Two

 

The grumbling had stopped.

The invading armies were now heading towards Sens, and in his bones Captain Tarnera knew it wouldn’t be long before the German retreat – already increasing in speed – became a rush and every Frenchman started grabbing for a gun. Allied aircraft were known to be dropping them now in enormous quantities and, despite Vercors and Oradour, there was a mounting resistance in the Dordogne, the Auvergne, the Jura, Savoie and Corrèze. The tactics had also changed from sabotage to straightforward attack, and the reports that came north now indicated that down there no road was safe.

In Néry there was still no sign of open hostility, but suddenly the village seemed to be on tiptoe. There was no difference and yet there was a difference. The villagers were now watching the Germans as closely as the Germans had watched them in the past. It was as if they were studying every move and timing everything they did. Tarnera guessed they were up to something, but could only suspect it had something to do with the fortuitous discovery of Klemens’ paintings, which they were surely far too hard-headed to enjoy losing. As for the anonymous letter Klemens had received he put that down to some private quarrel – perhaps some father who objected to young de Frager seducing his daughter.

The village was bright with sunshine that made the old stonework glow. As the German lorries moved past, they threw up dust in a fine cloud that coated the sweating faces of their crews and settled on windows and flowers, dulling their colour. Tarnera sighed. He had an uneasy feeling that somehow, somewhere, Klemens had made a mistake. Yet, going over it all again and again, he couldn’t imagine what it was.

Reinach appeared from his workshop. He was carrying two large four-handed saws which he tossed into the rear of the ancient lorry he drove. With him were Théyras the mason and Ernouf the quarryman, clutching a bag of hammers and chisels, and several youths who’d been taken on as assistants.

Reinach waved. ‘Good morning, Monsieur Tarnera,’ he called gaily. ‘How’s everything?’

Tarnera waved back and Reinach continued, lifting the bonnet of the lorry to prime the carburettor. ‘I’ve heard the allies are planning to land half a million men at Bordeaux. Have you heard that, monsieur?’

Tarnera smiled. He knew Reinach well by now. ‘No, I’ve not,’ he said. ‘Any more than I’ve hear that the Führer’s about to invade Scotland from Norway and attack them from behind.’

Reinach grinned, his head half inside the engine. ‘It’d go hard for you if they did land half a million men, though, wouldn’t it, monsieur?’

‘Not half as hard as it would for you if Major Klein-Wuttig heard you dispensing such gems of sedition as that one.’

The lorry was taking some starting and Reinach, who was hitting something with a hammer, lifted his head and gave his wide clown’s grin that Tarnera reckoned wasn’t half as stupid as it looked. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t dispense gems like that to the major, would I? Not likely. I prefer to stay alive. With you, monsieur, it’s different.’

He got the lorry’s engine going at last, and the old vehicle rattled and chugged out of the village. Tarnera stared after it, frowning, well aware that Reinach’s cheerfulness didn’t come just from the look of the day. Perhaps, he thought, it was due to the promise of work and wages. Then he frowned again because he suspected Klemens had no intention of paying.

The gates to the yard behind the château were now kept closed and there was a sentry on duty. Unteroffizier Schäffer had instructions that only his most reliable men were to be given the job and he’d set up a special little guard-house in one of the harness rooms, where a corporal spent most of his time sitting outside in the sunshine, watching everything that went on.

That afternoon Tarnera took the car and two men with machine pistols, in case of an attempt at ambush, and drove out to the forest above the village. He could see nothing unusual. The quarry overhung the Rue des Roches, one of the three roads east from the village, but there was nothing there to worry him. Ernouf and Théyras were busy under the eyes of a sentry measuring up boulders and taking an occasional swipe at them with a hammer. They’d already collected a pile of square stones near the road.

‘Everything all right, corporal?’ Tarnera asked the sentry.

‘All correct, Herr Hauptmann. Nothing wrong.’

Tarnera wasn’t so sure. Just over the ridge, Reinach was busy at the saw-mill. They’d already felled one of the big spruces and used the ancient tractor to drag it to the saw. Three men were now manoeuvring it on to the bench with the aid of a purchase fastened to a derrick. As he watched, Tarnera saw Reinach swing at the handle of the saw’s motor and heard the clatter as it started. Two of the men put their weight against the end of the log so that it moved on the rollers towards the whirling blade. A cloud of sawdust flew up, golden against the sunshine, and the high scream of the steel teeth biting into the wood filled the forest with sound.

Klemens was staring at his maps when Tarnera returned. He looked up with a smile. ‘How did it go, Tarnera?’ he asked.

‘I don’t trust them,’ Tarnera said.

Klemens sat back. ‘You worry too much, Tarnera. What can they do to harm us? Did you see the Resistance up there?’

‘No.’

Klemens shrugged. ‘Well, they can’t kill German soldiers with hammers and chisels. Tomorrow I’ll take a look myself.’ He bent over the table. ‘At the moment, I’ve got other things to handle. We’ve to prepare an appreciation of the situation round here. When our people finally pull back to the border they’ll be passing east of us to Langres on the N74, or north from Auxerre along the N65 to Chaumont and Nancy. We found those pictures just in time. Which one would you like?’

‘I’ve never been much interested in art, Herr Oberst.’

Klemens’ head jerked round. ‘Who said I was? I’m interested in keeping body and soul together after the débâcle. Fritzi’s accepted one.’

‘Managing, no doubt, to reconcile his incorruptible German conscience.’

Klemens laughed. ‘If he uses what little brains he possesses, he ought to be able to keep his head above water until Germany’s sorted out her problems. How about the Fragonard?’

Tarnera nodded non-committedly. He had no intention of accepting anything; not simply because he regarded it as dishonest but because he felt it downright dangerous. He tried Klein-Wuttig on the subject, but he was quite uncompromising in his attitude.

‘The French have no understanding of art,’ he said. ‘I’ve chosen the portrait of Countess Matejko by Kucharski.’

‘A good choice, Fritzi. A good Aryan painter.’

Klein-Wuttig glared. ‘And why not? And my name is Friedrich-Johannes Klein-Wuttig. Not Fritzi. Nor Wuttig as the Colonel sometimes calls me. I have to accept insults from him, but nothing from a mere captain.’

‘Not even such good advice as “Get rid of it”?’ Tarnera said. ‘It’ll be as dangerous as high-explosive when the war’s over.’

Klein-Wuttig didn’t answer but he didn’t forget either, and that evening Klemens drew Tarnera aside. ‘What have you been saying this time,’ he demanded. ‘Frobinius wants to see you.’

Tarnera smiled. ‘I’ve been pulling Fritzi’s leg, that’s all.’

‘I notice he never laughs,’ Klemens said bluntly. ‘Now go and see Frobinius. And, for God’s sake, don’t be provoked into losing your temper.’

Frobinius was sitting in Klemens’ chair, his black uniform sombre in the grey light. His cap with its death’s head badge lay on the desk before him. He was only in his twenties with the round face of an eager schoolboy, his uniform well padded to compensate for narrow shoulders and the thin neck that protruded from his collar as if he were an adolescent outgrowing his clothes. His pale face was intent as he stared down at a file in his hands.

‘Captain Tarnera,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Our German traitor!’

‘I beg your pardon, Herr Sturmbannführer?’

Frobinius gestured. ‘A figure of speech,’ he said. ‘Fritzi Wuttig’s view. Haven’t you noticed that he has his knife into you?’

Tarnera answered warily. ‘A matter of temperament,’ he said. ‘We just don’t see eye to eye about most things.’

‘Especially, it seems, about Germany’s chances of winning the war.’

Frobinius’ face was cherubic but Tarnera was aware of danger.

‘I’ve never refused any duty,’ he said, ‘no matter what it was. But I was a newspaperman and newspapermen see things clearly.’

‘Newspapermen have been shot for seeing things too clearly, Tarnera. Sometimes it doesn’t pay.’

‘Frédérick the Great’s generals didn’t always agree with him,’ Tarnera said, ‘but they continued to do their duty.’

Frobinius looked up sharply. ‘The Führer’s decisions aren’t expected to leave room for the sort of disagreement Frédérick the Great’s generals indulged in. And as for generals, I’m a historian of sorts too, and I know that Napoleon’s generals didn’t always agree with him and continued to do their duty – until they forced him to abdicate. There’s a later example: Witzleben, Stauffenberg and Beck and the July 20 plot. Fortunately, we were too quick for them.’

There was a long pause then Frobinius leaned forward. ‘Do you consider us ruthless, Captain?’ he asked gently.

Tarnera swallowed and searched for words. ‘I sometimes think there might be more room for mercy,’ he said.

‘No one ever became strong by dispensing mercy.’ Frobinius’ smiling face had changed. ‘We aren’t seeking popularity. You know what Reichsführer-SS Himmler said. “We don’t expect to be loved. We’re the black band of brothers.” If Germany’s position’s in any doubt at the moment, it’s because people have chosen to be merciful. I promise you I shan’t.’

The realisation that he’d not impressed Frobinius was confirmed for Tarnera when Klemens called him into his office before the evening meal.

‘For God’s sake, Tarnera,’ he said. ‘What did you say?’

Tarnera shrugged. ‘I was careful, Herr Oberst, to say as little as possible.’

‘You still said enough for him to think you a bad security risk.’

Tarnera’s shoulders moved. ‘Herr Oberst, at this stage of the war, I think I’ve grown tired of trying to impress murderers–’

‘Shut up!’ Klemens roared. ‘I won’t have it! I’ve allowed you far too much rope as it is: If I continue, I shall be involved. And I want to get back to Germany in one piece. I’ve not gone in for murder. I’ve not indulged in loot–’ he stopped ‘–except for the pictures, Tarnera. Except for the pictures. And those I mean to have. If we lose this war–’

‘I think, Herr Oberst, it’s now a case of “when we lose”.’

Klemens’ shoulders sagged. ‘Have it your own way. When it comes, I shall offer my surrender as a soldier. I’m not a member of the Party. I’m not even a regular officer, merely a reservist. If they insist, I’ll walk into the prisoner of war camp and close the door with my own hands. They can’t keep me there forever.’

He took a turn up and down the room; then, recovering his spirits, he swung round to face Tarnera once more. ‘They’ll have to get Germany going again when it’s all settled down,’ he said. ‘And for that they’ll need men who’ve been in positions of authority. By that time there’ll have been a change of climate and I don’t intend to starve, believe me. That’s when we shall be glad we’ve got the pictures away.’

Tarnera said nothing because he had a strong suspicion that the people of Néry had no intention of allowing the pictures to leave the village at all.

 

They hadn’t, but their chief concern at that moment was that Brisson had arrived from Rolandpoint smiling all over his face and demanding a share in their ideas.

‘I’ve heard of a plan,’ he said.

Marie-Claude’s face was blank. ‘You must be cleverer in that fly-blown village of yours than we are,’ she said. ‘Do you think we’re stupid enough to try anything with an SS major at the château?’

‘Ernestine heard something was in the wind.’

‘In bed, I suppose,’ Marie-Claude snapped.

Brisson went away chastened and Urquhart went with him, to see Ernestine Bona.

Marie-Claude frowned but she didn’t argue. When he returned he was as silent as usual about what he’d been doing and Marie-Claude served his meal with a sullen expression on her face. When he’d finished, he looked up. ‘Someone else’s trying to get in on the act,’ he said.

No one spoke or moved and he went on after a pause. ‘The radio operator at St Seigneur says they want to send us an agent to organise us.’

Marie-Claude turned at last. ‘We are organised,’ she exploded. ‘Tell them to send him elsewhere!’

Urquhart smiled. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘But that’s not all. It seems they have more weapons in London these days than they know what to do with. They’re giving than away without being asked. We’re to have another drop.’