Part Three

Day of Glory

 

Le jour de gloire est arrivé.

Rouget de Lisle

 

One

 

‘Tarnera,’ Klemens said thoughtfully. ‘Have you noticed a new attitude in this village?’

Tarnera nodded. ‘I have. Herr Oberst. They’re suddenly more approachable.’

‘Why is that, do you imagine?’

‘Perhaps they’re also beginning to think we’re losing the war.’

Klemens stared at the map on the wall. The front line ran now from south of Le Havre through Paris to Château-Thierry and Troyes, then back on its tracks north of Auxerre to the Atlantic coast. In the south it probed upwards from Italy, east of Switzerland towards the Balkans, west deeper and deeper into France.

‘There’ll be a stand on the German border, of course,’ he observed.

‘By that time,’ Tarnera said, ‘we shall have lost everything we ever gained and that in itself will be defeat. I doubt if the régime could stand it.’

Klemens frowned and Tarnera went on earnestly. ‘People like you and me, sir, will then need to know where our loyalties lie, because the allies will never accept Nazism.’

Klemens turned. ‘Have you talked to Klein-Wuttig about this?’ he asked.

‘We shall get no help from him, Herr Oberst. But I’m a born survivor.’

Klemens frowned. ‘I hope you are, Tarnera, because Wuttig and this damned SS man are as thick as thieves. I think Fritzi’s keeping a diary.’

‘Of his boyfriends’ affairs?’

‘No, Tarnera. Of yours. The things you say. Take my advice, if Sturmbannführer Frobinius talks to you, be careful not to make comments. I know you enjoy your wit. Some-times, even I do. But Fritzi doesn’t. And Frobinius won’t. Keep a tight hold on your tongue.’

Tarnera smiled, and Klemens went on more sharply.

‘I know you regard it all as rather a joke,’ he growled. ‘But if you’re a born survivor, then make sure you do survive. It might be worth it because there’s something in the wind.’ He laid a letter on the table. ‘That arrived this morning.’

The door clicked and Klein-Wuttig appeared. Klemens looked round. ‘We’re discussing the new friendliness in the village, Fritzi,’ he said. He indicated the letter Tarnera was holding. ‘That arrived in my post this morning, marked “personal”. What do you make of it?’

The letter consisted of a single line of typing – ‘Look in the cellars’ – and Klein-Wuttig stared at it for a moment before studying the envelope carefully. ‘Postmarked St Seigneur,’ he said. ‘But it could, of course, have been posted there by someone from Néry or Rolandpoint.’

Tarnera’s expression was amused. ‘Think it’s a bomb, Herr Oberst, designed to blow you and me and Fritzi to Kingdom Come?’

Klein-Wuttig frowned. ‘It’s a possibility, Herr Oberst.’

‘Then why warn us?’

‘Perhaps it’s from the Baronne’s maid,’ Tarnera suggested. ‘She and Corporal Goehr have been making eyes at each other a lot. Perhaps she’s afraid that Goehr’s going to Kingdom Come too.’

‘Can we question her?’

‘It wouldn’t do much good. She’d obviously deny everything.’

Klein-Wuttig’s face set. ‘We could ask Sturmbannführer Frobinius–’

‘No!’ Klemens’ hand chopped down in a quick gesture. ‘I’m not having Frobinius and his black-collared gentry in this. We’ll handle it ourselves.’

‘Very well, Herr Oberst.’ Klein-Wuttig’s expression registered disapproval. ‘In that case, it would seem sense to search the cellars.’

‘Which cellars?’ Tarnera was frowning. ‘I’ve never seen any cellars. And that, come to think of it, is odd – don’t you think? – a house as big as this without cellars. Didn’t the Baronne tell us that they once had vineyards? With wine you need somewhere to keep it.’

Klemens smiled. ‘Tarnera, I believe you’re on to something.’

‘There is a little wine, of course – kept in the pantry off the kitchen, but that’s hardly big enough to swing a cat round and it has a stone floor, stone walls and a stone ceiling. You couldn’t hide anything in there.’

‘You know what I think?’ Klemens’ small eyes narrowed and he slapped the table. ‘I don’t think he’s talking about a bomb at all. I think he’s talking about the paintings!’

That thought had also occurred to Tarnera but with his sympathy entirely on the side of the Baronne, he’d hesitated to state it.

Klemens had got the bit between his teeth now, and was looking excited. ‘Let’s have the old woman in,’ he said.

 

The Baronne looked tired but defiant, and for once Klemens didn’t bother to offer her a chair.

‘Madame–’ he sat back, flicking at his boots as usual with his riding crop – ‘the Corot, the Daubigny, the Madame Lebrun.’ The Baronne said nothing and Klemens looked up at her, smiling. ‘They’re still here, aren’t they?’

The Baronne’s eyes flickered. ‘They were stolen,’ she said.

Klein-Wuttig leaned forward. ‘We don’t believe you, old woman,’ he snapped. ‘And you know what we do to liars and cheats and thieves and people who defy the Reich.’

The old eyes fastened contemptuously on him. ‘I take it you mean roughly what people who belong to the Reich also have done to them when they cheat and lie and steal.’

Klemens waved Klein-Wuttig aside with a weary gesture and, reaching out to the letter, he tossed it across the table towards her.

‘That’s just arrived, madame. There’s no need to read it. I’ll tell you what’s in it. “Look in the cellars,” it says.’ He leaned further forward. ‘Where are the cellars, madame? We’ve seen no cellars.’

For a long time the Baronne was silent then she shrugged.

‘Are there cellars?’

‘Of course there are cellars! You don’t imagine a family as old and powerful as this bought their wine by the bottle from Mère Ledoux, do you?’

Klemens sat back, smiling. ‘And the cellars?’

‘They’re still there. If they’d been taken away the house would have fallen down.’

‘Then where, old woman!’ Klein-Wuttig shouted. ‘Where?’

‘Where cellars are usually situated,’ the Baronne snapped back. ‘Below the house!’

Klein-Wuttig leaned forward. ‘The paintings are hidden there, aren’t they?’

The old eyes, still bright and black as jet, settled on his face. ‘Why do you wish to know? So you can steal them when you are defeated?’

Klein-Wuttig’s face went pink. ‘Germany will not be defeated.’

The Baronne gave a bark of laughter. ‘Then why is the Wehrmacht running like rabbits? When Hitler is hanging from a lamp-post in the Unter den Linden, will you call that defeat?’

Klemens began to move the papers on his desk thoughtfully. ‘These cellars,’ he prompted. ‘Where is the entrance, Madame?’

‘There was one through the kitchen but that was bricked up years ago. The only one there is now is in the rear courtyard. There’s a pile of hay in front. We hid it because occasionally we kept a pig or two down there that no one knew about.’

‘You could be shot for that,’ Klein-Wuttig said triumphantly.

The Baronne smiled. ‘But I don’t think I shall be,’ she observed drily. ‘Not with the allies beginning to cry out about war crimes.’

As she disappeared, Klemens sat for a moment staring at his feet. Then he looked up, smiling, and heaved himself from his chair. ‘Get a torch,’ he said.

 

Followed by Tarnera, Klein-Wuttig, Unteroffizier Schäffer and three men, they left the house by the front door and walked in a self-important little procession along the crackling gravel path to the stables. Halting in the courtyard, Klemens stared at the outbuildings and coach-houses. Then he turned and gazed at the hay packed in the arches under the château.

‘Get rid of that rubbish,’ he snapped.

The three men behind Schäffer began to pull away the hay. Within minutes one of them shouted. ‘There’s something here, Herr Oberst!’

Klemens moved forward through the fodder piled about his boots. He could see the weathered boards of an old door.

‘Open it,’ he said.

More hay was dragged away and Schiffer pushed at the door, so that they found themselves standing in a short passage.

Klemens smiled. ‘I think we’ve found our cellars, Tarnera,’ he said. ‘Very well, Schäffer. You can go.’

When the soldiers had disappeared, Tarnera moved into the dark passage. Ten yards in front of him there was another door, even more dilapidated, set between crumbling stone pillars. As he heaved on it, it swung back with a groan of rusty hinges. The white beam of his torch probed the darkness and they saw picture frames, dusty and chipped, stacked against the wall. Klemens smiled.

‘Let’s have a look at them, Fritzi,’ he said.

Klein-Wuttig pulled out one of the heavy frames and turned it. Tarnera shone the torch on it while Klemens glanced at the list in his hand. ‘One metre by one and a half,’ he said. ‘That’s a millpond, isn’t it?’

‘It looks like one, Herr Oberst.’

‘It’s the Corot. I have it here. Try the next one.’

Klein-Wuttig turned the next frame round. ‘Two girls listening to a minstrel playing a mandolin.’ He sounded as if he were reading the charge at a court martial.

Klemens slapped the list in his hand. ‘“The Lesson” by Lancret! These are the paintings we’re looking for, Tarnera. I’m certain of it. Next.’

‘Man in a red coat with horse and servant. The servant looks a bit like that smith, Dréo.’

‘“Baron de Frager, with horse and groom”. It’s a Greuze. It was painted in this village.’ Klemens grinned. ‘Fritzi,’ he said, ‘in case you don’t know it, you’re handling a fortune. Get that artist chap down here.’

 

When Balmaceda arrived, Klemens was sitting on an upturned wooden bucket staring at the painting of Baron de Frager.

He looked round. ‘Seen that before?’ he demanded.

Balmaceda frowned. ‘I have indeed, monsieur.’

‘These are the paintings we’re looking for, aren’t they? How did they get down here?’

Balmaceda shrugged. ‘Monsieur, I don’t know. When they disappeared, we assumed the villagers had hidden them. They’re very parochial and regard them as their own, and we knew they’d turn up sooner or later.’ He glanced about him at the dusty walls of the cellar. ‘They picked a good place,’ he ended.

‘They did?’

‘Oh, yes, monsieur. I was once an art dealer. I know about paintings. It’s dry down here. Of course, they should be properly wrapped and crated.’

Klemens considered. ‘If this place is all that good,’ he observed, ‘they might as well stay here. If I take them upstairs your damned Baronne might well organise a raid to have them removed, mightn’t she?’

‘She’s a woman of spirit, monsieur.’

‘Then we’d better have them under lock and key and place a sentry outside. Could this place be made secure?’ Klemens reached for one of the barred windows and yanked at the bars. One of them came away in his hand. ‘For instance,’ he said. ‘That! We’d better have it bricked up, hadn’t we? We’ll also have a new door here and have the outer one repaired. Could that be done?’

‘Of course, monsieur.’

Klemens thought for a moment. ‘Fix it,’ he said.

There was a long silence, then Balmaceda coughed.

‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘There’s no stone. The quarry’s not been worked for eight months.’

‘Very well, work it.’

‘We should need your permission, monsieur. Colonel Marx forbade anyone to go near it after the trouble with the Resistance last year. He decided it had been used for hiding explosive.’

Klemens waved his hand. ‘We can keep an eye on it. What else do you need? Have you a stonemason?’

‘Théyras, monsieur. You’d also need a carpenter for the door. We have a good one: Reinach. He’s from Alsace. They’re well known there for their ability to work in wood. Their carving–’

‘I don’t want carving,’ Klemens said. ‘I want a door. And I want crates. Tell Reinach and anybody else who’s involved to come and see me.’

 

That evening while Colonel Klemens was dining, Reinach, Théyras, Sergeant Dréo, Ernouf, Dring and Balmaceda were ushered in by Tarnera.

Klemens wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked down the length of the Baronne’s table. ‘Are you skilled men?’ he asked.

Every head nodded earnestly.

‘Sound at your jobs?’

More nods.

‘Very well, I have work for you.’

Reinach looked at the others and smiled at Klemens. ‘It’s a long time since we did a decent job of work, monsieur.’ He said.

‘You know what you have to do?’

‘Make crates, monsieur.’

‘Do you know what for?’

‘Unfortunately, monsieur.’

Klemens smiled. ‘Does it bother you?’

Reinach shrugged. ‘They aren’t my paintings, monsieur. I’m more interested in wages.’

‘How about the others?’

‘They aren’t their paintings either, though Dréo’s great-great-grandfather or something is on one of them. We pull his leg about whether he’s the horse or the groom.’

Klemens grinned. ‘You will make covers. Unteroffizier Schäffer will find old army blankets for you to tear up. You will make crates. Good crates. Nothing shoddy. To fit the pictures. You can do that? I want them well protecting.’

‘Will you be taking them away, monsieur?’ Reinach’s expression was innocent and Klemens frowned.

‘Why do you ask?’

Reinach shrugged. ‘In the days when the Baron was alive, if I made a crate for simple storage, it was light. If it was to be sent to a dealer, it was heavy. If it was to go by rail, it was heavier still. They throw things round a bit at the station.’

‘Make them very heavy,’ Klemens said. ‘I shall also want the cellar door replacing. Can you do that?’

‘I shall need one or two assistants, monsieur. I can’t do it all myself. And there’ll need to be men in the forest cutting and stripping. There’s nothing in the village we could use. It’s all been burnt as firewood.’

‘Enlist anyone you need.’

Reinach gestured and pulled a face. ‘Well, that raises another point, monsieur. Colonel Marx forbade anyone to go into the woods. It was after that fuss with the Resistance last year. People do go, of course. After rabbits and game. A few of the boys with their girlfriends. But that’s unofficial. They won’t go if the soldiers are watching.’

Klemens frowned. ‘I’ve already given permission for wood to be cut for transportation to St Seigneur and on to the Reich for winter relief.’

‘Cut, monsieur,’ Reinach said.

‘Then cut some more. As of now, you have permission to cut as much as you require and to employ as many men in the forest as you need. What else will you want?’

Reinach considered, his clown’s face twisted with the effort of thinking. ‘Not much, monsieur. Soft wood for the crates. Harder wood for the door. While we’re at it, we might as well make a good job of it. The Baronne won’t object, I suppose, and it’ll be all right for after.’

‘After what?’

‘After the war’s over, monsieur.’

Klemens leaned forward. ‘You talk too much, Reinach,’ he growled. ‘Just do your carpentering and keep your mouth shut. What else do you want?’

‘Petrol for my lorry and the tractor, and for the saw in Dring’s woodyard. You can’t cut trees into planks by hand, monsieur. We shall also need charcoal for Sergeant Dréo’s forge. That means a bit of extra wood, but we’ve plenty of old iron we can use for the hinges. Théyras’ll seal up the windows and rebuild the pillars for the door.’

Klemens nodded. ‘Can it be kept quiet?’

‘Like the grave, monsieur.’

‘Very well, get on with it.’

Reinach nodded and turned, then he stopped and swung back to face Klemens. ‘Just one thing, monsieur,’ he said. ‘Who told you?’

Klemens was full of food and wine and he was feeling cheerful. He pretended he knew the identity of the informer. ‘So you can go and burn his house down?’ he asked. ‘Oh no! I’m not telling you that.’ He wagged a finger at Reinach. ‘And if I hear of anyone being beaten up, I’ll be holding an enquiry. Understood?’

Reinach grinned, clicked his great feet together and even had a shot at a salute. ‘Understood, monsieur! Absolutely, completely understood.’