you – one moment vital, the next riddled with bullets
or their body scattered.’ He noted her look of pain. ‘I’m sorry, that was brutal of me.’

‘No. I think we need to hear it so we can understand people like John more. It’s easy to label him as mad or dangerous but few of us other than fellow soldiers who’ve stood in battle and survived it can really appreciate the horror. He’s under the care of doctors now, so he can’t harm himself or anyone else.’

‘Are you all right?’

She sniffed and nodded. ‘Sorry. You were so candid with me about your life – Lisette, your lost family – that I think I let myself say too much and indulge in a moment of pity then. You see I did love him and it’s hard to see him as a monster. His family tells me he left for war a gentle, generous man.’

‘How long since you separated?’

‘I was divorced in April but
we parted the year prior.’ She shrugged. ‘This trip to the Continent was about me claiming back my life, I think. I wanted to feel free and independent again.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I guess I also wanted to run away from the mess of my life.’

‘Do you work?’

She shook her head. ‘Not any more. John didn’t want a working wife, especially as he was born into a family of means. My family was not wealthy
but we were comfortable and I had a very good education, did the whole English governess thing in France after the war for a couple of years, which is why my French is so solid. Then I came home and at twenty-two started building a career as a clothes designer. John’s family is in groceries. They’ve been understanding and have provided very generously for me. But maybe I will work again just to
keep myself occupied.’ He watched her shoulders droop. ‘I was a late bloomer anyway, then I became too choosy and then the war hit. When John came along in 1958 I was over thirty. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have found someone so special.’ She gave a pained smirk. ‘I thought by now I’d have begun a family but it wasn’t to be. Instead I’m thirty-eight, footloose in Paris, and I don’t believe
I’ve ever been more sad.’ Jane straightened and finished her coffee. ‘And there you have it, Monsieur Ravens, a potted history of Jane Aplin and forgive me to have burdened you with it. It seems we’ve both got tragic stories. I’m really so very sorry about your wife and son. My heart hurts for you and Jenny. I promise to give her a fantastic day on Saturday.’

‘Have dinner with me, Jane,’ he said.

She stared at him and he knew she wasn’t going to pretend to be surprised at the request, only by its urgency. There was a frisson between them that neither could deny but he hoped his eagerness didn’t intimidate her. He was certainly privately unnerved that the words had blurted from his mouth before he could filter them.

Her pause was telling; she too was weighing up the complexities
of the situation.

‘How about Sunday night?’ he offered before she could think of reasons to turn him down.

He had been reading the papers in the hotel lobby when the bellhop came strolling through, ringing gently. Luc looked up absently and was surprised to see his name on the small board that the bellhop carried.

He raised his hand.

The youngster nodded. ‘You have a phone call, Monsieur Ravens. You can take it on the lobby telephone over there, sir,’ he
pointed.

Luc frowned, wondering who it might be. He made his way to the small alcove. ‘This is Luc Ravens,’ he said into the receiver, glad that he could pronounce his name the French way without knowing he’d need to repeat it.

‘It’s Max.’

He felt a gust of relief. ‘No problems?’

‘I took the precaution of arriving last night. Are you still fine for this morning? I don’t want to create any problems
for you.’

He appreciated the younger man’s care but his reply didn’t reflect that. ‘Everything you have to say opens up a world of problems for me.’

There was a pause. ‘It’s information, Mr Ravens, that’s all.’

‘It’s what I do with that information, though, Max; isn’t that the point?’

Again, hesitation. ‘If you would prefer not to—’

‘It’s too late to turn away from what you have to tell
me.’

‘I’ll see you in half an hour, then. Thank you.’

He sounded smart, polite and well-bred,
Luc thought
. My son is dead while my enemy’s son is trying to help me.
He shook his head as he replaced the receiver. Nevertheless he was grateful for how his luck was running … seamlessly, too. He’d waved the girls off for their day together not long before and with Max Vogel arriving shortly he remained
in the foyer in one of the armchairs to the side so he could watch all newcomers to the hotel.

Luc had not dwelt on what to expect. It came as a heart-pounding shock when a tall young man with hair a delicate yellow wandered into the hotel and Luc could not blame his eyes for momentarily believing that Markus Kilian had just strolled in. There was no doubting this was the colonel’s son
but more in the way he carried himself; his straight bearing, even the neat, round shape of his head that was undeniably Kilian. Vogel unwrapped his scarf to reveal his impeccable houndstooth-patterned Continental-style slim-cut sports coat with an open-necked plain sports shirt, and he scanned the foyer. Finally Luc stood, glad now of Jenny’s insistence on new clothes, and sauntered over to the
young man.

‘Max?’

He’d only seen him in profile and from a distance but as soon as Max swung around Luc was struck by that memorable arctic gaze, reincarnated in the son. He knew he was staring.

‘Yes – hello, Mr Ravens?’ Max said, filling the awkward silence. He held out a hand and Luc absently noted the shake was firm and confident, opening a box of memories that he’d thought was sealed.

‘Er, shall we have a drink?’ Luc stammered.

He grinned. ‘Is it a bit early?’

‘It’s respectable.’ Luc noticed the bulging leather satchel. Vogel had come armed. ‘Through here. The Blue Bar is quiet at the moment.’ His visitor fell in step. ‘Your father had a thing for calvados. I heard him say once that it was never too early in the day for a tot.’

Vogel sighed. ‘This is just the sort of detail
I hoped to learn from you. Thank you. I know it may seem inconsequential but just to be given that tiny insight into him is special for me.’

His English was flawless; Luc suspected his German would be too and he obviously couldn’t study in France without perfect French. Luc was impressed and glad he’d insisted they speak plenty of French at home. Jenny was handy in German too, which he and Lisette
had also encouraged.

They stepped into the bar, which was indeed extremely blue: carpet, lights, upholstery. Even the neon sign
Le Bar Bleu
shone in cool blue. Luc pointed to a booth. He remembered how Kilian’s romantic nature had shone through even in their few brief encounters; if he were a betting man he’d put money on the fact that the son was also a dreamer. He shifted into French. ‘What
will you have?’

‘Er … Coca-Cola is fine.’

He snorted. ‘Your father wouldn’t approve. Have a real drink, Vogel.’

‘Only if you’ll call me Max,’ he said, fixing Luc with a pale stare.

‘So … drink with me, Max,’ he said in answer.

‘I’ll have a calvados,’ he answered with a jaunty smile. ‘It’s surely too cold for beer?’ he added, a gentle dig at Luc’s adopted nationality.

The drinks
were ordered, Luc joining him with the same, and suddenly they were both staring into their glasses, swirling the thick apple brandy while feeling the ghosts of Lisette and Kilian circling around them in tandem.

‘I don’t know what this will mean to you but I was desolate on the day I opened your letter and read about your wife and son. Offering my condolences just doesn’t seem enough,’ Max said,
and Luc was reminded of the intensity that Kilian had possessed.

He nodded. ‘There are no adequate words of comfort, as perhaps you have discovered with your own recent loss. I appreciate your thought, though, and I should convey the same to you.’

Luc hoped Max would not ask him any questions, continuing to wonder how many more times he’d have to relive the drowning. Each time he told it, it felt
as though he was choking, swallowing water and killing off another little part of himself.

Perhaps Max sensed it. ‘We should drink to something, Mr Ravens. I feel very privileged that you came and agreed to meet with me.’

‘Call me Luc. Let’s drink to redemption.’

Max simply nodded. He seemed to understand. He held up his balloon and they clinked glasses.

‘It’s unnerving how intensely
similar you are to your father,’ Luc couldn’t help but remark.

Max shrugged. ‘My mother did say so but I guess I didn’t believe her. She had only one grainy photo of him – it was a group shot, so it was distant too. I could see a vague resemblance, but …’

‘It’s not vague,’ Luc assured. ‘You could
be
Kilian. Even the pitch of your voice is unnervingly similar.’

‘Really? I’m glad.’

Luc
felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘I didn’t know my father either,’ he said.

Max’s gaze shot up from his brandy. ‘Oh?’

Luc explained. He sensed he was doing more than just filling in background for Max.

Kilian’s son looked enthralled and at one moment muttered, ‘It all makes sense now. That’s tragic your father died not knowing you were born,’ Max agreed. ‘But you had the love of a father through your
Jewish family.’

‘I did. Jacob Bonet was the best father anyone could have.’

‘Will you tell me about him?’

‘Why?’

Max shrugged. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound too crazy but I feel as though I am now connected to the Bonet family. I spent a long time following the path of your sisters—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Forgive me, that was insensitive.’

Luc gave him a crooked glance. ‘It was a long time ago. The
wound feels fresh at times but I’ve accepted that they were long dead by the time I discovered the fact. I owe you my thanks, not my sorrow, for uncovering the truth.’

Max said nothing but his silence was easy. The more Luc studied him, the more he gradually found nuances that were not echoes of the Kilian he’d known. There was an eagerness to Max, whereas his father had been mostly reticent.
Three beautiful women had walked by the window and while Luc had noticed them, the younger man showed no interest; his father would have looked and admired, he was sure, but Max also didn’t look at any of the passing men either, which was equally enlightening. It seemed Max was simply focused in that moment on Luc. Kilian had been very aware of his hypnotic charm. In Max Luc sensed no arrogance or
vanity. It made him easy to like.

He also found him easy to talk to; it turned out that Max was a skilled listener and he gradually eased Luc back into the hurts of long ago. He talked until both their brandy balloons sat empty before them and coffee was being delivered.

Finally, with a self-conscious shrug, he finished. ‘That’s my life. Now you know everything.’

‘I feel privileged,’
Max repeated and Luc sensed his honesty. ‘But you don’t know everything I do. I’ve brought the information I promised.’

Luc frowned. ‘What’s in this for you?’

Max sat back, perplexed. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, why? Lisette, me … von Schleigel – that was all nearly two decades ago. How old are you?’

‘I’m nearly twenty-five.’

‘Right. You weren’t born when your father went to war. You were an infant
when I knew him.’

‘So?’

Luc raised his palms. ‘I just don’t see what your motivation is. Our past has nothing to do with you.’

He watched Max sigh quietly. ‘All of you connect me to Kilian. I grew up believing that my mother could barely remember the man who fathered me. She never spoke about him. I stopped asking questions and got on with being happy to be my mother’s son; being a good grandson.
Cancer took my mother but it left in her place a phantasm – my father – who is haunting me. Why didn’t she just leave me ignorant? Why insist as she drew her last breath to read aloud his final letter to her … the one she’d been clutching secretly for most of my life?’

Luc shrugged, bewildered as to how to provide any sort of answer.

‘Suddenly my father was not some stray; another reveller,
who simply impregnated her with his drunken lust.’ Luc could see he’d touched a raw nerve; could almost regret pushing Max now into this corner. ‘I had accepted being a bastard – a rich, indulged, slightly dislocated one. But I have felt nothing but anger since her death that for all of my life I had been lied to by the one person I truly loved. Worse …’ He took a slow breath. ‘So much worse,
was the realisation that I now believe she loved him as much as me – perhaps even more because she kept him a secret; she kept him all to herself even though my mother knew how very badly I wanted to know about him. A name, Luc. Just a name might have been enough at one time. But now that’s no longer enough. I want to know everything I can about him. I want to know the people who knew him. I especially
wanted to meet you, who shared his final moments.’

Luc cleared his throat, understanding now why the young man had not noticed pretty girls passing by. He looked away from the ferocity in Vogel’s pale gaze, which had turned
stormy. He recalled a similar shift in Kilian; one moment his eyes were pale blue, cold but amused. But they could turn in a blink and reflect grey sleet on a miserable wintry
day. ‘And for these final moments you will give me von Schleigel?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Yes. A fair exchange, I’d say. I’ve done all the hard yards for you.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve just told—’

‘No, I mean, why did you bother with von Schleigel?’

‘In the letter you forwarded to my mother that my father wrote he mentioned the Gestapo officer a couple of times. He disliked him so vigorously it just
about leapt off the page.’

‘Probably because von Schleigel tried to corrupt Kilian’s image of Lisette. And he was right, of course, but so was your father right. Von Schleigel was a petty bureaucrat with ambition and a cruel streak, who was sadly given some authority. And in that uniform, loathed by most Germans as well as the French, he could believe himself to be above most others and he became
dangerous, driven by an inner determination to be noticed.’

‘You see? You’re all connected! Even now after all these years you speak about von Schleigel with passion. You hate him as much as my father obviously did.’

‘Much more, I suspect. Not for the same reasons, though.’

‘You don’t have to cover for him; I think I’ve worked out that my father loved Lisette.’ Max looked embarrassed for having
made the remark.

Luc ignored it. ‘You misunderstand me. Von Schleigel and I have crossed swords; I made a promise I would find him
one day and that there would be a reckoning for something he did to a friend of mine. Now you’ve somehow stumbled across his path and discovered that he’s also responsible for the deaths of my sisters, which only fuels my rage. My passion has nothing to do with Lisette
and even less to do with Colonel Kilian. This is about retribution. That’s my interest in the former Gestapo officer. So why did you trace him?’

Max took a slow breath. ‘While I waited for Lisette to reply, I had nothing else to go on but I had such a fire in my belly then. I wanted to know about anyone who knew my father. Von Schleigel’s name was the only other one I had. So, call it
boredom, but I decided to look him up in the Federal Archives. I read the witness statement and recognised the name Bonet from my father’s letter. I guess it didn’t take a genius – especially with all the facts in front of me – to work out that Bonet and Ravensburg, now Ravens, were the same person. This was confirmed once Lisette’s letter arrived from a place called Bonet’s Farm. By then I couldn’t
let von Schleigel go. Even the banker mentioned him with disgust.’ Max drained his cold coffee. ‘I had nothing else to do with my time so I put it to good use seeing if I could track von Schleigel down – see if he was still living. It really wasn’t that hard for someone with the right contacts, money and half a brain. He changed his name. Not a whiff of a Gestapo uniform about him either. He’s
all smiles and jollity these days.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Are you going to tell me about my father?’

‘What else could you want to know? He and I were enemies.’

‘Yes, but I suspect you thought well of him.’

Luc hung his head. ‘I did. Your father probably saved my life; he certainly saved Lisette’s by not giving up what he may have discovered about her. I have no doubt that he loved her and that she in
her own way loved him, but she chose me. We never discussed your father from the day she learnt of his death. It was easier that way.’ He gave Max a sympathetic smile. ‘As much as I loathed his uniform, I admit to liking the man who wore it. He was a good soldier who died bravely and kept his loyalties intact; he refused to surrender but he also refused to kill innocents.’

‘I have to
ask … Did you kill him?’

Luc gave a mirthless snort. ‘No. It was a stupid boy called Didier who fired the bullet. He barely knew how to hold a handgun, let alone use it. Your father goaded the youngster, derided him into firing the bullet that took his life. He planned to die that day, Max – you might as well know it. He had loaded his gun with a single bullet and got roaring drunk. He had no
intention of being taken by the Allies. But he used his bullet on me to make his killers believe I was his enemy. And your father was an excellent shot. He knew he had only wounded me but that it would look serious to the young rebels. I gave my word as he died that I would post his letter to Ilse and I held his hand until he took his last breath; he died peacefully and with a clear conscience that
he had been defiant to the end. He was sipping calvados to the last. In a different life he and I would have been friends.’ Luc sighed, realising it had taken two decades for him to speak about Kilian in this way. ‘I liked him, respected him, in spite of how much I hated him for winning Lisette’s heart.’