Wolfsangel (27 page)

‘Silence!’ an officer snapped. ‘No more talking.’

The minutes ticked by. I felt my rising fear, as cloying as the hot summer air that thickened over the square. The children kept crying, their mothers placating them with hushed words.

47

1405 hours.

‘All into the church!’ an officer snapped, and the troops began herding the women and children up the steps of Saint Antoine’s. We all fell quiet, and my heartbeat quickened as I held the hands of Anne-Sophie and Paulette and trudged into the house of God. Mothers carried their babies and small children, neighbours and friends helping when there were too many to carry. I felt not a breath of air.

I’d always loved the inside of Saint Antoine’s — the rainbow of colours that danced on the walls in the sun, the smell of the candles and the cool, flagstone floor. I was in awe of the painted statues standing in each corner, with their golden shining curves. But all I felt now was a creeping fear.

As the Germans continued herding us into the church, I glanced up at my favourite painting –– the long-bearded man in brown robes holding a stick with a bell on the end, a pig sitting at his feet — and said a silent prayer; a few desperate words from a non-believer to a monk who had driven out a demon.

Though I’d never listened to much of Père Emmanuel’s Mass, I did find the church instilled a kind of peace inside me and I tried to focus on that, to relieve my ever-growing apprehension.

Crammed inside the church, we bunched together –– a huddled, expectant knot of women and children.

‘What are they going to do with us?’ whispered Miette’s mother, standing beside me with Amandine and Séverine. ‘Whatever is this about?’

I shrugged, trying to mask my unease. ‘Identity check, so they said.’

‘When are they going to check our identities then?’ Evelyne Perrault said.

‘My husband’s cakes will truly be cinders by now,’ Ginette Monbeau said.

‘And what about my post-office,’ Denise said. ‘It can’t run on its own.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Denise,’ I snapped. ‘There’s nobody at the post-office. Can’t you see the entire village is here?’

‘You don’t have to get nasty.’

‘I’m not. I’m just … this is
very
odd. What are they going to do with us?’

‘And where have they taken our husbands?’ Simon Laforge’s wife said.

‘You’re right, Céleste,’ Madame Abraham-Lemoulin said, standing on the other side of me. ‘This looks bad. Very bad.’

After about ten minutes, several soldiers who looked no older than Patrick and Olivier brought a large box into the nave. They placed it close to the choir, the strings that hung from the box trailing on the ground.

‘What’s in the box, Maman?’ Amandine said.

‘I haven’t the slightest idea,
chérie
,’ Madame Dubois said. ‘But I suppose we’ll know soon enough.’

Several young children skittered towards the box, trying to work out what it was. Their mothers grabbed their hands and pulled them back to their sides.

‘Why can’t we go home, Céleste?’ Paulette said, with a scowl.

I squeezed her hand and tried to keep my voice from shaking. ‘Soon. We’ll go home soon.’

The troops then proceeded to light the strings that trailed down from the box. Once each string was alight, the Germans stepped back and folded their arms across their chests.

We all stared at the box, waiting for something to happen. The blood pulsed hard through my veins.

The box exploded with a deafening bang. People jumped and cried out. We all looked at each other, the mothers gasping, the children shrieking and crying.

The Germans disappeared as dark smoke began to fill the church. We all started running, half-screaming, half-choking on the smoke-clogged air, tearing wildly to the corners of the church where the air was still breathable. But even as we ran to those parts, the smoke filled the pockets too and many of the women fainted.

I saw the terrified crowd had broken down the side door that gave onto the sacristy. Still clutching Anne-Sophie and Paulette’s hands, I followed the surge of women. My breathing short and ragged, I sank down on a step with the girls. My head spun with the smoke, the fear, and with wild, disconnected thoughts of how I might flee the church.

The Germans were back. They must have seen we’d escaped into the sacristy, and their bulk filled the doorway –– a barricade obstructing our only possible escape route. Before anyone could scream, or even move, they raised their guns and began firing on us.

I watched, in stunned horror, as Miette’s mother fell, a dark hole staining her forehead. Amandine and Séverine fell on top of their mother. I tried to pull them away, but I couldn’t budge Amandine and the little girl died on top of her mother, half her head blown away. I retched, pulling Séverine away from the corpses, towards Anne-Sophie and Paulette, standing beside me, rigid with terror.

Everybody was shrieking –– one, continuous, curdled wail. Blood spurted and streamed all around me as women and children crumpled to the flagstones, one after the other, those still standing cowering; simply waiting for a bullet to catch them. The smoke stung my eyes so much that tears coursed down my cheeks.

There wasn’t a thing I could do. Inside the cramped sacristy, there was nowhere to run, so I dropped to the ground with the dead and dying, dragging the three girls down beside me.

‘Don’t move, don’t make a sound,’ I hissed to the girls. And there we stayed, motionless, barely breathing, waiting to die.

I felt Paulette’s hand slide from mine, and her little body went limp, a gaping wound exposing her brain. I clamped a hand over her sister’s eyes, my terror alone stopping me from being sick.

The Germans kept firing machine-gun rounds. Simon Laforge’s wife went down at the same time as her three children, beside Evelyne Perrault, Ginette Monbeau and Denise Grosjean.

More and more dead and wounded fell all around us, on top of us. After several minutes, there was less noise, only fading screams and moans. The smoke and the weight of the bodies pinning me down made it hard to breathe, but through a gap in the splayed limbs I glimpsed the Germans. They had begun piling straw, broken-up pews and chairs in a heap over the pyramid of bodies.

They didn’t waste a minute, setting their bonfire alight and retreating several paces where they waited to ensure the fire took hold. Once the flames started crackling, the heat became unbearable and they turned and fled the sacristy.

The fire spread quickly, those still alive either letting out feeble groans or praying. There seemed no way out; no escape from the inferno. Amidst the racket of rising flames and the crack of falling roof tiles, I kept a grip on Anne-Sophie and Séverine knowing without a doubt we would all be dead in a few short, agonising moments.

48

Through the cottony fug of thirst and shock, through the heat of the flames and smoke so dense I could barely see my hands, I felt the first twist of rage. When the Germans took over L’Auberge, I felt they had stolen every last thing from me, apart from my life. Now they were going to take that too. I would not let myself lie down and die for them without the most bitter of fights.

With every bit of strength I could gather, I dragged Séverine and Anne-Sophie from beneath the corpses, trying to find a way out. Amidst the smoke and chaos I couldn’t see anything clearly. I was vaguely aware of Madame Abraham’s rasping breaths, her shaky fingers gripping the back of my dress.

There was no sign of the SS as we crawled along the flagstones, out of the sacristy and back to the main part of the church. We reached the altar, and I rose to a crouching position behind it, the girls and Madame Abraham still beside me. Through needling smoke, I looked up to the three windows on the curved wall of the apse behind me. Impossible to reach them.

I eyed the stool Père Emmanuel used to light the candles, grabbed it and placed it before the middle window, which was the biggest. I climbed onto the stool and reached up, my fingers curling around the sill. Pure terror, or perhaps my iron will to beat them at their own game, gave me the force to heave myself up onto the ledge.

I turned around and grabbed the outstretched hand of Séverine first, then Anne-Sophie. In turn, I pulled each girl up beside me, then together the three of us lurched through the broken glass to the ground below.

I glanced back up and saw Madame Abraham had followed us. How the old woman had found the strength for such a climb, I would never know, but when she dropped to the ground beside us and lay still, her legs twisted at a strange angle, I was certain the fall had killed her.

‘Madame Abraham?’ No answer. I patted her cheek softly. She groaned.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to move from here. They’ll kill us as soon as they see us.’

She moaned again, a grey tangle of hair matting her bone-white face.

‘Go, Céleste. Take the little ones. I can’t …’ she said, through clenched teeth.

‘We haven’t done all this,’ I said. ‘Escaped a burning church, to let them shoot us now.’

Séverine and Anne-Sophie took one of Madame Abraham’s arms while I took the other. Our breaths short and ragged we dragged the old woman, her legs dangling limp as a puppet’s, towards the garden of Père Emmanuel’s presbytery cottage.

We slumped to the ground between the priest’s rows of tomato plants. It was only then, as I caught my breath, lying in stunned terror, that the pain came.

‘You’re bleeding,’ Séverine said, pointing to my left arm. I hadn’t felt the cracked glass slice through my skin, as I fell through the window. I ripped a strip from the hem of my dress and bound the cut.

Madame Abraham was still not moving but she was at least breathing.

‘Where’s Papa and my brothers and Paulette?’ Anne-Sophie said.

I held the little girl close to me. ‘I don’t know,
chérie
… I really don’t know.’

Almost immediately, we heard the first of a series of explosions in the direction of the side street down which the SS had herded the men. When I caught sight of the smoke and flames, and smelled the sickly stench of burning flesh, there was no doubt in my mind the village men were suffering the same fate as the women.

Concealed amongst the leafy tomato plants, my breathing slowed and my brain began to function again, and the impact of the Germans’ monstrous deed hit me.

Reprisal on the grandest, most unthinkable scale.

I lay there, my eyes shut tight, shaking uncontrollably, aware I was responsible for the whole, evil thing.

49

The stone wall surrounding the presbytery garden was low so I stayed down, crawling across to one side. I peered out through a gap between the stones.

I could see the SS on la place de l’Eglise, piling items looted from homes into the half-tracks. When they finished taking everything they wanted from each house, they calmly set it alight and moved to the next one.

The fires drew people out; those who’d been suspicious of the identity check and had taken refuge in wardrobes and under beds. Those men and women stumbled out, coughing. The SS gunned them down where they stood.

‘I’m thirsty,’ Anne-Sophie said. Mute with the shock, she hadn’t said a word, but then she started to cry. ‘Where’s my papa?’

Séverine began to cry too. ‘I want to go home.’

I put a forefinger to my lips. ‘Hush, girls I’ll find us some water soon, but we have to stay here for a while, and not move or make a noise. Do you understand?’

The little girls nodded through their quiet sobs.

I crawled across to the well and, crouched over, drew up a pail of water. I poured some into the old tin can with which Père Emmanuel watered his flowers and vegetables.

I gulped a few mouthfuls, refilled the can and crawled back to the others.

Séverine drank the cool water, and passed it to Anne-Sophie.

Madame Abraham still lay motionless, her breathing faster, and shallow. Her face had turned the ghastly hue of ash.

‘Madame Abraham.’ I knelt beside her and held the can to her lips. ‘Open your eyes. Drink some water.’

I knew it was dangerous to let people lapse into unconsciousness. You had to keep them talking, keep them with you. ‘Come on,’ I insisted. ‘Just a sip.’

Her eyes opened to slits. She swallowed a little and slumped back onto the ground.

I tore several more strips from the hem of my grimy dress, pulled a stake from one of the tomato plants, and broke it in half under my foot.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, as I set about splinting her ankles. ‘You’re going to be all right.’

Once I’d finished with Madame Abraham, I started bathing my own cuts. Blood was oozing from my left arm beneath the makeshift bandage. The little girls sat motionless, staring at me with the uncomprehending innocence of children who could not begin to fathom what had happened in the church. I could not grasp it either and I had no idea what to say to ease their shock or calm their minds.

We must have stayed there two or three hours, amidst the tomato plants, not daring to leave its relative safety. The noise of the pillaging Germans finally died down, and I started to feel heady from the blood loss, the heat and the exhaustion. I sensed too, that Madame Abraham wouldn’t last much longer. 

I crawled back to the wall and peered out again through the gap. Homes were still burning, smoke surging from the blackened buildings, but there was no sign of any SS uniforms. I scrambled to my feet.

‘I think they’ve gone,’ I said. ‘Besides, people will have seen the smoke and fires. Word should have reached other villages by now. I’m going out to see if help’s on the way.’

‘They might still be here,’ Séverine said. ‘They’ll shoot you, if they see you.’

‘Madame Abraham needs medical care,’ I said. I hated leaving the girls alone with a sick old woman, but what other choice was there? ‘Now promise me you and Anne-Sophie will stay here and look after her? I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

The girls gave me solemn nods.

I kept low until I reached the gate in the garden wall. Still crouched, I peered between the iron palings. No sign of the SS. I was certain they’d gone.

I clutched my throbbing arm to my side as I dashed around to the front of the church. There was not much left of Saint Antoine’s. Most of the roof had caved in, and only parts of the blackened walls still stood. I dared not glance inside.

La place de l’Eglise was a ghost town, the noise and hustle of people oddly absent, smoke drifting aimlessly across the ancient cobblestones.

I hurried up rue Jeanne d’Arc, tearing my eyes from the bullet-ridden corpses flung across the pavement like rubbish. I fought the rising waves of nausea, forcing my quivering legs onward, passed the still-burning buildings. A sob tightened my throat as I watched the homes of my friends burn to the ground, the heat overwhelming me, the smoke making it hard to breathe.

There was still no evidence of any sort of life –– SS or surviving villagers –– as I crossed rue du Docteur Pierre Laforge. My left arm scalded me, and the bandage had turned rust-red.

I swiped the sweat from my brow and kept on, not really knowing where I should go, my eyes continually scanning the area for SS.

I thought of Martin, waiting for me on the riverbank. Surely he’d have heard about the massacre. Why wasn’t he there helping, with the rest of Lucie’s garrison –– those stationed at L’Auberge? And why were there no other rescuers? Perhaps people were keeping away from Lucie, afraid the SS was still there.

I decided to follow the Vionne River path through the woods to the nearest village –– Julien –– to raise the alarm and get help sent. Still gripping my injured arm, I hurried up the hill towards L’Auberge.

Anxious to remain out of sight, I veered off the road to the track that ran in a wide arc around the farmhouse, leading to the woods and the river. I hurried on, continually glancing between the trees into L’Auberge grounds.

I spotted Karl and Fritz amongst the Germans, who were assembling their possessions in the courtyard and loading them into military vehicles. I was not surprised to see them leaving the farm. Lucie was gone; there was no village left to occupy. Perhaps the SS had ordered them out; forbade them from going near the burning village.

I was so intent watching them, I didn’t realise at first that Karl’s mean cat-eyes had spotted a figure amongst the trees. But when I saw him nudge Fritz and point to me, I bolted off, flying through the woody blur of greens and browns. I soon caught the thud-thud of heavy boots behind me.

My legs were quivering by the time I reached the willow trees that fringed the Vionne. With each step along the path my chest grew tighter, as if the sooty fire flakes still blocked it, threads of flame searing deep into my lungs.

My arm stung so badly I wanted to scream out. The headwind blustered, the heat parching my papery throat even more. I couldn’t go on much longer if I didn’t get water, but it wasn’t safe to stop at the riverbank for even a few seconds.

I reached a familiar oak tree, the one with the twisted trunk, which had always reminded me of two entwined bodies. I ached to rest there, to stop the giddiness that made me want to vomit but I didn’t dare slow down or glance behind, for I could hear Karl and Fritz clearly by then. My stomach knotted at the sound of every guttural shriek, each one louder and closer.

I felt I would keel over any second, yet the terror of passing out and waking to the sneering faces of Karl Gottlob and Fritz Frankenheimer urged me on to my special place on the river. My necklace thudded against my breast, and I felt the exhaustion, the thirst, overcome me more with each step.

A gunshot rang out behind me. Or was it the wind? Perhaps only my eardrums, still beating hollow, from the rapid gunfire in the church. On and on it echoed in an endless, evil chime.

The sweet gurgle of water cascading over the ridge into our pool seemed to call out to me. I wanted to slide into the coolness, to feel the maternal arms of the river around me, protecting me from the predators in my shadow.

I eased my pace, aware I was far more familiar with that spot than the Germans, who knew nothing of the old witch’s hut where I’d spent my childhood — the shelter that had concealed the Wolfs a lifetime ago.

I stumbled the few steps to the water’s edge, cupped my hands and gulped the cool water. More shouts through the trees, the throaty noises growing urgent, louder, as if the wind were carrying the scent of my fear right to their nostrils, and they knew they were closing in on their prey. Karl shouted something to Fritz, and I knew they’d spotted me.

I filled my lungs with air and flung myself into the river, a spatter of bullets peppering the surface of the water around me. I dived deep and swam low, along the riverbed, towards the waterfall. When my lungs reached their limits, I surfaced behind the largest boulder of the pool. And there I stayed, as still as the rock behind which I crouched.

Concealed behind the curtain of water, I watched Fritz and Karl searching the surface of the river, their guns trained on the opposite bank, obviously expecting me to appear on the other side. I still didn’t move, and was thankful for the rushing water to mask my pounding heart and my gasping breaths.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of someone walking through the willow trees towards us, from the opposite direction. Amidst the high summer foliage I couldn’t see who it was at first, but Karl and Fritz must have seen the movement too, because they swivelled around and, convinced it was me, fired at the moving figure.

The person crumpled to the ground, and my breath caught in my throat as I realised, with rising horror, that it was Martin Diehl.

***

Their eyes wide in scarlet faces, Karl and Fritz stood still, wordless at first. When the shock must have hit them –– the reality that they’d shot an officer –– they began shouting at each other. I couldn’t understand their words, but they were obviously arguing. They stomped around in circles, their arms floundering about as if they didn’t know what to do. For there was, of course, still me –– the fugitive on the run.

From their gestures, I assumed they’d decided to flee, as they swivelled around and hurried back along the track towards L’Auberge.

Once they disappeared from sight, I waded out of the river. Perhaps Martin was only wounded? I could not bring myself to think he might be dead.

I raced to his prone figure and knelt beside him. No rise and swell of his chest. My fingers shook, grappling for his wrist. No pulse. No heartbeat. In that instant of shock and disbelief, I simply grabbed his Luger from its leather holster, clicked a magazine into the butt, and started back along the path.

I caught up to Karl and Fritz in minutes. The strain of all the running had obviously taken its toll on the fat Fritz and he lagged behind Karl, who kept spinning around, frowning, and urging him on.

From behind a willow trunk, I watched them stagger to the river, crouch on the bank and scoop water into their palms.

As they drank, I crept closer, stealing from trunk to trunk, the Luger steady in my damp, gritty hand.

Martin’s words rang in my head.

… pull these two knobs backwards, until you see “geladen” which means, “loaded”.

The Luger levelled, I sidled the last few steps up to them, both still bent over the gurgling river. I knew the exhausted Fritz would be slower to react, so I shot Karl first, in the back of the head.

Fritz spun around and the next bullet caught him between his piggy eyes. Both Germans lurched forward and fell, with dull splashes, into the river.

I lowered the gun, startled at how easy it had been; astonished at my cold satisfaction. How I’d changed from Gabrielle Fontaine on her first mission at the Antiquaille hospital –– the girl who feared she could never kill a soul.

I sank down onto the gravelly shore. I’d felt calm, almost at peace, right before I shot them, but then I shook all over –– a numb, emotionless shudder –– as if my mind and body were no longer connected.

I scrambled upright and splashed water over my face, swallowed a few gulps and lay back on the smooth stones. The wind cooled my cheeks, and brought a scrap of singed paper floating to the ground beside me. I picked it up, and squinted through the scorch marks, recognising a few broken phrases of the catechism.

I toyed with the scrap of paper, thinking about how things looked. When the Germans found three of their own, murdered, they’d immediately think it smacked of Resistance. There would be more reprisals. I almost laughed. What more could they do? There was nothing, and nobody, left to punish.

But Madame Abraham, Anne-Sophie and Séverine needed help, and any others who might’ve survived the carnage. Without a backward glance at the corpses floating downstream, I heaved myself off the ground, the pain in my arm lancing me like the stab of a sword, and headed down the path towards Julien-sur-Vionne.

I glanced at Martin lying across the path beside my special riverbank spot –– our spot. A small square parcel lay beside the corpse, as if it had fallen from his pocket. I picked it up, tore off the wrapping and opened the box. My palm flew across my heart as I stared at the diamond ring –– the jewel with which Martin had hoped to tempt my brittle emotions.

The sun glinted off the edge of the single gem for, even to my untrained eye, I was certain it was a genuine diamond; no fake square of polished glass that might scratch, and shatter, over time. No, it was an eternal symbol of Martin Diehl’s pure emotions; the untarnished love I had not been able to reciprocate.

I snapped the box shut, slid it into my pocket and as I hurried away from the lifeless body, the blood surged through me like the Vionne in a storm, the pain swamping me as if I were caught in a great gaping floodway.