Kafka was right. The town square was packed with soldiers and civilians. Even the mayor was present, standing outside the town hall wearing his robes, a tricolour sash across his chest, his face as red as the colour in his sash. The mayor had made his protestations, he had tried, at least everyone believed so, but he had failed. To remove the statue would be sacrilege, a violation to those who had fought in the war seventy years ago. There were still village elders who were alive and could remember, as children, the calamitous events of 1870 and 1871. Word went round that the official response from Colonel Eisler was that the steel within the statue would be better used as German bullets.
At the town hall doors stood two German guards, searching a woman’s handbag. Kafka had planned two diversions; the first, involving himself and Bouchette, aimed to divert these guards. The sun, although shining, was cool. A pleasant wind filtered through the square. Pierre, who had joined the crowd of spectators, watching with Xavier, felt the tension in his head and his shoulders. The town hall clock showed ten to eleven, German time. Ten minutes. With plenty of shouting and bellowed instructions, the Germans had thrown ropes round the statue’s neck, torso, knees and ankles. ‘Shame on you,’ came a shout from the crowd of French onlookers. ‘Leave him alone.’ ‘Monsieur le Maire,’ came another voice, ‘can’t you do anything? Can’t you stop them?’
‘My dear people, don’t you think I’ve tried?’
A few Germans approached the crowd, their hands on their rifles, and eyed them while, behind them, their colleagues were busy securing the ropes to a truck. Murmurs of discontent circled the crowd, a constant hum of disgruntled voices.
‘Can you imagine what the square will look without our statue?’ said Xavier quietly. ‘I never really appreciated him before.’
‘I know; he was just – there.’
‘Exactly. I shall miss him. So, how have you been? Haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Oh, you know. Busy.’
‘Have you heard – some of the Krauts are being transferred to Paris. What about your major? Is he one of them?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. He’s not my major.’
‘Whatever, it will mean fewer for us to contend with. Oh shit, look, they’re bringing out the blowtorches.’
A fresh chorus of complaint rose from the villagers. But it wasn’t the Fritzes lighting up their blowtorches that caught Pierre’s eye but the sight of Dubois appearing in the square, carrying a small, brown-coloured briefcase, his glasses perched at the end of his nose. Kafka had decided to entrust the placing of the bomb to Dubois, not Claire as originally decided. Claire reckoned Kafka didn’t trust her sufficiently enough to carry out such a task. ‘After all,’ she’d said, ‘I’m only a woman.’ He watched as Dubois mingled with the crowd, bumping into someone he knew, shaking hands and shaking his head. That means, thought Pierre, that Kafka wouldn’t be far away. He craned his neck, trying to find him. A different truck, one with a broken windscreen passed by, a swastika painted on its side, full of soldiers going somewhere, its exhaust clattering loudly, leaving a dense cloud of fumes in its wake.
‘Hello, boys.’ Claire had appeared, squeezing in between them. ‘Not a day we’ll want to remember, is it?’ She looked lovely, thought Pierre, very Parisian, wearing a polka dot skirt with a frilly white blouse, her hair tied back with a blue bow, carrying a petite red handbag with a shiny, silver clasp.
‘We’ll hardly forget it, though,’ said Xavier. ‘Not with the base left behind as a constant reminder.’
‘Plinth,’ said Pierre. ‘Not base.’
‘Ah, thank you. I stand corrected.’
Two of the Germans, wearing goggles beneath their helmets, were now working at the statue’s ankles, weakening them with their blowtorches. The crowd edged forward. The Germans guarding them pushed people back, making sure they were aware of their rifles. ‘Heathens,’ shouted someone from the back. ‘Barbarians,’ came another.
The mayor, still within the sanctuary of the town hall, had been joined by Father de Beaufort. The priest, in full regalia, shouted over, ‘Citizens, citizens, these men are under orders. Don’t persist in abusing them. No good will come of it.’
Claire nudged Pierre and motioned with her head that it was time to go. The clock read three minutes to eleven. His heartbeat quickened. ‘OK,’ he mouthed.
He slapped Xavier on the shoulder. ‘We have to go. We’ll be back later.’
‘Eh? Where you going?’
‘We’ve just got to see the town hall reception about something.’
‘Don’t you want to see them pull the statue down?’
‘We won’t be long.’
‘Well, all right. Mind how you go.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘Cheer up, my friend, it can’t be that bad.’
‘No.’
The ankles of the statue had taken on an orange glow as the flame did its work. ‘You OK?’ whispered Claire.
‘No.’
‘No, nor am I.’
His mouth felt dry; he felt the need to be sick. There were so many people around. Kafka thought this would be a good thing; lots of activity. But Pierre knew that among all the Germans many would be waiting for them, ready to pounce. Somewhere, among all these uniforms, was the major. He wished he could see him; wished he had the reassurance of his presence. He knew he had done the right thing but the thought that Kafka and the others would be captured, perhaps killed, weighed heavily, a weight on his back, his crooked back.
A soldier, sitting in the truck, was revving the engine while his colleagues, with much yelling, checked the tension and positioning of the ropes. The crowd hissed as one, a sinister sound that soon gathered momentum and volume. As Pierre and Claire approached the town hall, circling round the hissing protestors and the animated German soldiers, they caught sight of Bouchette wearing, despite the sun, a heavy overcoat, torn on one pocket. Not far from him, wearing expressions of weary resignation, were the priest and mayor, church and state unified in their disgust of the symbolic rape of their town which they had been powerless to prevent. Pierre and Claire had been told by Kafka not to turn round, not to appear as if they were looking for someone. But Pierre did turn round. Not far behind him, he saw Dubois with his briefcase taking an interest in the proceedings as the German driver slowly eased his truck forward, picking up the slack on the ropes. ‘Go on, forward,’ shouted a German. ‘Put your foot down, slowly. Slowly, mind,’ yelled another above the continuous hiss.
Claire took Pierre’s hand. This meant Kafka had appeared. Yes, there he was – approaching Bouchette, hands in pockets, hoping not to be noticed. Kafka would strike up a conversation with Bouchette, which would soon descend into an argument and a fight. Claire and Pierre headed for the town hall entrance. They were to keep the receptionist busy while Dubois slipped in with the briefcase containing the bomb.
Pierre and Claire sidled up the town hall steps, avoiding the mayor and the priest who, watching the truck straining with the ropes, were in deep discussion, and up to the large open doors. Both doors still bore the scar of Pierre’s graffiti, Vive La Framce. How long ago that seemed now. ‘Halt,’ said the first guard, a plump man, his eyes obscured by his helmet. ‘Your business?’
‘Hello,’ purred Claire. ‘I need to apply for my clothing coupons. I was told I could do it here.’ In the corner of his eye, Pierre could see Kafka and Bouchette talking.
‘And you?’ said the guard to Pierre in a thick German accent.
‘I’m her boyfriend.’ Even in his state of nervousness, it felt great saying that. Claire suppressed a grin.
‘Your handbag.’ Pierre could sense Claire wince as the German delved his fat fingers in. The conversation between Kafka and Bouchette had increased in volume, catching the attention of Father de Beaufort. A burst of laughter erupted behind Pierre. One of the ropes had snapped. The soldier statue, although at an angle, wasn’t prepared to be pulled down quite yet. The mayor clapped then, abruptly, stopped.
‘OK, you can go in,’ said the guard stepping aside. Pierre followed but the man held up his hand. ‘Not you.’
‘Can’t I–’
‘No. You wait here.’
Claire, the other side of the guards, looked back at him. With a shrug of the shoulders, she disappeared into the darkness of the town hall.
Pierre trudged back down to the bottom step.
Kafka and Bouchette were now pushing each other. ‘You’re a son of a bitch,’ yelled Bouchette.
‘And you expect her to stick by a useless old git like you?’
The truck engine revved again.
Bouchette pushed Kafka back into the road. Regaining his balance, Kafka leapt forward and struck Bouchette. Bouchette staggered back, his hand on his lip.
The guards, thought Pierre. The guards should have reacted by now, allowing Dubois the chance to slip into the building. Instead, a number of soldiers stepped away from their colleagues and ran towards the quarrelling Frenchmen, rifles at the ready. Kafka had seen them too. He drew his revolver from his jacket pocket. A shot rang out through the square. People screamed and ducked. A soldier fell, clutching his stomach. Others drew their rifles, ready to fire. The German truck with the broken windscreen, now empty of soldiers, chose that moment to make its return journey. It passed between the Germans and Kafka and Bouchette. The two men ran down the side of the town hall. The Germans screamed at the driver who, on misunderstanding them, stopped. The soldiers had to run round the truck, losing valuable seconds. Pierre heard a scuffle to his left. Three soldiers had bundled Dubois to the ground. Dubois bawled as one of them put him in an arm lock. Another hit him in the stomach. His shrieking stopped. The third took the briefcase. The crowd gasped. The soldiers chasing Kafka and Bouchette fired round after round, then resumed running. A couple of others ran to their stricken colleague. The mayor and the priest had backed against the wall. The priest crossed himself.
Two soldiers emerged from the town hall, between them, with her hands held above her head, was Claire.
Pierre jumped as he felt a hand slap against his shoulder. Fritz One, the German with boxer’s nose, was arresting him.
The tremendous sound of metal on gravel made everyone stop. A cloud of exhaust fumes floated up. The Germans cheered; the crowd booed, the mayor and the priest shook their heads. Soldier Mike had fallen.
*
The room was small. Pierre sat at a table. Opposite him sat a German major – not his major but an SS major wearing a black uniform, who introduced himself as Hauff. The table was bare except for a table lamp, a dirty glass ashtray and the major’s papers. Above them a bare light bulb emitted a feeble glow. There were no windows. On a long table adjacent to the wall were various jars and trays containing instruments that made Pierre shudder – knives, pincers, hammers. Had his father sat in this very chair? Had those instruments been used against him? In the corner, a broom and a mop and bucket. Major Hauff puffed on a pipe, producing a sickly sweet smell. Next to the door, stood a private, his hands behind his back.
‘So, let’s go through this again.’ The man had a gaunt face, heavily lined. A pair of metal-rimmed spectacles merely added to his gauntness. ‘You say after Colonel Eisler made his offer, you tried to enlist in this group run by Albert Foucault, who goes by the name of Kafka. Why does he call himself that? Does he have literary pretensions?’
‘I don’t know.’ Pierre pulled at his collar. The room, airless and claustrophobic, was hot.
‘Speak up.’
Pierre cleared his throat. ‘I said I don’t know.’
His lips, Pierre noticed, were chapped, while his nose had a pronounced bump half way down. ‘You say after his refusal, this Kafka, you tried to prove yourself by sabotaging a convoy of German vehicles with a jarful of nails.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm.’ He scribbled something on his paper. ‘Most enterprising. It was lucky for you that no one was hurt.’ Pierre thought of Monsieur Roché, beaten to death, but thought it best not to say anything. ‘Very lucky.’ Carefully, the major placed his pen on the table and straightened his back.
‘So, where is this Kafka?’
Pierre glanced at the private in the corner. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you want to know about your friends? Albert Bouchette is dead. He was shot as he tried to make his escape.’ Pierre caught his breath. Poor old Madame Bouchette, her son killed and now her husband. Major Hauff continued, ‘And Albert Dubois – perhaps your Kafka would have accepted you sooner had you changed your name to Albert.’ He guffawed at his own joke. ‘Where was I? Yes, Albert Dubois is in custody. He’s been most helpful – to a point. He told us Foucault has a little hideaway in the wood outside your little town. He’s escorting Major Hurtzberger and a couple of privates to this hut. Let’s hope they leave a trail of breadcrumbs, eh? Major Hurtzberger, I believe, is billeted in your home? And then we have your girlfriend, Claire Bouchez–’
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘No? She should be. She speaks very fondly of you. Mademoiselle Bouchez told us much the same as Dubois. You’ll be pleased to know we have released her. Dubois, however, will be executed.’
‘Oh.’ The image of his father’s mock execution haunted his subconscious, the courtyard, the priest, all those guns. ‘Even if he helps you find Kafka?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. What did you expect? If it wasn’t for you, he would’ve blown the town hall to smithereens. Well, maybe not smithereens; it was quite a small bomb; the damage would have been minimal. The work of an amateur. But that, and I’m sure you’ll agree, is not the point.’ He tapped his pipe against the ashtray. ‘I will say, Colonel Eisler is most grateful for your co-operation. Indeed, we all are.’
Pierre would have said thank you but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he mumbled, ‘Can I have some water?’
‘No.’ The major ran his fingers over his chapped lips and grimaced. ‘Now, let me ask you again, and think carefully – where is Albert Foucault?’
Pierre shook his head. ‘I promise you I have no idea. I would have said his hut in the woods but...’
‘Yes, exactly. And there’s nowhere else he might have escaped to?’
He thought of Lincoln’s barn. ‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘If anything comes to mind, you’ll let us know.’ The major re-read his notes. ‘On a separate note, did your little gang, this gang of Alberts, run across a comrade of ours, a lieutenant by the name of Spitzweg, Oskar Spitzweg?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. A good fellow, young. Good-looking chap. Odd eyes though. He was sent on a mission to follow you. Yes, you, Durand. He went out and we haven’t seen him since. So your paths didn’t cross?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Interesting.’ Pierre saw the major write a large ‘X’ on his paper. ‘Right, the colonel has instructed me to inform you that your father will be released today.’
Pierre sat up in his chair. ‘Really?’
‘He is a man of his word, is our colonel.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘You want to thank the colonel?’
‘No, I meant my father.’
‘Your father? No. But you’ll see him later today no doubt. Now...’ He scanned his paper, adjusting his glasses. ‘I think that is all. You may go, Monsieur Durand. Private Dassler here will see you out.’ The private stepped forward.
‘I can go? You mean... just like that?’
‘Unless you want to stay?’
‘No, no.’
The major picked up his pipe. ‘No, I thought not.’
*
‘He’s here! Pierre, he’s here; your father’s back!’ Lucienne, still wearing black, her hands clasped as if in prayer, welcomed Pierre back. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’
Pierre stepped into the living room, his heart beating wildly. The curtains were drawn, the lampshade, with its weak light, on. ‘Papa?’
Georges was standing next to the fireplace, circling his cap in his hands, a slight smile on his lips. ‘Hello, Pierre.’
‘Papa.’ How small his father seemed, so diminished, his hair greyer, his eyes dulled. He’d lost so much weight, his clothes, like rags, hung off him. His skin, it seemed so thin, so fragile, as if it might tear. There were no obvious signs he’d been tortured but he tried not to look too hard. It was the smell that hit him, a stench of dirt and sweat. But Pierre cared not a hoot. It was his father; he had returned from the dead, from the hands of the Gestapo; his brave father, this man he had never really thought about, had never appreciated, the man who had fought against the Germans as a young man, who had, no doubt, seen horrors that Pierre couldn’t begin to imagine, and, in the process, had his faith in God destroyed; and who now, in his middle age, was still fighting them. The Germans had bowed him, had killed a part of him, this much was already obvious, but they hadn’t finished him. For he was back, at home, where he belonged, with his wife, his son, and even the son he had lost. He was back in his home with its years of memories, of routine, of comfort, with his little knick-knacks, his mementoes of times past, his books, his photographs, even his armchair. ‘Papa.’ He felt himself move as in slow motion, a step towards his father, Georges’s arms outstretched, ready to embrace his older son, tears smearing the dirt on his haggard face, tears of joy, yes, and tears of relief. They fell into each other, Georges’s hand against the back of Pierre’s head, his whole body now convulsed in sobs, great, giant sobs. His father’s grip weakened. Quietly, he slipped away from his son and, with awkward steps, manoeuvred himself to his armchair and fell upon it, exhausted, faint. He put his head into a hand and with his eyes clenched shut, continued sobbing, his delicate frame shaking.
Pierre felt his mother’s hand in his. ‘Come,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s leave him be for a while.’
Pierre nodded and, following his mother, retired to the kitchen.
*
Georges was having a bath, a very long bath. He’d eaten a whole baguette with ham and cucumber, and had been sick soon afterwards. ‘It’s to be expected,’ he’d said. ‘Even ham and bread is too rich after the water soup they give you in that place.’ Pierre had fallen asleep on the sofa while his mother fussed about in the kitchen, humming to herself. She’d changed out of her black dress and was now wearing a light green outfit. She’d applied lipstick and painted her nails. ‘I want to look nice for my husband,’ she’d explained to Pierre. ‘Isn’t it just so wonderful to have him back?’
‘Oh, that’s better.’ Pierre opened his eyes and smiled. His father had re-emerged from the bathroom in a fresh set of clothes that Lucienne had laid out for him, his hair was washed, his skin free of the prison grime. ‘I feel half human again.’
‘Sit down, Papa.’ The clothes that once appeared a little tight now dwarfed him.
‘I don’t mind if I do. What’s that hideous painting?’
‘What? Oh that. It’s, erm... a present from the major.’
Georges considered it for a while. ‘Is it, indeed? Oh well. Something smells good.’
Lucienne appeared from the kitchen. ‘Oh, Georges, you look so much better.’
He laughed. ‘I feel it.’
‘I’ve got my old husband back.’ She sat on the armrest and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Welcome home, my love.’
He patted her hand. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘Now, dinner won’t be long. Mutton chops, mashed potatoes and runner beans. Oh dear, it won’t be too rich for you?’
‘I should be OK. I’ll just have a small bit.’
‘It’s thanks to Thomas we’ve got the chops.’
‘Thomas? Oh yes, the major. Food, paintings, whatever next? Still here, is he then?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. But tonight’s dinner, as so often, is courtesy of our Major Thomas. He should be home by now.’
‘Home?’
‘Well, his... home from home. He said he’d bring back a nice bottle of red; said we should have a little celebration for you, Georges.’
‘I don’t want a fuss.’
‘Perhaps but we have much to thank him for – your release was entirely down to him. Isn’t that what you said, Pierre? That Thomas had a word with that colonel and secured father’s release?’
‘Yes, Maman.’ One day, he thought, one day, when he was much, much older, he may tell her the full story.
But not yet.
They waited a while for the major until Georges, understandably famished, could bear it no more. And so they ate dinner, their mutton chops, mashed potatoes and runner beans, without the major and without his wine. Georges did indeed have a small portion, and felt quite emotional, only to be followed by another small portion and a third. At ten o’clock, tired after an exacting day, they retired to bed. Pierre felt more content than he had in a long time. His brush with the Gestapo was over; he had no need to worry about Kafka again; and he had survived. It was only now, now that it was all over, that he realised quite how frightened he had been of Kafka. His was not a fight for France against the invaders; it was a personal crusade, a vendetta carried from the previous war against all things German; and in his desire for vengeance, he had no qualms about using others. Bouchette, Lincoln, Dubois, Claire and he, Pierre, had been all sucked in. They had been expendable to Kafka’s wishes. Bouchette and Dubois had been unlucky. But it was over now. Kafka was in the past and his father was home. For the first time in ages, Pierre could go to sleep and not worry, and dream of pleasant things.
The only concern, the only slight niggle in his thoughts, was why had the major not returned home.