Kit sat on the cold stone shelf that passed for a bed. The walls were splattered with expletives, the cross of Lorraine, symbol of resistance, last messages and addresses, some written in blood. He was incarcerated in the prison at Carcassonne, awaiting a trial, as a spy. It would have only one outcome.
How long was it now since he was captured? He was amazed that he was still alive. In the darkness, hearing only the screams and curses of other men in the cells, it was hard to sleep. There was too much time to mull over the careless slip that had brought him to this terrible fate.
Rumours of Allied victories in the north had put the garrison at Montze on edge. Preparations for a possible landing on the south coast meant beaches were cleared, concrete defences built. They were searching ever harder for the Maquis and their supporters. Kit’s group was tasked with disrupting the railway line that snaked through the valley to Foix. Months were spent spying on suitable weaknesses on the track. They were scattered across the terrain, reporting any troop movements and escaping traps set out for Resistance fighters.
A box of explosives was hidden for collection, waiting for the darkest of June nights, when, kitted out in balaclavas, masks and dark clothing, they must make their way down to a secret point and begin preparations to wire up the track for detonation.
Raoul and the boys, strengthened by a winter hiding in the mountain house, were in good spirits, confident and ready for action. A sympathiser from the nearby station arrived with a timetable. Orders were to wait for a train full of fresh troops, who would flood the Ariège area and protect this main line from just such an action as theirs.
Kit could imagine the inevitable mutilation and destruction and the fate of the nearest villages, when reprisals for their action were blamed on men and women and children. The enemy would take no prisoners. His instinct was to warn them to flee into the hills and hide, but there was no time for him to act on this. In the chaos of the attack, perhaps he could slip away and warn as many as he could to escape from the coming vengeance.
Everything went as planned. In slow motion, he watched the engine hurled on its side down the bank. Flames shot out, men were screaming, with their clothing on fire. Dense smoke billowing out acted as a screen to give them time to escape, but the rear carriages stood upright and troops spilled out, ready to attack, shooting at anything that moved. Kit fled down to their rendezvous point, knowing the village was aroused by the explosion and smoke.
‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled to anyone he could see. ‘They’ll be coming soon… get out!’ It was the best he could do to salve his conscience. Finding the priest’s house, he knocked on the presbytery door.
‘Father, you’d better leave now,’ he warned.
‘Oh dear, are you one of them?’ The priest looked over his spectacles. ‘Come in, son, you look as if you need a stiff drink.’
‘No, Father, there’s no time. Hide with your parishioners. I can show you a secret trail. You’ll be safe, if you hurry.’
‘Then I must ring my curate, to warn him, too.’ The priest disappeared to make his call. He didn’t seem in a rush at all.
Kit made for the door but found it was locked. He rattled it hard and made for the window, but the shutters were boarded up from outside. ‘Father, what’s this?’ he yelled, but there was no reply. He was trapped, imprisoned. What the hell was going on? He did not have long to wait.
When the door was unfastened at last, the priest was not alone. A German officer and two men stood by his side. ‘Well done, Father Pierre… another in the mousetrap, good work.’
Of all the priests in the district, Kit had knocked on the door of the only traitor among them.
‘This one is not French.’ The priest smiled. ‘A spy, British, I suspect…’
‘May the Lord forgive your treachery,’ was all Kit could mutter, his mouth dry with the knowledge that he would not survive this betrayal. He was manhandled out of the presbytery to join men rounded up from the village. He had tried to warn them, but to no avail. Already he could see troops were shooting and burning folk out of their homes. There would be no mercy. Was a trainload of burning soldiers worth such terrible sacrifice here?
Now Kit lay on the stone bench in his cell, feeling sick, recalling how they were packed into a stinking cattle truck, on the long journey to the ancient city of Carcassonne. Unloaded, they were sectioned off, but Kit was pulled aside and pushed up stone stairs to a room where he was lined up with others he didn’t recognise, perhaps other maquisards, or resistance men. They would be in for interrogation, before a certain death.
How sad to know he would never see Flora again in this life. How many of his own group had escaped? Who would lead them to safety? This was the risk they ran, every time they went out on a mission. His luck had run out. When his turn came for questioning, he stood firm. Name, rank and number was all he gave them as he pulled out his old dog tag; the one he could never bring himself to throw away.
‘You are a resistance leader and a British spy.’
He replied once more with name, rank and number and was slapped across the face.
‘Occupation?’
‘I was a Protestant pastor and artist and am now an aid worker at the Camp de Rivesaltes.’
‘Enough!’ the officer snapped, waving his hand in dismissal. He was hustled to a cramped cell and left there without food and water, for what felt like days. If he was about to die, then he would first cleanse his conscience to a priest, any priest who would listen. When food of a sort was slipped through the hatch, he made himself clear, in both French and German. ‘I want to see a priest,’ he shouted, wolfing down his hard bread and thin soup. Then he lay back, trying to sleep.
There was a loose nail, good enough to scratch a portrait on the wall of Flora, with her startling eyes and flowing hair, knowing this was all he would ever have of her now. ‘Flora, where are you now, my love?’ he sighed. ‘Sorry to leave you, but fate has not been kind to us, has it?’ When he was satisfied with the likeness, he signed it KIT.
Two days later, an officer with a stoop stood in the cell doorway. ‘You asked for the priest?’ Kit recognised the uniform of a padre, surprised at the prompt reply to his request. He must be close to execution for this visit to be approved. ‘Come in.’
‘How can I help?’ The padre was clutching what looked like a well-thumbed Bible. ‘I have this New Testament in English if it helps…’ he offered.
‘I was hoping to read the Psalms of David, but thank you all the same. It’s been a long time since I held one of these.’
‘I’m told you were a pastor,’ the priest continued.
Kit nodded. ‘Many years ago… A lot of water under the bridge since then.’ He wondered if the padre would understand this idiom.
‘Ah yes, many storms have brought you here.’
Kit looked up in surprise. ‘Your English is excellent. My German comes from a school textbook and the Great War.’
‘I spent six months in Edinburgh… a fine city,’ came the reply.
‘I was born in Glasgow, but stationed in the Castle barracks for a while in 1914.’
There was no chair in the cell. The padre was leaning on the wall and stared at Kit’s drawing. ‘This is your work? Who was she? But first… I am Captain Erich Schultz.’ He held out his hand. Kit pointed to his sketch.
‘That’s my wife, Flora. We’ve been apart since 1942 and I pray she’s in Spain, safe with the children.’
‘You have children?’
Kit began to explain about their work in the refugee camps and setting up the children’s house near Montze. How an accident prevented him from joining Flora on their journey to safety out of France.
Schultz listened, appearing impressed at his story. ‘How come a man doing God’s work gets involved with these gangs of terrorists?’
Kit was having none of this. ‘One day soon, France will be free, if the rumours I hear… It won’t be long, but what we witnessed in those shameful camps was enough for us to stay on, hide and help young men forced to leave their country as slaves…’ Kit broke off, anger flushing his cheeks. ‘We must do as our conscience dictates, listen within to the promptings of the heart. Only then can we find peace of mind.’
‘I can see you were an eloquent preacher,’ Schultz replied, eyeing him with interest. ‘We must talk again.’
‘When will I be sentenced?’ Kit asked. Better to be direct, than pretend otherwise.
‘That’s not up to me. Now I must go. I’ll come again, if you wish?’
Kit nodded. This man meant well and his company was better than nothing. Perhaps he might even persuade him to think again about his role within the Third Reich.