8

The woods at Chemire were full of birds. At the approach of the execution detail that morning, they had risen from the centre of the wood in a mass, screeching in alarm, streaking off in all directions. About two hundred yards into the wood itself, the S.S. scout car came to a halt at a natural clearing. A lorry was parked nearby. Above their heads was a circle of open sky, on all sides the massive trees surrounded them; underfoot the ground was soft and black with leaf mould. There were five men. They carried the machine gun in two parts. In the centre of the clearing a rectangular pit had been dug about twenty feet long and eight feet deep. The earth was piled into a huge mound on the far side. A group of men were squatting near the pit, smoking and talking. They were in shirt sleeves, their arms bare; earth stained them.

It had taken them three hours to dig the pit. Past experience made them as quick as professional gravediggers. They had stacked their shovels in a neat pile, and someone was boiling a metal coffee pot over a fire.

The noise made by the anxious birds continued for some minutes, while the S.S. NCO shouted directions to his five men. The machine gun was set up in front of a beech tree, its snout pointing at the yawning pit. To the execution squad it was a familiar routine. They had dug mass graves in Poland, in Russia, and in the makeshift camps set up for Eastern prisoners and Jews. They had shot and buried thousands of people of all ages and sexes. The cries of women and children had no meaning for them any more than the shrieks of the birds whose refuge they had disturbed. Some were married men with families; while they waited they joked among themselves and passed the time sharing cigarettes and talking. Two men were occupied with a crossword puzzle. The NCO inspected the pit, decided on the placement of the gun, and then stretched out under a tree. He enjoyed the pattern made by the sunlight as it filtered down through the thick branches. The railway was about half a mile away. They would hear the train. It would take time to march the children across the fields and into the wood. Depending upon how small some of them were. He closed his eyes and let himself drift. It was a very warm morning.

One of the digging detail brought him coffee. He sat up and yawned, looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock. They were already late. He buttoned his uniform jacket, put his cap on straight and went to the edge of the woods, where he could see down to the railway line. There was no sign of the train.

The Major was also looking at his watch. He stood inside the doorway of the school, looking out onto the silent, sullen crowd. Behind him the schoolteacher and the children were ready. They waited with their satchels and books; a few were crying. He could hear them through the closed door and it irritated him. The Standartenführer was late. He had promised to be there in an hour, and it was already an hour and twenty minutes. The Major hesitated. The train was ready; the truck taking the children to the station was drawn up outside the school, surrounded by armed S.S. guards.

The longer he delayed in getting them out, the more the news of their removal was spreading through the village. There would be a crowd at the station. The Major smelled trouble. He was used to judging the temper of a crowd. He knew fear and indecision because he had seen it so often in the condemned. He also recognised revolt. He had been in charge of a group of Jewish and Polish prisoners once, when a riot broke out. Just before, he had seen a certain uniformity about the hungry, desperate faces. The same look was spreading through the crowd of men and women outside the school. The moment would come when they’d rush the lorry, regardless of the troops opening fire. And the Standartenführer had stressed his desire for an orderly operation. The Major made two decisions. He put the first into practice by going into the building. He came up to Madame Giffier. She was standing with an arm round two children who were in tears. He saluted her.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘it’s time to leave. Before you go outside I have to warn you. There is a truck which will take you and the children to the railway station. There is also a crowd. If any rescue attempt is made, my men will fire. Not on the civilians but upon you and the children. I’m sure,’ he said this with a slight smile, ‘that you’re not frightened for yourself, but equally you won’t want those two you’re holding now, for instance, to be shot dead. I want you to go outside and tell those people what I’ve told you. Warn them not to do anything to interfere with your departure. Tell them that their children will die if they move.’ He opened the door and pointed with his cane. ‘The responsibility is yours,’ he said.

Madame Giffier looked at him. ‘Where are you sending us? Tell me, before I go outside. Or I won’t go.’

‘To Germany,’ the Major said. ‘To a detention camp. Nobody is going to harm you or the children. But their parents must be punished. After a time you will all be released.’

‘You give your word?’

‘Of course. Go out and do as I’ve told you.’

She blinked in the strong sunlight; there was a loud anguished murmur from the crowd, and a movement towards her. It was checked by the S.S. using their gun butts.

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ She raised her voice. ‘For God’s sake listen to me! We’re going away in a few minutes. We’re being taken to Germany but we’re not going to be harmed. The children are safe and nothing’s going to happen to them! But if you try and stop us going, they’ll shoot the children! Don’t make a move, don’t try anything, for God’s sake!’

There was a scream from the crowd. ‘Janine—how’s my Janine?’ ‘Pierre, Marie—are you all right!’ ‘Philippe …’ ‘Raoul …’

‘That’s enough.’ The Major came beside her. ‘Go back inside and bring the children out.’

‘They’re all right,’ Michelle Giffier shouted. ‘They’re all all right, don’t worry! I’ll take care of them!’ She turned back into the school. Inside, the ranks of children waited, faces upturned towards her. Tears made her blind and for a moment she faltered. It was Caroline Camier who saved her. She put her arm through the teacher’s. ‘Don’t cry, Madame,’ she whispered. ‘We’re not frightened. We’ll be together.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ Michelle Giffier said. She brushed her hand across her eyes and smiled; it was a painful grimace of her swollen mouth. The girl squeezed her arm. Her little face was set and stubborn; she was an ugly child who strongly resembled her father. She gave a look of hate at the Major.

‘Children!’ Michelle Giffier called out. ‘We’re leaving now. There’s nothing to be frightened of, and we shan’t be separated. We’re going by train to a place where we’ll stay for a few days and then we’ll be brought home. File up in twos and do exactly as the soldiers tell you.’ She turned to the Major.

‘We’re ready,’ she said. This was the Major’s second decision. Vierken had told him to move the children; that was more valid as an order than his remark about coming down to see them off. The Major’s men were waiting at Chemire, the crowd were still subdued by the teacher’s warning. He couldn’t wait any longer and hope to avoid some incident.

‘Good,’ he said. He opened the school door. ‘Outside!’

There was a group of S.S. about a hundred yards up the road. Louise saw them and for a second she braked. There was a motorcyclist and three men armed with machine pistols. They were at the side of the road, stationed to stop anything travelling towards St. Blaize. Since there were no private cars in use in the area and people travelled on foot or by bicycle, no road blocks were considered necessary on the subsidiary roads out of the village. The motorcyclist was enough. She had little time to think; her first reaction of fear made her slow down, the second was to slam her foot on the accelerator. If they chased her, she would probably be caught; the way was narrow and she wasn’t used to the heavy car. But they wouldn’t chase the Standartenführer’s private Mercedes flying its Nazi pennant, unless they had time to see that a woman was driving it.

She gripped the wheel tight and pushed the pedal to the floor. All she glimpsed as she roared past the group was a blur with someone saluting. She rounded a bend and almost ran into the verge; it needed all her strength to wrench the wheel back and straighten up. Then she slowed, listening. There was no sound of a motorcycle. They’d seen the car, and the driver was as much a blur to them as they had been to her. Louise let the speed drop for a moment; her body was shaking, and her hands were so wet that they slipped on the wheel. Lavallière was only four kilometres away. She picked up speed again, guiding the car round the bends and twists in the road; it hit a rough pothole that jerked her out of the seat. Her mind kept trying to switch back to the Château, to Vierken lying dead on the floor with blood seeping out of his wounds onto the carpet; Régine, ashen with shock, weeping for her lover. It was like a nightmare. It couldn’t have happened; she had a sensation of panic, imagining that it was all an illusion, that at some point while she slept for those few hours, her mind had given way and she had woken to a hideous hallucination. Panic came and she fought it off; she opened the window and the rush of air was calming. Lavallière; one kilometre. Less. There was the encircling belt of trees that hid the open field. After they were married, Jean and she drove out there and picnicked once. She suddenly remembered the smell of the grass and the dappled light above their heads. She braked, and stopped. When she got out there was complete silence. She began to walk into the trees. If they had left the field already … Nothing. No aircraft, no sign of life. A hand touched her shoulder; she wheeled round with a cry. Albert Dumois, who worked in the butcher’s shop in St. Blaize, was standing in front of her, pointing a sten gun.

‘Madame!’ He was staring at her. ‘When I saw the car stop I nearly shot you!’

‘Where’s the Comte?’

‘Across the other side! There, under the trees, can’t you see the plane?’ Now it was visible, shrouded under the camouflage net. Louise didn’t answer; she began to run.

It was Savage she saw first; he caught hold of her and held her for a moment. She pulled away from him.

‘You’ve got to get to Chemire,’ she gasped, breathless from that wild run across the field. ‘You’ve got to go now! They’re going to shoot the children!’

By now she was surrounded; Jean de Bernard pushed towards her. He spoke quietly to Savage. ‘Let go of my wife. Louise—what’s happened! How did you get here!’

‘In Vierken’s car,’ she said. ‘He came to St. Blaize, with Régine. Don’t ask any questions, just listen! She’d found out they were going to murder the children in the woods; taking them on the train was just a blind. Oh God.’ She stopped, and Jean reached out for her. For a few moments she clung to his hands. Then she stood back and faced them.

‘There isn’t time to tell what happened. They were moving the children onto the train this morning. If we don’t get there in time they’ll be shot and buried in Chemire.’

‘You’re certain of this? It’s not a trick?’ She shook her head at Jean.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s the truth.’

‘How did you get Vierken’s car?’ Savage asked quietly. ‘Where is he?’

‘At the Château. He’s dead; Régine killed him.’

‘That’s good enough.’ Savage looked round at the group of men. The RAF pilot and his navigator had come to join them; they couldn’t speak French beyond a few words and they didn’t know what was happening. ‘Camier, you and the Comte take four men with you and ammunition. We’ll use the Mercedes. How long will it take to get to Chemire?’

‘By the direct route, twenty minutes,’ Jean de Bernard said. ‘But there’s a longer way round. It skirts St. Blaize, and crosses the railway line about three kilometres down. There’s a little hand-operated crossing gate.’

‘There’ll be Germans manning it,’ Camier burst out.

‘Why should there be?’ Savage spoke to him quietly. The man’s face was contorted; he looked as if he might fall down with a stroke. ‘They’re not expecting trouble. Who usually operates it?’

‘Servard,’ the Mayor mumbled. ‘Servard. He’s over seventy; half the time he sleeps … God knows why there hasn’t been an accident … Caroline … Oh Christ Jesus help me!’ He dropped to the ground and covered his face with his hands. There was a sound of sobbing, harsh and inhuman in its agony.

Louise went to him and shook him by the shoulder. ‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘It won’t help. We may be in time still.’

Slowly he raised himself; he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

‘Pardon, Madame,’ he muttered. ‘Pardon. I was overcome …’

‘How much longer by the railway route?’ Savage turned to Jean de Bernard. The sight of Camier’s collapse wasn’t helping the morale of the rest of the men whose children were under sentence of death.

‘Half an hour, forty minutes. Louise, how did you get through—weren’t there any patrols, check points?’

‘Only one; a motorcyclist and some S.S. I drove past at top speed and they didn’t see me. They must have thought it was Vierken.’

‘Then that’s the route for the Mercedes. Jean, you go with Camier and take half the men with you in the van. I’ll go with the Mercedes on the shorter route. If one of us gets stopped the other will get through.’ He took a cigarette out and lit it; he handed it to the Comte.

‘Camier drives, like last time. Go to the crossing and wait. If you’re in time and the train stops to unload the kids, move in on them. If it’s already done so, join us at Chemire.’

‘And if we’re too late?’ Albert Dumois asked the question. He looked from Savage to the Comte. ‘If they’re dead. Monsieur—what do we do then?’

It was Jean de Bernard who answered. ‘We attack and we kill every German we can find,’ he said. ‘None of us will survive, but if this thing happens, none of us will want to. Louise.’ He reached out and took his wife’s hand. He kissed it. ‘God bless you. God bless you for your courage and resource in getting to us. Pray for us.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ she protested.

‘No,’ Jean said, ‘you are not. You will stay here, with our friends from the RAF. Take good care of her, please.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ the young pilot said. ‘But what’s up? What’s the panic?’ In spite of his attempt at being nonchalant, he looked unhappy.

‘We’re going to get the children now,’ Savage explained. ‘The bastards are planning to murder them. Give us three hours, and if we’re not back by then, get to hell out of here. And make sure you take Madame de Bernard with you.’

He didn’t touch Louise. He raised the sten gun and saluted her. ‘We’ll get them,’ he said. ‘And we’ll be back.’

Standing with the pilot beside her, Louise watched them running across the sunlit field and into the shadow of the trees. Minutes later, the sound of the Mercedes’s engine was followed by the uneven rumbling of Camier’s van. Then there was silence. The pilot looked uncomfortable; the woman was crying, and he didn’t know what to do. He remembered the hip flask and quickly offered it.

‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better—come on, don’t upset yourself; there’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘Thanks.’ Louise swallowed; the raw whisky made her cough. She wiped her hand across her eyes using the same gesture as Albert Camier. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just nerves. I’m all right now.’ He had a young, worried face, its lack of comprehension suddenly infuriated her. She turned away from him.

‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ He had walked after her. He wanted company; he was personally brave in situations which he understood, but waiting around for three hours in German-occupied France while a group of inexperienced Frenchmen tried to attack the S.S. was not a contingency for which he had been trained. The navigator and gunner were back at the aircraft. The quiet, sunlit field and the surrounding trees was the most sinister place he had ever been. ‘Where do you come from?’ he persisted. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I live here,’ Louise answered. ‘I’m married to a Frenchman. They should have taken me with them. I can’t stand this waiting.’

‘It’s pretty bloody,’ he agreed. ‘If the Jerries come I’ve got orders to set fire to the plane. You’ll just have to run for it, I’m afraid.’

‘It won’t matter what I do.’ Louise turned to him. ‘One of their top men is lying dead in my house; my sister-in-law shot him. We’re finished, whatever happens. And I don’t care; I don’t care about anything but saving the children. They’ve dug a mass grave for them in the woods.’

‘Christ,’ the airman muttered. ‘You can’t believe it, can you?’

‘I can,’ Louise answered. ‘I can believe anything. Could I have a cigarette?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right. Couple of hours and they’ll be back here. Take the packet; I’ve got plenty more.’ Louise saw him take a service revolver out of his jacket, load it and put it back. Together they sat on the grass under the shadow of the wings, to wait.

The engine sent from Paris was an old-fashioned steam locomotive, manned by a German army driver and two firemen from the depot. A single cattle truck was connected up behind. It was wooden-walled, creosoted black and the sliding door was drawn back. An S.S. guard stood at the entrance; he carried a whip of plaited leather. The first group of children climbed up unaided; a seven-year-old had to be lifted. The German swung him easily onto the top step. The boy hesitated and began to scream with fear of the darkness inside. The whip cracked as a warning to the rest to hurry up. The boy was pulled inside and only his persistent crying could be heard. Michelle Giffier was kept to the last; she stood near the Major, watching the pathetic file disappear into the black mouth of the cattle truck; she carried a five-year-old girl in her arms. Suddenly she turned to the Major. They won’t be hurt—you promise?’

‘My word of honour,’ the Major said. ‘Hurry up; we’re running late and you have a long journey. There’s food and water inside.’ He saluted her. ‘Heil Hitler.’ She had a thin body, her clothes were creased and she looked dishevelled; she reminded him of many other women he had sent on a similar journey. The expendables, the inferiors, weeping Jewesses clutching their children and moaning, sections of humanity marked by nature for disposal by the strong.

The girl mounted the few steps and went inside. He gave an order and the door was dragged shut, its heavy batten secured. The cries coming from within were muffled. Three of his men climbed into the engine cab and stood with the driver. A third climbed to the roof of the cattle truck and crouched by the machine gun mounted on top. The Major gave a signal and the train lurched forward, hissing steam. Behind them, held back by a ring of S.S. guards, the people who had gathered at the station sent up a cry. The Major turned and addressed them.

‘You’ve brought this punishment on yourselves,’ he shouted. ‘You know now the price of opposition to the Reich! Go back to your homes! Disperse or my men will open fire!’

There weren’t more than twenty men and women; the stricken parents round the school had not had time to get there. Helpless, they began to drift away. Many of the women wept, the men looked back and cursed, a few waved their fists. One of the guards fired a burst over their heads and they scattered. The stationmaster had been locked into his office. Contemptuously they flung the door open; he staggered out. The S.S. piled into the lorries and drove off; their acceleration was an insult.

Down the line the rear of the cattle truck disappeared from view.

The group of men at the control point heard the car approaching. It was the Standartenführer’s Mercedes being driven even faster than when it had passed them not long before. Automatically they saluted; it shot past them and the senior NCO peered after it. There must be something up,’ he said ‘He never drives like that. You, Fritche, go after him and see if everything’s all right.’ The motorcyclist kicked his machine and minutes later Savage heard the whine of its engine.

‘They’ve seen us!’ Dumois shouted. He was staring through the back window. ‘He’s coming after us! Go faster!’

‘He’ll catch up,’ Savage said. ‘Open your window—quick. Be ready, Albert, I’m going to slow down. Let him get close and then shoot him. Now!’

The Mercedes’ red brake light showed so suddenly that the motorcyclist found himself shooting towards the car; he slowed sharply. He saw something glint at him from the nearside window and made an instinctive movement to swerve, but the reflex came too late. A burst from Dumois’s sten gun ripped into him; his machine reared up and then went spinning off the road as he fell.

‘I got him!’ Dumois shouted with exultation. ‘I got him!’ Savage didn’t answer. He snapped his foot down on the accelerator and took the road which branched to the left towards the famous hunting ground and beauty spot, Chemire.

‘Lie down, Mademoiselle Régine—I’ll make you something hot to drink.’

‘No,’ Régine said. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands gripped together on her lap. ‘I’m all right, Marie-Anne. Leave me alone.’

‘Jean-Pierre said I was to sit with you,’ the old woman protested. She had known Régine since she was born; the face looking up at her seemed to belong to a stranger. It was grey-coloured, as bloodless as if she were dead; the eyes were dilated, the lips trembled, but she no longer cried.

‘I’ve told you I’m all right. Go away!’

Régine didn’t move for some minutes; she sat on the bed and twisted her fingers together. The first hysterical storm had subsided, leaving her sick and drained. He was dead. She had gone on firing at him until the gun was empty. If she closed her eyes she could see his face, changing to the ghastly hue of death, the jaw falling slack, one hand grasping his side, blood trickling between the fingers. Blood coming from his mouth. She gave a low cry, and then stopped. His body must still be downstairs. An awareness of danger crept into her confused mind; she got up and went to the door. It was an instinctive movement, without real direction. She couldn’t go downstairs and see him lying there. She couldn’t call Jean-Pierre and tell him to take the body away …

She opened the door and hesitated. Her father. Her father was upstairs; she could go to him, sit with him. When she went into his room, he was sitting in his armchair, a book open on his lap. He smiled when he saw her. Memory often deserted him at the first sight of someone, but never with his daughter. He held out his hand, and said, ‘Come in, my little one. Come in!’

She bent and kissed him and his hand clutched at hers, like the claw of weak bird. Tears filled Régine’s eyes.

‘How are you. Papa? How did you sleep?’

‘Not well.’ He shook his head. ‘There was so much noise last night. The Germans are coming but you mustn’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘I won’t let them hurt you,’ the old Comte said. ‘I fought them once before—I can do it again …’

He stroked her hair, his hand tremulous, his attention flitting from subject to subject. Emotion distressed him, anger made his heart race, and he sank quickly back into tranquillity.

‘It’s very warm Régie,’ he said. ‘Take this rug away, will you? I don’t need it.’ She took the rug off his knees and folded it. She turned and looked at him. ‘You look pale, my darling,’ he said. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No,’ Régine said. For a moment she had thought to find a refuge with him. But it was a child seeking a child. She came and kissed him. Love. Love for this gentle old ghost whose body was still earthbound; love that consumed and burned for a man whose brutal sensuality had corrupted everything else. Adolph Vierken. If his body was discovered, they would all be shot.

‘I’ve got a few things to do downstairs,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll come back and read to you.’

‘Don’t be too long,’ he said. ‘Come back soon.’

She found Jean-Pierre in the hallway. He was pulling the driver’s body along by the feet; the effort was exhausting him. Régine paused, and then looked away.

‘Did you do that?’

‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘The swine—I nearly blew his head off! My grandchildren …’

‘We’ve got to get rid of him,’ Regine said. ‘And of the one in the salon. I’ll help you with this one first.’

The driver was a big man, and his weight was too much for them. Régine called Marie-Anne. Blood streaked the stone-flagged floor from the German’s shattered skull. The old woman didn’t blanch or even turn away. She looked down at the body and spat. Then she seized a leg and began to drag. They didn’t speak; getting him out of the house required all their strength. There was a long garden trolley, which Marie-Anne found, and heaving together they managed to get the German’s body on it.

‘This way!’ Régine gasped. ‘Down that path …’ They dragged the trolley to the end of the garden path to the enormous heap of compost and leaf mould which had not been cleared for three years. Occasionally Minden’s batman Fritz used to mow the lawns and tidy the kitchen garden, but there hadn’t been a young gardener at St. Blaize since the war. The old man who kept the vegetables and weeded along the front of the Château was bent with rheumatism. Moving the compost heap was out of the question. Régine and Jean-Pierre heaved on the trolley and the body rolled off. They pulled it out of sight behind the mound.

Gasping for breath, with sweat running down their faces, the three of them paused. ‘Now,’ Régine said; her body was trembling with the exertion, and her clothes were sticking to her skin. ‘Now let’s get the other one. Marie-Anne, go in first and cover the face. I don’t want to see it.’

Vierken seemed less heavy; the old woman had wrapped a kitchen towel round his head, Régine helped to half lift, half drag him without looking at him. She didn’t realise that as she worked she was crying, the tears running down her face, her mouth screwed up with soundless sobs. Neither of the servants commented, even to themselves. Something terrible had happened to Mademoiselle Régine, but she was in command and they obeyed her.

At last the two bodies lay beside each other at the edge of the heap.

‘What are we going to do?’ Jean-Pierre mumbled. ‘I can’t dig a grave deep enough for them, I haven’t the strength.’

‘We don’t have to dig,’ Régine said. ‘That’s why we’ve brought them here. We’ll move that earth on top of them. ‘Three of us can do it. But first we’d better clean up the mess in the house. Marie-Anne, you go back and do that. Jean Pierre, get two shovels. We’ll begin on this.’

‘Won’t they come looking for them?’ the old woman asked. Her husband was still out of breath.

‘Nobody knew where he was going this morning,’ Régine said. ‘He was expected at the school; they’re probably still waiting for him. Madame has taken the car. There’s nothing to connect him with St. Blaize except me; I can say he went on to the school. They’ll think he was ambushed—or kidnapped! Anyway, we’ve got to do our best. We have the Comte to worry about.’

‘They’ll murder him,’ Jean-Pierre said. ‘They’ll murder us all, if they find anything.’

‘They’re not going to find anything,’ Régine said. ‘What’s done is done,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve got to protect Papa now. Get the shovels!’

Albert Camier’s van rattled along the road; the men crouched in the back were bumped and jolted. It was a narrow country road, not much better than a track, and it wound its way across country until it joined up with the railway line and intersected it at the little crossing. Jean de Bernard was seated beside Camier; he carried his sten gun across his knees, covered by his jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his tie removed. As they rounded a bend the railway line came into view, not more than a hundred yards ahead of them. The engine stood at the crossing, steam idling from it; the cattle truck was open. A single figure in uniform straddled the roof, leaning against a machine gun.

‘Stop!’ Jean de Bernard yelled, and Camier stamped on the brake. For a moment they stayed immobile, staring at the scene; the old crossing keeper had seen the van and was moving slowly towards the gates to open them.

‘Oh mother of Jesus,’ Camier groaned. ‘Mother of Jesus—we’re too late!’

‘The others won’t be,’ Jean said. ‘They had the Mercedes and they took the short route. We’ve got to put these pigs out of action. There’s three in the engine and one on the roof there. Drive forward and when you get to the crossing, stall the engine.’

The S.S. guard on the roof watched the van come close and trained the gun on it. Within his view, but hidden from Jean and Camier, a column of children was moving slowly across the field towards the dark lip of the wood at Chemire. It was a brilliant morning; the sun beat down upon the man on the wooden roof, making the metal parts of the gun hot to the touch. His collar was tight and a ring of sweat stained the edge; he ran one finger under it, his right hand crooked round the trigger of the machine gun. The van bumped over the level crossing and then stopped. The old keeper shuffled forward, waving his arm. ‘Go on,’ he shouted, ‘You can’t stop there—this train is leaving any minute!’

Inside the van Jean whispered to Camier. ‘Get out—he knows you. Open the bonnet and fiddle inside. I’ll follow. Don’t do anything, just keep your head down.’

‘Ah, good morning,’ Serard saluted the Mayor. ‘What’s the matter—trouble?’

‘Blasted thing’s falling to pieces,’ Camier muttered. ‘I’ll just have a look …’ He threw up the bonnet and dived under it, pretending to grab at engine parts with shaking hands. He heard the van door open and a moment later Jean appeared beside him.

‘I’m going to get the one on the roof,’ he whispered. ‘Stay where you are and for Christ’s sake don’t put your head up when it starts …’ Then he was gone. He went to the rear of the van and opened one door. Inside the men huddled against each other stared at him from the dimness. ‘Grenades,’ he said softly. Two were passed to him; they went into his jacket pockets. ‘A pistol; I can’t hide the sten.’ It was handed to him and disappeared under the jacket.

When Jean reappeared he saw the crossing keeper leaning beside Camier, looking at the engine. There was a shout from the train; the Army driver leaned out and yelled at them. ‘Get that moving! Push it!’

Jean looked up at him and shrugged; the S.S. guard behind the machine gun was looking directly down at him. He slipped his hand in his pocket and found the sectioned surface of the grenade. He walked round the front of the engine, which placed him out of sight, and then, crouching, ran round the side of it. He pulled the pin on the first grenade, released the side catch and tossed it towards the cab. At the same moment he straightened and aimed his pistol at the man on the roof. The guard was not looking directly at him, his attention was focused on the van. Jean de Bernard sighted him; not daring to aim for the head in case he missed, he fired at the trunk. The sound of the shot cracked out, and he dropped on one knee. The blast of the grenade knocked him to the ground; there was a short stuttering burst of machine gun fire, the hiss and rattle of metal tearing and spinning lethally through the air. By now the van doors were open and the men inside were spilling out. Dazed, with his ears buzzing, Jean picked himself up. Above him the engine was hidden in smoke and blackened fumes; the cabin was shattered and as he watched, a dismembered arm, still wearing a rag of uniform sleeve, fell out and hit the ground. On the roof of the cattle truck, the S.S. guard lay forward, depressing his machine gun; he moved, and Jean de Bernard shot at him a second and a third time. He fell sideways and tumbled off the roof on the other side. Jean ran back to the van; he called to one of the men standing around it. ‘Climb up and make sure they’re finished inside that cab! Albert … Oh God!’

The Mayor of St. Blaize had fallen backwards; the burst of fire from the machine gun had sprayed the area in front of the train as the dying German pressed his trigger, and instinctively Camier had left the shelter of the van and tried to run. He had been cut down by a dozen bullets ripping into his chest. Serard lay riddled on the roadside a few feet away. Jean de Bernard knelt beside Camier. For a moment his eyes opened and he was conscious. Blood frothed in his mouth. ‘Caroline,’ he choked, and then his eyes rolled up and he died.

‘There they are! Look, over there!’ A hand seized Jean de Bernard by the arm and shook him. He looked, following the man’s excited gestures.

Across the fields the dark caterpillar crawled, its pace the stumblings of the youngest who were still too big to carry. The man who had seen them burst into tears. ‘We’re in time, in time … Oh my God, my darling, we’ll get you!’

Jean de Bernard didn’t hesitate. He slapped him across the face.

‘Get into the van!’ he ordered. ‘See if it’s been damaged—if you can drive it, back it off the line and onto the road. Go on! Now.’ He turned to the others. ‘There are our children. Look, they’ve heard the shooting!’ Larger figures could be seen running up and down the lines, and the procession began to hurry, faltering and uneven though it was, they were being made to run towards the woods.

‘We’ve got to stop them!’ There was a shout from the men.

‘Wait,’ Jean bellowed at them. ‘Stay where you are, you fools—you can’t shoot it out with them while they’ve got the children! Keep calm!’

There was silence then, except for the spasmodic bursts of steam from the engine. The van suddenly began to rattle as its engine turned and fired. It eased backwards away from the railway line and pulled up on the road.

‘We can follow them,’ Jean said. ‘Spread out, and keep low. For God’s sake, I know your children are out there, but you’ve got to keep your heads. If Savage has got through he’ll be waiting for them in the woods. If not, then we’ll try and pick them off one by one. Separate now and run; we’ve a hell of a way to go to catch them up!’

Chemire covered an area of about forty acres; as he approached the edge of the wood by the road, Savage slowed down. He spoke to Dumois, who was so excited by the death of the motorcyclist that he couldn’t stop talking about it. ‘You know the woods,’ Savage said. ‘Where could they bury the children? Looks as thick as hell to me.’

‘On the other side,’ Dumois said. ‘There’s a track about two hundred yards up, it goes through the middle to a clearing. It’s a place for picnickers and courting couples. There’s nowhere else which isn’t stiff with trees. Poachers hide in there during the season and nobody can flush them out. Turn up here—here’s the track.’ Savage put the Mercedes into low gear and they began to bump through a rough pathway between the trees.

‘How far?’ Savage asked.

‘Another five minutes or so.’

‘We stop here.’ He got out, closing the door quietly. The little group surrounded him; even Dumois, who was carrying his sten gun at a rakish angle over one shoulder, was subdued. It was very silent, with the feeling of oppressiveness and menace which is common to all woods whose tenure of the land goes back for centuries. The ground was soft and green with moss; tracks stretched ahead of them, rutting deep into the friable dark earth.

‘They’re up ahead of us,’ Savage said. ‘There are two sets of tyre marks there; one looks like a small lorry. From now on we don’t make a sound. They won’t be expecting anyone but they’re no fools. They’re professionals and if they hear anything, we’ll never get within spitting distance of them.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘We made it in very good time. The children won’t have got here yet. Check your weapons; Dumois, picking off a motorcyclist doesn’t make you a crack shot, so don’t get over-confident. I’ll go in front and you follow in file. Walk carefully, and don’t talk.’

‘How do you know the children aren’t already dead?’ That was a heavy-set man whose name Savage had never learned. He looked tough and morose; his hands were huge and coarse and they gripped the sten gun like hams. Misery made him resentful of the stranger.

‘I don’t,’ Savage snapped back. ‘And there’s only one way to find out. Come on!’ He unslung his sten gun and began to walk, treading with catlike care, avoiding the branches which were lying on the path, dry and cracking underfoot. The rest began to follow. The man who had questioned him made the Sign of the Cross and began to mutter. He had three children, two nephews and several cousins among the victims. He hadn’t prayed for thirty years.

The S.S. NCO had posted a lookout on the edge of the wood. He saw the train pull up at the crossing, and the children trickle out of the cattle truck. The men aroused themselves and the machine gunner began checking his weapon. The NCO decided he had time for a cigarette before the distant line of figures reached them. He went back into the wood, leaving his men to report on their progress. He ordered the fire under the coffee pot to be put out, and all uniforms to be properly fastened. He went over to inspect the machine gun. The sound of the grenade exploding and the short stutter of gunfire brought him running to the edge of the wood. Below him the train stood still, smoke pouring from the engine cab. He had a pair of field-glasses; seconds later they showed him the van and the men jumping out of it. Two were lying dead, and the machine gun on the roof of the truck leaned forlornly with its nose down.

He swung the glasses to the file of children. They were running, urged on by three guards, one of whom was using his whip. There was a woman with them, stumbling with a child in her arms; when she slipped there was a moment of total confusion. She was struck and kicked to her feet, the child torn out of her arms. For a brief moment the glasses held her and the scene and then swung back to the train’s attackers. They had dispersed and were running after the file of children. The NCO shouted orders; his men came running, their weapons ready.

‘They’ve bombed the train,’ he said. There’s five of them down there and they’re on their way up here. Two of you take positions behind the trees. They won’t catch the little bastards up, but as soon as you can get them in range pick them off!’ He put the glasses up again; the children were within three hundred and fifty yards by now; he could hear shouts and cries. Some of the burial detail came out of the wood to watch. It was the machine gunner, wiping the barrel with an oily rag, who looked up and saw Dumois moving through the trees.

Savage knew they had failed when he heard the guttural yell. He froze behind a tree. They had crept up without making a sound, inching their way through the trees, guided by the voices. The burial pit gaped only a few yards in front of them, and the machine gunner caressed his gun, wiping the barrel with a rhythmic stroke. Then Dumois moved, shocked into forgetting that by now the trees were thinner and anything slipping between them could be seen.

The burst of fire caught him sideways on; Savage saw him spin completely round, both hands flung upwards, the sten dropping away from him. He gave a fearful scream and fell, blood spurting from terrible arterial wounds.

The S.S. training was superb; within seconds every man in the group had taken cover, the NCO was behind a big beech tree and the machine gunner crouched swinging the muzzle from side to side. Savage picked out a man lying flat on the ground, sheltering behind a trunk of beech with a fissure running down the side of it. He dropped to his knee and took aim.

‘Come out!’ It was shouted in French. ‘You haven’t a chance, we’ve got you all covered. Hands up and come out!’ He looked over his shoulder and could see three of the men who had come with him, sheltering behind the trees, pointing their sten guns. They looked amateur and clumsy; Dumois was dying noisily only a few yards away from them. Savage slung his sten gun over his shoulder. He made a gesture to the three of them: stay where you are. Don’t move. He felt quite cool, the chill of rage settled on him, as it had done when he killed Brühl. He took a grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin out, slipped off his jacket and held it in one hand. He held his sten by its sling in the other. He raised his voice. ‘Kamerade! Don’t shoot!’

Then with both hands raised to shoulder level, he stepped out from the shelter of the trees. They saw a big man, blond in the brief sunlight, and as he emerged into the clearing, he threw his sten gun away. The NCO stepped from behind the tree; he held his revolver pointed at Savage. His intention to shoot him was obvious.

‘Don’t shoot,’ Savage cried out. ‘I surrender!’ Under cover of the jacket, his thumb pressed the three-second release catch on the side of the grenade. As the German pulled the trigger, Savage threw it at the machine gun.

The blast tore the gunner to pieces and dropped the NCO who caught it full on. Almost at the same moment, the three Frenchmen ran into the clearing, firing wildly and indiscriminately; the big labourer leaped over Savage’s body and the mangled machine gun, he caught two of the S.S. in his fire and dropped them. A third killed him, and was exposed in doing so. The other two of. Savage’s men shot him together. Then they flung themselves behind trees, and the first grenade fell in the direction of the remaining S.S. composed of the gravediggers, two of whom had been wounded by cross-fire. Screams followed the explosion; the younger of the two Frenchmen, a chemist’s assistant, who had done military service and been wounded in the back and invalided out, yelled to his companion and a barrage of grenades fell into the trees around the area. For three minutes they threw, and the forest was shattered by explosions. Wood splinters and human fragments flew; dust covered the clearing, blotting out vision. Then there was no more sound. The chemist’s assistant, who was named Pellissier, and had twin sons, slowly came from behind his tree. There was a groan from the left. He gestured to his companion to follow; moving very carefully he approached the sound. For a moment he disappeared from the other’s view behind a clump. There was a short burst of fire and then he stepped out. The two men looked at each other. ‘We got them,’ Pellissier said slowly. ‘They’re all dead now.’

He dropped his sten, and went to Savage.

The NCO’s bullet had caught him in the chest; its impact had thrown him to the ground just before the grenade exploded. The blast had concussed him, blood was staining the front of his shirt.

‘He’s dying,’ the second man said. ‘If he hadn’t got that swine with the machine gun …’

‘I don’t know how bad the wound is,’ Pellissier said. He had opened the shirt and was swabbing with a handkerchief. ‘I’ve nothing to dress it with. Don’t move, friend, for God’s sake, you’ve been hit.’ Savage had opened his eyes.

‘Get the kids,’ he said. ‘Never mind frigging about with me.’ He spoke in English and neither of them understood. His eyes closed again. Pellissier took off his own shirt and tore it in strips; he bandaged Savage’s chest, but within minutes the dressing was soaked through. He shook his head. ‘I can’t help him,’ he said. ‘It’s no use. We’d better go and look outside the wood.’

At the first sound of firing, the S.S. had halted the column of children. Michelle Giffier was sobbing, embracing the children nearest her. One of the guards yelled at her. ‘Shut up! Shut up, you bitch, or I’ll smash your jaw!’

The firing in the wood was suddenly interrupted by a series of explosions. The children began to scream. The senior S.S. guard, a man in his forties with service in the East and a corporal’s rank, bellowed at them to lie down. Michelle ran among them, dragging them to the ground.

‘You!’ the corporal shouted. ‘Come here!’ He seized her by the arm, pulling her in front of him. The sound of fighting in the wood had stopped. The children were crying and moaning with fear. The corporal looked back down the field to the train. There was no sign of the men who had attacked it. The ground was uneven; they might well be within range of him and hidden by the terrain. He had twenty children, one trembling woman as a human shield, and only two men. He swore, and jerked savagely at the woman, in his rage. He cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled, ‘Comrades! Show yourselves! Are you all right up there!’ There was no answer. No one appeared.

Somehow the French had discovered their plan and mounted an attack. The silence showed him that it must have been successful. They were waiting for him in the wood. Behind him, the attackers of the train were moving after him. If he obeyed his common sense and abandoned the brats, he would be shot for cowardice and disobeying orders. Discipline was merciless. His only salvation was to carry out his orders as much as he could and then run for it. He made up his mind. He shouted an order in German to his two subordinates. ‘Start shooting the little bastards—then we’ll make a run for it!’

It was part of Michelle Giffier’s youthful curriculum to know two foreign languages. She understood and spoke both English and German. He flung her aside and she fell. As she watched, he grabbed his machine gun. She gave a wild scream and with a speed and strength that was beyond her frail physique, she sprang up and threw herself on him.

He was a powerfully built man, trained to a high pitch of physical fitness. He would have thrown a man off in one movement. The ferocious woman who attacked him drove her nails into his face, raking for the eyes, the gun went off, and it was a moment or two before he swept her aside and smashed his elbow into her. As she fell, Jean de Bernard came over the rise in the ground and shot him. The children lay sprawled on the ground. The two S.S. men were on their feet; both were dead before they had a chance to fire, killed by Pellissier and his companion who had come out of the wood above them.

For a moment nobody moved; Jean de Bernard stood with his gun slowly pointing downwards. Michelle Giffier lay in a heap by the dead German. Then he walked forward, joined by the rest of his group; one of them gave a cry and began to run. Jean de Bernard stopped by a small child, who knelt on the ground hiding its face and sobbing with terror. Very gently he lifted him up. It was the child of Dumois, whom he did not know was dead. ‘Oh, oh,’ the boy wept, and flung his arms around his neck.

‘It’s all right, little one,’ Jean said gently. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now. You’re safe …’

The navigator and the gunner were conferring with the pilot. He walked over to Louise. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s three hours. There’s no sign of them.’

‘Please,’ Louise begged him. ‘Just a few more minutes … they’ll be here! You can’t leave without them!’

‘Your chap gave me the time limit; I ought to start the old girl up and get us out of here.’ He frowned and looked at his watch again. Louise had taken turns in watching by the roadside from the shelter of the trees. No traffic at all had passed in the last hour.

‘I’m not going,’ Louise said. ‘I’m staying here. What will you feel like if you take off and you see them coming back with the children?’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ the pilot said. ‘I’ll give them another fifteen minutes and then I’m off. We’re going to get the nets off her.’

‘Thank you,’ Louise said. ‘I know they’ll come.’ She started pulling the camouflage netting down. It had seemed like days while they waited. They had nothing to say to each other; it was a relief to wait, hidden, by the roadside, praying that every motor sound was either the Mercedes or the van. Once a military ambulance raced past her, and she had given way to momentary panic. Chemire was miles away, and nearer to St. Blaize than the Lavallière field. They wouldn’t send an ambulance along that route. Twenty minutes later it returned, travelling more slowly. Inside, the dead body of the motorcyclist was strapped to a stretcher. There were so many injuries that the bullet wounds which had sent him spinning off his machine were not obvious on the first examination.

When the plane was free of camouflage, the pilot turned to Louise. He looked awkward but determined. ‘Five minutes to go,’ he said. ‘I’m going to start her up. I’ll help you inside.’

‘No!’ Louise backed away from him. ‘I’m going to look again …’ She ran into the trees before he could stop her. The road was deserted; she leaned against a tree and suddenly all hope left her. They had failed; Jean and Savage, Camier and the others. They had been butchered and the children were already tumbled in the grave at Chemire.… The Mercedes came into view first. Then a small German lorry, its canvas sides and body marked with the Iron Cross, followed by a small field car and then last of all, rattling as if it were going to fall to pieces on the road, came Camier’s little delivery van. Louise ran into the road; behind her there was a roar as the aircraft propellers began to turn in the field. She waved wildly at the Mercedes, tears blurring her sight of who was driving, and then dashed back into the belt of trees, shrieking at the pilot to stop … stop …

Within the shelter of the trees the cavalcade jolted to a stop. Louise came running back, followed by the airmen. The first person she saw was Jean de Bernard; she threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh Jean—Jean, thank God! I’d given up! The plane was leaving …’

The Comte kissed his wife. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘We got them all; they’re all safe. Come and help get them out.’ Children were being lifted down from the inside of the German lorry; they came tumbling out of Camier’s van. The men who had rescued them were calling for their own sons and daughters; Pellissier found his twins and knelt on the ground, hugging them, openly crying with relief.

‘Papa—papa …’ The cries were repeated as fathers and children were reunited. Michelle Giffier, her face so bruised and sallow with shock that Louise hardly recognised her, watched the scene, with a wailing toddler by the hand.

‘Madame Giffier—what did they do to you? Come here, little one.’ Louise tried to take the child. Instantly it clung to the teacher with both hands, its face screwed up in terror.

‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Thank God none of the children was hurt. Don’t make that noise, Ninie, there’s nothing to be frightened about now … Oh Madame, I can’t tell you what might have happened … In the clearing they’d dug a huge pit for us …’ She turned away and Louise saw her shudder. She spoke calmly but hysteria was very close. Louise put an arm round her. She was a proud, self-contained woman who would have resented the intimacy in other circumstances. Now she burst into tears on Louise’s shoulder. ‘It was so terrible,’ she said. ‘The firing, I thought we’d all be killed. And then one of them was going to open fire on us—just at the last minute!’

‘Don’t think about it,’ Louise said. ‘You’re going to England with the children. They’ll be safe there till the war’s over. Get them together and we’ll lift them inside. Come on; the pilot’s got some whisky. I’ll get you some.’

The plane stood out in the field, clear of the trees ‘Children,’ Jean de Bernard called, ‘line up and come over here. You’re going in the aeroplane with Madame Giffier.’

Shepherded by fathers and the teacher, the children formed a queue; many were too dazed to understand what was happening to them. Others began to cry and protest. There were heart-breaking cries. ‘I don’t want to go—I want Maman—Maman!’ One boy broke free and had to be caught, struggling and kicking against being lifted into the plane. Jean de Bernard came to Louise.

‘It was Savage who saved them,’ he said. ‘Pellissier told me. He deliberately sacrificed himself.’ Shock robbed the scene of reality; she didn’t say anything for a moment. Jean didn’t touch her.

‘He’s dead?’

‘He’s dying,’ he answered. ‘He wanted me to leave him behind.’

Louise moved back from him. ‘And you did?’

‘No, he’s in the scout car. He’s going back on the plane.’ She turned and ran, back into the belt of shadow where the car was standing. A man who was the notary’s clerk in St. Blaize was bending over someone on the ground. Louise pushed past him. Savage lay with his head on a folded jacket; his shirt had been cut away and Pellissier’s blood-soaked bandage replaced. His face was grey and cold with sweat, his eyes closed. The notary’s clerk got up and made way for her.

‘He’s been asking for you, Madame,’ he said. ‘I was just going to call you.’

‘Go away,’ Louise whispered. ‘Please, go away.’ She caught at the slack hand lying by Savage’s side. ‘Oh God,’ she held it tight and her tears fell on him. He opened his eyes; there was a glaze over them which cleared as he recognised her.

‘It worked,’ he said. She had to bend close to hear him. ‘We got every child back. And we killed all those bastards … I take it back about the French … they were bloody marvellous.’

‘Don’t talk,’ Louise begged him. ‘Please, don’t say any more. Lie still …’

‘That son of a bitch knew how to shoot.’ Savage grimaced. ‘I love you—can you hear me?’

‘Yes, yes, I can hear you.’ Louise felt a pressure from his hand.

‘I’m not through yet. He’s a good guy, that husband of yours; but he made a mistake. He should’ve left me behind …’

‘You’re going home,’ Louise said. ‘You’re going on the plane and you’ll get proper care—oh darling, don’t die—I couldn’t bear it …’

He didn’t seem to hear; his eyes had closed. Suddenly she felt his hand tighten on hers. ‘Louise … I’ll be back. Remember that.’

She felt Jean de Bernard come behind her; she turned round to him, still holding Savage’s hand, and as he watched she bent and kissed it.

‘He must go now; the plane’s ready.’

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘Try not to hurt him …’ She saw them lift him; he was unconscious and her last sight of him was masked by the navigator who reached down from inside the plane to lift him up.

At the edge of the field she waited in the little group of men, as the propeller turned and then idled, turned and then swung into full power. The noise was a hideous assault, the air-stream tore at their clothes and sent them staggering, holding to each other for support. Fathers with children waved and shouted; Jean de Bernard put his arm around her and held her steady. The plane was taxi-ing fast down the field, bumping and lurching over the uneven surface; suddenly its nose lifted, and the clumsy progress became a smooth, miraculous ascent into the sky. The machine rose steadily, easily topping the trees, climbing until it became smaller and smaller and the noise of its engine a distant throb.

Nobody spoke for some moments. Men who had seemed extraordinary, with guns on their shoulders, slipped back into their normal selves. They looked upward, disconsolate and lost without their children. Out of the ten who had started out from St. Blaize, six were left. The notary’s clerk blew his nose and found a packet of cigarettes. He came and offered one to the Comte and more hesitantly to the Comtesse. Louise refused. Jean de Bernard inhaled into his lungs. He wiped his face with his forearm and looked round at them.

‘Our children are safe,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens to us, they’ll have their lives and they’ll come back to St. Blaize when the war is over. That is what matters.’

‘What do we do now?’ Pellissier asked him. ‘Where do we go?’

‘Home,’ Jean de Bernard said. ‘Home to collect money, food, everything we’ll need for the next few months. We have two alternatives. We can wait at St. Blaize for the murder squads to come and pick us up, or we can go into the countryside and fight. Thanks to the British we have guns and ammunition. We have the lorry and that car. We may not last long but we’ll give some account of ourselves.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ the clerk said. He was a gentle, precise man who usually wore wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘And me,’ Pellissier said. One by one, with one exception, they came and shook his hand. The lone dissenter also shook it.

‘My wife is ill,’ he said. ‘I can’t walk out and leave her. I have to make sure she’s all right with her sister. If I can join you, Monsieur, be sure I will. But I have to look out for her first.’ He came and shook hands with Louise; the others followed.

‘I’ll stay here,’ Jean de Bernard said. ‘The rest of you go back to St. Blaize in the van and take my wife with you. Pick up what you need and come back here as quickly as you can. There won’t be much time before they realise what’s happened at Chemire. When nobody reports back they’ll start searching. We have an hour or two start.’

He threw the cigarette away.

He turned to Louise; they were alone, as the others dispersed and somebody started Camier’s van. ‘I thought you would have gone with him,’ he said.

‘No,’ Louise answered. ‘I’m staying here; with you and Papa and Régine. The children are in Paris, they’ll be safe there. But I loved him, Jean. And I’ll never know what happened to him.’

‘I know you did,’ the Comte said. ‘Thank you for staying. God knows what the end will be for us all. Will you take care of St. Blaize and Papa and Régine for me?’

‘You know I will,’ she said. He took her hands and held them. Tears came into his eyes.

‘At least now you can be proud of me,’ he said.

‘I will always be that. God bless you, Jean. Come back to us.’ She came close, and for a moment they held each other.

‘I don’t want to say goodbye,’ Jean de Bernard said. ‘So just go with them now, my darling. Just go …’

Louise pulled away and ran to the little van; the passenger door was flung open for her and she jumped inside. She sat, tears running down her face, refusing to look back until they came to the edge of the road. Then suddenly she couldn’t bear it. She leaned out of the window, staring back through the trees. It was too late to see him. There was nothing visible but shadow.

They were all silent. Paul was standing in front of the fireplace, looking down at the ground; there was a frown between his eyes; his wife was sitting with her hands clasped on her lap, staring at Louise. Suddenly Sophie got up, flung her cigarette into the fire and went over to her mother. Louise glanced up and felt her daughter’s arm slip round her shoulders.

‘All right,’ Sophie said. ‘Now you’ve told us. What a hell you must have gone through. All of you.’ She bent down and kissed her.

Louise’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you, darling. I hoped you’d understand.’

‘Perhaps it’s easier for her.’ Françoise de Bernard spoke in a strained voice. ‘Sophie wouldn’t mind anything coming out—she hasn’t got a family and a position to think about. But we have!’ She faced Louise. ‘What about Paul and the election? What in God’s name would his enemies make of a story like that? His father was a collaborator who only resisted at the end—his aunt was the mistress of that dreadful butcher …’ She stopped suddenly, both hands to her mouth. ‘Oh my God—under that big rockery—is that where those bodies were buried?’

‘Yes,’ Louise answered quietly. ‘I’m afraid so. They’re still there.’

‘Oh my God! It’s horrible!’ Her daughter-in-law was sheet white. She stared at Louise, ‘And you lived here—knowing that!’

‘Let’s keep it in proportion,’ Paul de Bernard said. ‘Forget about the rockery. After all these years there’s nothing left there anyway. What you’ve told us, Mother, is exactly what that woman Minden hinted at. Only worse. She didn’t know that Régine murdered that man Vierken.

‘They’ll bring it out that you slept with that German, and that’s why he risked his life to save your children,’ Françoise said. ‘They’ll make it as sordid as they can. Two of you, you and Régine. Nobody will believe it was only once—you know what people will think … We’ll be disgraced, Paul’s career is as good as over now, if even a whisper of this gets out.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ Paul said. ‘They’ve nothing to gain by dragging mother through the dirt. All they want is a case for mitigating the sentence on Minden, something to prove he was personally humane. Saving Sophie and me is just what they need. They’ll concentrate on that. Nothing else need come out in court at all. Don’t worry about it, Mother.’

‘I think we’re trying to delude ourselves,’ Louise said. ‘That woman threatened to bring every detail out in court. And in telling the story of what Heinz Minden did, she’ll see that my part in it, his relationship with your father, Régine and Vierken, everything will be exposed. I believe she’ll do it. If she’s told the defence council all this, and I refuse to testify, they’ll have to make a big drama out of it to emphasise his heroism. But if I go to court, I need only say that he was fond of you both, and risked his own life to save you. My presence there to speak for him will have tremendous impact. That’s why not even an affidavit will satisfy them. I shall have to go and give evidence at the trial.’

‘No you won’t!’ Sophie said loudly. ‘You’re not going near any court! How do you know what they’ll ask you when you get up on the witness box—what do you think the prosecution’s going to try and make of this? They’ll tear you to pieces! As for you, Paul, if you let her do this, I’ll never speak to you again! To hell with your political career—Mother’s not going to be sacrificed.’

‘I shall be sacrificed anyway if the truth comes out,’ Louise said to them all. ‘I could bear that, but not to see you hurt, Paul’s future destroyed. Your father’s good name smeared. He was a hero, decorated for his work in the Resistance. To hear him called a collaborator would break my heart. To see your Aunt Régine’s memory disgraced … I can’t do it. I knew that even before I came down here, but I suppose I was hoping to escape. I’ll have to go to Germany.’

‘No!’ Sophie interrupted. ‘I won’t let you!’

‘I think you’ve made the right decision,’ Françoise said. She stood up, and linked her arm through her husband’s. ‘Paul would never ask you, but I know how much his political career means to him. I know how hard he’s worked for St. Blaize, and this would ruin everything for him. The whole family would be disgraced. As it is now, the Comte is a hero, his sister a Resistance heroine, killed fighting the Germans. Please, please let us keep this between us. Go to Germany and speak for this man. Otherwise we’re destroyed.’

‘No, Mother,’ Paul said. ‘Don’t do it. Not for me. I’ll withdraw my candidature. Then they can say what they like. It was a very long time ago. People won’t be all that interested if there’s no political capital to be made out of it. It’ll soon be forgotten.’

‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Louise said to them. ‘There’s nothing else to be done. I’ll telephone Ilse Minden in the morning.’ She smiled at her son. He looked strained and guilty. His arm was still linked to his wife’s, and as she watched, Louise saw them clasp hands. They were in agreement, and she couldn’t blame either of them. Paul had built his own life at St. Blaize; whether Louise and she had little in common or not, didn’t denigrate the efforts of Françoise to be a good wife and to advance his chosen career. Louise might not like her, but she appreciated her loyalty to her husband. And she even understood the shock and condemnation which the younger woman hadn’t been able to conceal. She had been brought up in the post-war world, married into a family with a reputation for heroic resistance in the late war, and had never imagined that all was not exactly as it seemed. In Françoise’s conventional world, people did not fornicate and kill, or invite a German into their bed, however patriotic the motive. She glanced up at her daughter, and saw with a pang that the face was pale, the mouth taut. Sophie had been shaken too, although she was too loyal and protective to her mother to reveal it. Not by the infidelity, but by the unconsummated love for Roger Savage. Instinctively Louise knew that to Sophie that love was a betrayal of the father she had loved so deeply, and knowing this had hurt her.

‘Thank you,’ Françoise said. Her tone was final, discounting any possibility of second thoughts. ‘I know you’ve made the right decision. Now let us go and have some dinner.’

She led the way out of the salon, into the panelled dining room. It was a silent meal, and immediately afterwards Louise excused herself and went upstairs. At the door she turned and said gently to Sophie, ‘Come and say goodnight to me.’

‘Of course.’ Love flowed between them; forgiveness was implicit in the way her daughter squeezed her and the kiss she gave was warm. ‘I’ll look in,’ she said. ‘If you’re asleep I won’t disturb you. Goodnight, darling. And don’t worry.’

But when she came Louise was wide awake. It seemed to Sophie that her mother looked much younger suddenly, sitting up in the bed with her hair hanging down like a girl’s, her face slightly in shadow.

She must have looked like that during the time when Roger Savage was at the château. She had always been aware of her mother’s beauty and elegance; now, with a sense of shock, she recognised the sexual quality that distinguished her. Louise held out her hand.

‘I’m glad you came; come and sit beside me. You’re hurt and disappointed, aren’t you?’

‘Not about Minden.’ Sophie brought out the Gauloise packet and lit a cigarette. She had chain-smoked throughout the evening.

‘You did the right thing. But the American—I was surprised, that’s all. I never thought for a moment you’d ever looked at anyone except Father. You seemed the most devoted, loving couple.’

‘And we were,’ Louise said quickly. ‘After the war when he came back, so terribly hurt and helpless, I realised that I had always loved him. And we were happy, right to the day he died. You know that.’

‘I know,’ Sophie said. ‘You did everything for him. I used to watch his face when you came into the room. It was quite something to see. I suppose I knew I’d never be able to affect anyone that way. Maybe that’s why I’ve never wanted to get married. It would never be like that for me. That’s what I thought.’ She blew smoke into the air. ‘I’d like to ask you something. If you don’t mind?’ She glanced at Louise, awkward and anxious not to hurt her.

‘You can ask anything you like,’ Louise said gently.

‘Did you ever see Roger Savage again?’

‘Yes,’ Louise answered. ‘For months I thought he was dead. Your father was fighting, the Allies were advancing. Régine and I were here with your grandfather. I couldn’t forget the last time I saw Roger. I was sure he’d died, even on the journey. I went through a very bad time, Sophie. I wouldn’t have left your father while there was any danger, and I’ll answer one question I know you won’t ask me; I never had an affair with him. But I loved him. I loved him with all my heart.’

‘Poor Mother.’ Sophie reached out to her. ‘How awful for you. Don’t talk about it any more. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Months later I got news that he was alive and recovering. He’d been sent back to America. And then he came to St. Blaize.’ Louise paused. ‘You wouldn’t remember it, but you saw him arrive. I can see you now, running into the hall, calling for me. And he followed behind you. I sent you out into the garden. He’d kept his word. He’d come back for me.’

‘And you didn’t go,’ Sophie said. ‘But you wanted to, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Louise said. ‘He wasn’t an easy man to refuse. When he wanted something he got it. But I didn’t argue with him, Sophie. I just took him into the salon and showed him your father sitting in the garden in his wheelchair. He understood why I couldn’t ever leave him. He left here and I’ve never heard from him since. That’s many years ago.’

‘It’s sad,’ Sophie said. ‘Terribly sad for both of you.’

‘I never regretted it,’ Louise said. ‘Your father was happy. That’s all that mattered.’

‘Darling,’ Sophie said suddenly. ‘Don’t go to Germany. Never mind about Paul and his bloody silly election. Don’t put yourself at these people’s mercy. I really mean it. I’m afraid of what could happen to you.’

‘Nothing will happen to me,’ Louise said. ‘I’ll give my evidence and it’ll all be over very quickly. Then I’ll come straight home.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Sophie said. ‘But I have a very nasty feeling about the whole thing.’

On the 3rd of October, exactly two weeks after Ilse Minden had come to the house in the Rue Varenne, Louise took the Lufthansa flight to Bonn. Normally she found flying peaceful; unlike many women whose nerves objected to the speed and altitude in jet flying, she was relaxed and calm in the air. On this journey she spent the hour and ten minutes in taut discomfort, wishing she had allowed Sophie to come with her. The more she tried to convince herself that the ordeal would be minimal, the more uneasy she became. Minden’s wife had been brief and non-committal on the telephone. She didn’t thank her for agreeing to help, or say anything but that Minden’s lawyer would be in touch with her. The letter, signed Siegfried Kopner, had arrived within three days; it was friendly and courteous and said all the grateful things which Ilse Minden had omitted. Temporarily Louise was reassured. Paul and Françoise accepted the tone of the letter with relief; only Sophie was sceptical. The affair with Gerard was coming to a graceless close; there were rows and mutual walk-outs, and Sophie looked pale, and had lost weight. Louise refused to have her travel to Germany. She had installed her in the Rue Varenne, where she could escape the importunities and tantrums of her lover, and promised to send for her when the trial began. At Bonn airport she found a uniformed chauffeur waiting with her name written on a card. He bowed and spoke in clumsy French, ‘Herr Kopner’s compliments and I’m taking you to your hotel.’

The gesture was unexpected. So too were the flowers she found in her hotel room. Welcome to Bonn. Siegfried Kopner. It was a luxurious hotel, the Steigenberger Hof; smartly decorated in modern style without extremes of taste. She dined alone in the large dining room, watched by groups of business men who interrupted their conversations and negotiations long enough to admire the elegance and beauty of the new arrival. She felt lonely and conspicuous, more of an alien in the atmosphere than she had ever felt before, and since Jean’s death she had travelled every spring. Her last trip had been to Mexico. She was neither shy nor self-conscious about going anywhere alone; but in the heavy chic of that German hotel dining room, Louise felt a sense of total isolation. The food was excellent, the service impeccable; she ate very little and didn’t look round her. A large middle-aged man at a nearby table was staring at her openly. There was an appointment with Siegfried Kopner for the next morning at eleven. If it wouldn’t inconvenience her, he preferred the meeting to be in his office.

This country and these people, clean, efficient, polite, were the background of Heinz Minden, who had worked on a project to kill millions, and yet risked himself to save two children of whom he had grown fond. It was the birthplace of Adolph Vierken.

It was impossible to fault them or to explain the feeling of disquiet which was increasing. Perhaps it was the reflex of the war, of years spent equating the sound of German with tyranny and fear. Perhaps the sight of that schoolhouse ringed with armed men, and the huge empty pit at Chemire, which she had gone to see after the Allies took St. Blaize in their advance, had prejudiced her for ever. She didn’t know the reason, but she found it very difficult to sleep that night.

The next morning was crisp and sunny; she went for a walk, hoping to admire the city. The charm of the old University City was being eroded, its shape deformed by modern buildings, post-war constructions without beauty or tradition, but there was no attempt to hide its affluence. The cars were sleek and expensive, the shops full of luxuries, priced very high. She found nothing to admire except the weather, which was beautiful. At ten-forty she found a taxi and went to Kopner’s office on Hofgarten Strasse.

It was a twenty-storey block, built in granite and glass, and it glittered in the sunshine like an iceberg. His office was on the nineteenth floor; she went up in a soundless lift, arriving in seconds without any sensation of having moved at all.

A smart, attractive secretary showed her into a private waiting room. It was sparsely but beautifully furnished in contemporary style, and there was a fine Klee drawing on one wall. She lit a cigarette and waited. She insisted, almost angrily, that there was no reason to be nervous.

Her watch showed that she was early, by three minutes. At eleven o’clock exactly the secretary came in, smiled and said, ‘Come with me, please. Herr Kopner is expecting you.’

He was a tall man, with receding fair hair and bright blue eyes, soberly but expensively dressed, and when they shook hands, he smelt strongly of toilet-water. He made no attempt to hide his admiration. He kissed her hand and gave a little bow. ‘This is a great pleasure, Comtesse. Please come and sit over here. Cigarette?’

Louise took one out of the handsome aluminium box and he was beside her immediately with a light. The smell of his toilet-water or after-shave, whatever it was, was overpowering.

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ Siegfried Kopner said. He had great confidence in his capacity to charm, and he exerted it to the limit. He thought the American woman exceptionally attractive; he had a weakness for good legs, and hers were beautiful, showing discreetly under the dark sealskin coat. Feet also appealed to him; hers were narrow and high arched, clad in hand-made calf shoes. He looked at her and smiled. No wonder poor Minden had made a fool of himself. If she was this striking now, how much more at that time …

‘Thank you for the car,’ Louise said. ‘And the flowers. It was very kind of you.’

‘I hope your hotel is comfortable?’

‘Yes, it’s very nice.’

‘I have all the data for the defence here,’ Kopner said; he laid his hand on a thick hessian folder. ‘I saw Heinz Minden yesterday and I told him you would be coming. He was very grateful.’

‘I want to help if I can,’ Louise said. ‘Could you explain exactly what the charge against him is?’

‘Certainly. He’s accused of crimes against humanity in that he was working on a nerve gas, which is a weapon outlawed by the Geneva Convention. Unfortunately experiments were carried out upon political prisoners in the early stages of testing the formula, but my client was not concerned with the development of the gas until after this had happened. Otherwise, I’m afraid we would not have any defence to offer.’

‘No,’ Louise said. The image of a woman, clasping a child in her arms as she died in terrible convulsions, passed through her mind as he spoke. ‘No, you couldn’t possibly defend that.’

‘Believe me, Madame de Bernard, I wouldn’t try.’ He leaned towards her earnestly. ‘I assure you, I abhor the crimes committed by the Nazis. It’s because I know that Heinz Minden is an honest man who was misguided, that I’ve agreed to take his case. You must believe that.’

‘I’m sorry for him,’ Louise said. ‘He was never a bad man, Herr Kopner. He had human feelings; that’s more than you could say for some of the others.’

‘Adolph Vierken?’ He said the name with a slight smile, a suggestion of sympathy, on his mouth. ‘A monster; a psychopath. Every country in the world has them, but it was just Germany’s misfortune to be ruled by the biggest madman of them all. I must say, Frau Minden’s story is a little hard to believe. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?’

‘No. If you feel they’ll be helpful.’

‘In order to make the most of your testimony, Madame, I must have a clear picture of the facts, all the facts, in my mind. Then the prosecution can’t spring any surprises. Not, I assure you, that your evidence will be contested. Now, may I ask you something very personal—was Heinz Minden in love with you?’

‘Yes,’ Louise answered quietly. ‘He was.’

Kopner cleared his throat. ‘His wife says that you had an affaire with him. Is that true?’

‘He made love to me once; that was all.’

‘I see.’ Again he cleared his throat. He half rose from his desk, holding the cigarette box towards her. Louise shook her head.

‘May I ask you how it happened?’

‘I’d rather not discuss it. It hasn’t any relevance to your case.’

‘I understand,’ he nodded. The look of friendly sympathy had never left his face. He watched her with caution, even with respect. One night. She didn’t want to give the details. She could refuse to answer now, but when they were in court …

‘And your sister-in-law Régine de Bernard—she was killed fighting for the Resistance, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Louise said. ‘She was acting as a liaison for my husband’s group, when she was stopped by an army patrol outside Chartres and shot trying to escape.’

‘Yet according to Frau Minden, she told Heinz Minden that she was not only Adolph Vierken’s mistress but that she was in love with him. Is this the truth? I have to ask you these things, Madame, because I have only Frau Minden’s word, second hand from her husband. He won’t discuss any of it, even with me. I have to be sure she’s not exaggerating.’

‘She’s not,’ Louise answered. ‘It is perfectly true. When Vierken disappeared and Régine discovered what he had planned to do to the children, she changed completely. She became a patriot.’

‘His disappearance has always fascinated me,’ Kopner said casually. ‘But then the Resistance knew how to hide their victims.’

The word victim stabbed at her, sharp with warning. She looked into the blue eyes and saw nothing there but friendliness, good will.

‘I’d hardly call Adolph Vierken a victim.’

Kopner mentally kicked at himself. Hard. This was not a woman to be treated carelessly. She was far too intelligent; and not afraid to speak her mind. He was unused to being corrected so sharply and a little colour came up under his well-barbered skin.

‘An unhappy choice of words,’ he said. ‘My English is not as good as I would wish. What was the relationship, between Heinz Minden and the rest of the family? Did he get on well with your husband, for example?’

‘Very well,’ Louise said. She took a cigarette out of her case and lit it, forestalling him by seconds. ‘He was very generous at a time when we could get very little of anything; he was friendly and never intruded. My husband liked him. He used to play with the children and even go up and sit with my father-in-law. He was an invalid and rather senile. Everyone liked Heinz Minden in the house.’

Yes, Kopner thought, watching her, everyone except you. You didn’t like him and it shows by the way you speak. You’re trying to be sorry for him, to be impartial. But you hated him; you used his love for you, and because of that love he endangered his life to save your children …

‘Would you ever have described him as a typical Nazi? You know the type, arrogant, bullying?’

‘No, never. He was a quiet man, anxious to be friendly.’

‘Good,’ Kopner said. ‘Excellent. And you will say all this in court? You will speak of him as you have done to me?’

‘If you want me to, yes. Because it’s the truth. He was like that.’

‘When did your husband die, Madame?’

‘Ten years ago. Why do you ask?’

‘Just for my file,’ Kopner said. ‘He was a very brave man, highly decorated, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. He was shot in the back during a battle with a German patrol, and he spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.’

‘Heinz Minden thought very highly of him,’ he said. ‘He often talked about him to his wife. He described him as a man of peace.’

‘And so he was,’ Louise said. ‘He always hoped to find a reasonable solution to any problem. He hated war and he hated the waste of life.’

‘So it was really the S.S. action against the children that changed him?’

‘Yes it was. It changed the whole village, overnight.’

‘Overnight,’ he repeated. ‘Naturally. What an unspeakable crime—it’s almost incredible that my countrymen could contemplate such a thing. To murder children. Madame de Bernard, I would like to say something to you.’ He stood up; it was a little theatrical as if he were facing an audience.

‘I think it is wonderful of you to come and give evidence on behalf of a German, after what happened at St. Blaize en Yvelines. It shows a truly generous spirit.’

‘I owe it to him,’ Louise said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to come, to open up the past again. But he deserves to be judged on the good as well as the bad. There is one point I would like you to clarify, Herr Kopner. My evidence will consist only of an account of how he took my children from the school and brought them to Baroness de Cizalle in Paris? Nothing else will be mentioned?’

‘Nothing,’ Kopner said. ‘You will be asked for those details and nothing more. Anything else we have discussed is quite irrelevant. You can be assured of that.’

He pressed his intercom button and spoke in German. A woman’s voice answered him. ‘I have ordered you a taxi,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you down to the front hall.’

‘That isn’t necessary,’ Louise protested. She didn’t want to stand about with him, making small talk. ‘I know you’re terribly busy. Please don’t bother.’

‘It will be a pleasure.’ He took her elbow and walked with her out of the offices into the passage. The same atomic type lift shot them to the ground floor, and there, drawn up by the pavement, a taxi cab was waiting. He took Louise’s hand and made the obligatory pretence of kissing it. ‘One thing,’ he said. ‘Would you be prepared to see Heinz Minden before the trial? I can get permission.’ She hesitated. The idea of going to a prison to see someone who must now be an old man repelled her. Kopner looked as if he expected her to agree.

Despising herself, Louise said, ‘If it would help, but I’d rather …’

‘Thank you,’ he said quickly. ‘I think it would help him. I’ll arrange a visiting time and telephone you later. This evening—about eight o’clock?’

‘All right.’ Louise got into the taxi. ‘Would you tell him to take me back to my hotel, please.’

He closed the door, made her a little bow, and spoke rapidly, and in a brisk tone, to the driver. He waved his hand a little as she drove away, and then vanished back into the building. She knew, without being able to rationalise it, that agreeing to see Heinz Minden was the first mistake.

At twelve-thirty Siegfried Kopner left his office. He used a taxi rather than the chauffeur-driven Mercedes which was garaged in the basement of the office block.

He had decided to let the Comtesse de Bernard find her own way to the appointment; the same quirk of meanness which smoked the disgusting cigarettes, resented saving her money on taxi fares. Being met at the airport and greeted by flowers in the hotel should surely be enough to make the right impression. His reason for not using his own car was different; he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going. Chauffeurs talked; so did secretaries. His appointment was extremely confidential. He arrived at one o’clock at a large house in the Venusberg district, a smart residential complex, with large expensive houses and gardens. He ran hastily up the steps of a big red sandstone house, built within the last ten years, and disappeared inside. Nobody saw him go in; it was the lunch hour and his compatriots were devoting themselves to eating lunch. Meals in Germany were a serious ritual. It was almost more important to enjoy food than to enjoy life.

The house was heavily furnished, mahogany and gilt, ugly pictures, a massive bronze equestrian group in the hall. He was shown in to a study by a manservant, who didn’t ask his name. A man, slightly built, with white hair and a proud face, rose from an armchair and came to meet him. They shook hands. Kopner was stiff, deferential. For a moment or two his host kept him standing. They discussed the weather for two or three sentences, paying tribute to some convention that would not allow them to mention their real business immediately. Then the old man asked him to sit down.

‘We will have some wine,’ he said. ‘And we lunch in fifteen minutes. My wife and family are unfortunately not at home.’ Kopner, who had not expected anything else, expressed regret. The man he had come to see was one of the most influential politicians in Bonn.

‘Well, Herr Kopner,’ he said. ‘What happened this morning?’

‘I had a very useful interview with the lady,’ Kopner said.

‘And what sort of impression will she make in court?’

‘Exactly what we want. She is extremely attractive, very poised. The contrast between her and Minden should strengthen our case. She admitted that they had been lovers. Also that her sister-in-law was the S.S. commander’s mistress. She described her husband, the Resistance hero, as a man who hated war and always sought a compromise whenever possible.’

‘That’s very encouraging,’ the old man said. He had poured a glass of iced Riesling for Kopner and a slightly larger one for himself. He sipped it, showing appreciation. ‘I hope she didn’t suspect what line your questions will take?’

‘I’m sure she didn’t. We parted on friendly terms and she has agreed to see Minden. I’ll arrange a visit tomorrow morning. She didn’t want to go, but I persuaded her.’

‘And you think that’s wise?’

‘I think the newspapers will make a very interesting item of it,’ Kopner said. ‘After all, here is a man accused of war crimes, being visited in prison by the Frenchwoman with whom he was in love during the war. A wealthy lady with a title, prepared to come and testify for him. That alone will blur the public image of a Nazi murderer.’

‘Not the tabloids, I hope. We mustn’t have sensationalism at this stage.’

‘The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Very respectable. There will be foreign syndications, of course.’

‘I look forward to reading it.’ A smile flitted over his mouth and then disappeared. ‘I have great confidence in your ability, Herr Kopner. If you can manœuvre this case in the way that our party wants, your political future is assured. You have my word on that.’ Kopner bent forward from the waist; it was difficult to bow when sitting down, but he accomplished it.

‘My one wish is to serve my country,’ he said. ‘I have lived with shame and reproach all my life, and I have refused to deny my pride in being German. It’s time what happened in the war was seen in its true perspective. The vindictive hounding of men for doing their duty in defence of their country has gone on unchecked for all these years. If we can gain an acquittal for Heinz Minden, or a suspended sentence, there may be an end to these trials. And a political rebuff to the people who advocate them. It’s time we stopped hiding from the past, and cringing before the world. What happened at St. Blaize en Yvelines was a military operation, a so-called atrocity, which in fact never took place, and Germans are vilified while the people who collaborated and battened off them are described as heroes. There will be no heroes left by the time this case is over. Just let me get Madame de Bernard into the witness-box.’

‘That, my dear Herr Kopner,’ the old man said quietly, ‘is what we are waiting for. Now let us go in to lunch.’

Bonn prison was a dark stone block, situated in the old part of the city. It was approached by electrically operated gates, and guarded by armed men. Kopner had collected Louise at nine that morning, and passed the short travelling time in explaining to her that she would find Minden very much changed. She was annoyed and embarrassed by the sympathy in his tone, as if he were preparing her for a reunion which must by its nature be a painful one. Without saying so, he conveyed the impression that her relationship with Minden had been more prolonged than the single incident she had described. Her discomfort changed to dread when they passed through the gates, Kopner being quickly recognised and admitted, and were actually within the precincts of the prison itself. It was horribly oppressive, dingy and impersonal, a dungeon for the mind as much as the body. More electrically operated gates, more men with dour faces in grey-green uniforms, horribly reminiscent of men she had known years ago, with the same harsh look of authority. Then they were in a small room, with a plain table and two chairs, lit by fluorescent lighting. The walls were painted a dull slate blue; the effect was chilling and metallic. She turned to Kopner. ‘What a dreadful place—how long has he been in here?’

‘For two years.’ The bland face smiled at her. She thought suddenly that to this pleasant, highly cultured man, there was nothing offensive about the stone cage in which his fellow men were shut away. A warder opened the door; there was a brief conversation between him and Kopner, and when he returned a moment later he brought a third chair. ‘Sit down,’ Siegfried Kopner said. ‘They’ve gone to bring him up. I’m afraid smoking is forbidden.’ There was a large notice on the wall, printed in Shcrift, of which the prohibition of smoking was only one of the rules.

Louise sat down; the chair was wooden and hard. She gripped her handbag tighter than she realised, and waited for the door to open. When it did, she didn’t recognise the man who came in, a warder behind him. He was quite short, whereas her memory of Heinz Minden was of a tall man, well built. His hair was grey and his eyes sunken into his face. Kopner came towards him. He spoke to him in German, and then in French. ‘Here is Madame de Bernard. She’s come to help you.’

Louise stood up and slowly they approached each other. He looked at her without saying anything. She held out her hand, and after a second’s pause he took it. His hand was dry, and it trembled.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Heinz Minden said, and the voice was the same. ‘This is no place for you.’ He let her hand go and turned to Kopner. ‘You shouldn’t have done this. I told Ilse and I told you. I don’t want Madame de Bernard mixed up in this.’

‘Sit down,’ the lawyer said. ‘Madame de Bernard wanted to come. She wanted to see you. For old times’ sake.’ He turned away and walked over to the notice. His back was to them, leaving them alone as far as he could.

‘How are you?’ Louise said at last. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘We’ll sit down,’ Heinz Minden said quietly. ‘I only have twenty minutes; they don’t count this as a legal visit. They’re very strict about visitors.’ He shook his head suddenly; the hair was very white. ‘I won’t see Ilse today; I’m only allowed one visit a week.’

Kopner spoke without turning round. ‘You’ll see her tomorrow. I got special permission for Madame de Bernard to come.’

‘I’m going to give evidence for you,’ Louise said. ‘I’m going to tell them how you saved Paul and Sophie.’

‘They told me,’ he said. Now the eyes were fixed on her; they were bright in the prison-grey face, and the look in them was the same as it had always been. She had a sudden flash of understanding for his wife. ‘You’re as beautiful as ever,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed at all. How are the children—they’re grown up now, of course, but I still think of them as they were …’

‘Paul is married, he has two children. He lives at St. Blaize now. Sophie isn’t married; she’s very modern about these things.’

‘That’s a pity,’ Minden said. ‘The world is changing. I haven’t seen my sons since I was arrested. But my wife has been very loyal to me. I wish you’d go home!’

‘I can’t,’ Louise said quietly. ‘You need my evidence. I want to give it.’ Now, having seen him, it was true. On an impulse she put out a hand to him. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘Your wife told me you’d had a very bad time since the war. I was so sorry things turned out like this for you.’

‘You shouldn’t be,’ he said. ‘I deserve it. Me and people like me who supported them. I’ve had years to think about it. I deserve to be punished.’ Behind him, Siegfried Kopner’s back went stiff.

Minden looked at Louise and smiled slightly. Old and physically broken, he had a strange dignity. ‘I am quite resigned to what will happen,’ he said. ‘It is very kind of you to try to help me. But any human being would have done what I did. I was very fond of your children. And of you. I never forgot you.’

‘If you lie down, you’ll be walked on.’ Siegfried Kopner spoke suddenly. His voice was cold and he looked impatient. ‘If you go into that court and hang your head and ask to be punished, you’ll stay in here for the rest of your life. One letter a month, one visit every three months. Solitary confinement as a special case. Madame de Bernard! For God’s sake, try and convince him that he’s got to fight. He wasn’t responsible for what he was making—it was a weapon of war!’

‘Gas was forbidden under the Geneva Convention,’ Minden said. ‘You know that, Herr Kopner. It won’t do you any good to defend me. You’ll be accused of sympathising with the Nazis. Enter a plea of guilty, let Madame de Bernard go home to her family, and leave me in peace!’

‘Think of your wife and your sons,’ Kopner urged him. He shrugged in Louise’s direction. ‘He mustn’t take this defeatist attitude. He will be his own worst enemy.’

‘Try not to give up,’ she said. ‘What’s done is done now. And Herr Kopner said in the car coming here he thought you’d get a suspended sentence. That wouldn’t be too bad.’

‘Herr Kopner is an optimist,’ Minden said. ‘Tell me, how is the Comte?’

‘He’s dead,’ Louise said. ‘He died ten years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.’

‘Yes,’ Louise said. ‘He was.’ They both heard the door open, and the warder come into the room. He spoke to Minden, who got up.

‘You have to go now,’ he said. He held out his hand, and she shook it. He didn’t bow, or kiss it. He was very much changed.

‘I am glad to have seen you,’ he said. The moist brown eyes gazed at her and the years fled. ‘But if you really want to help me, don’t listen to Herr Kopner or my wife. Go home. Stay away from this. And God bless you.’

Then he was gone. Kopner came to her side. ‘He’s been here too long,’ he said. He sounded a little brusque, as if he were trying to minimise what Minden had said. ‘He’s given up hope of justice.’

‘Perhaps,’ Louise answered him slowly, ‘perhaps it’s justice that he wants.’ They walked out of the main building in silence. As they reached Kopner’s car, Louise had an impression of a group of men converging on them from the gates. Seconds later the first photographer ran up and snapped his camera in her face.

Sophie looked at her mother’s old friend Raoul Delabraye. She had dismissed him for years as a dull, conventional man, plodding on in pursuit of Louise. She had made fun of him and worried in spasms in case he persuaded her mother to marry him. She remembered that morning when Ilse Minden came to the Rue Varenne, he had just telephoned to take Louise to the Opera and she had made a slighting remark about him. Now, sitting opposite him in the Ritz lounge, she saw why Louise liked him, and why he was her most regular escort. Grey haired, very well dressed, impeccable manners and a gentle voice; none of these appealed to Sophie who saw them as varieties of stuffiness. But there was strength and reliability; and kindness. She had come to ask his help and she felt ashamed of her intolerance. She carried a copy of Le Monde.

‘Have you seen this?’

‘Yes,’ Raoul said. ‘There was another photograph in Figaro and the story was worse. “Comtesse to defend war criminal.” It was almost libellous.’

‘It’s terrible,’ Sophie said. ‘The whole slant that’s been put upon it is making Mother look like this bloody man’s mistress. As if they’d been lovers! I’m very worried for her, Raoul. I felt I had to come and see you—you’re such an old friend.’

‘What can I do?’ he asked her. ‘If she’d told me, I’d have done my best to stop her going there. I don’t trust these people; a war crimes trial is a very nasty business. I wish you’d come and told me before—why didn’t your brother go with her? I can’t understand it.’

‘My brother is so terrified of being connected with it, Mother wouldn’t hear of it. He did offer, I must admit that. But she was blackmailed into going; that’s why she didn’t tell you. Minden’s wife threatened her if she didn’t give evidence. And because of Paul and his career. Mother gave it. I’m going to fly to Bonn tomorrow; the trial opens the day afterwards, but I feel she needs a man there with her. I want you to come with me.’

‘What was the blackmail? Can you tell me?’

‘No,’ Sophie answered. ‘I’m sorry. But it doesn’t reflect any blame on Mother. You must believe that.’

‘Knowing her as I do,’ Raoul said, ‘I couldn’t believe anything else. I’ve been thinking about this story. It must have been a planned leak to the press. Somebody wanted the spotlight to turn on Louise, and show her in a certain light. And you’re right, my dear. She is going to need help. Would you pour me some tea—I’m afraid it may be cold. We quite forgot it.’

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’ Sophie poured him a cup and some for herself. Tea at the Ritz was a pleasant ritual, enjoyed by little groups of people sitting in the handsome lounge. Silver, fine porcelain and delicious small cakes; an atmosphere of placid elegance. Sophie lit a cigarette. ‘Will you come?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’m the one to help in this. Moral support won’t be enough. When she goes into that court she’s going to need more than a faithful old friend sitting in the background. Neither of us, my dear Sophie, are what she needs. We weren’t at St. Blaize, we’ve nothing to contribute. She will be at the mercy of the prosecution; perhaps even of the defence. I know this man Kopner’s reputation. He’s an ambitious politician, a self-publicised lawyer who’s putting himself up for election to the Bundestag. He’s undertaken this man’s defence because it’s going to be a major trial and he will be centre stage. The very thought of Louise being in the hands of such people horrifies me. No; I won’t be much help to her. But I know exactly who would. And I’m sure he’d come to her, wherever he is, if he knew what was happening.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Sophie said. She had flushed, without knowing why. Even before she heard the name, she had tensed up against it.

‘Roger Savage,’ Raoul Delabraye said. ‘The man who was there at the time. And he is a lawyer too.’

‘How did you know about him?’ Sophie said. She crushed out her cigarette. ‘Why did Mother tell you?’

‘Because he is the reason she won’t marry me,’ he said quietly. ‘Or anyone else. She still loves him.’

‘She loved my father,’ Sophie said. ‘That other man was years ago. She can’t still care about him. It’s not possible.’

‘I wish I could agree with you. I’ve been in love with your mother ever since I met her, but I know I haven’t got a hope. I’ve learned to be content with being her friend. And as her friend I know she needs this other man to help her now. It will be ironic, don’t you think, for me to bring them both together?’

‘He’s probably married,’ Sophie said angrily. ‘He won’t care what happens to someone he knew all that time ago. Men aren’t that faithful.’ She had a painful memory of Gerard as she said it. He had left her life as abruptly as he had come into it. Without the courtesy of goodbye. She was not hurt, she insisted, only angry. He had also left her apartment in a filthy mess. Then she thought of something. ‘You’ll never find him,’ she said. ‘Roger Savage wasn’t his real name. It was the name of Mother’s cousin, who’d died.’

‘It was his wartime name,’ Raoul said. ‘I have a very good friend in the State Department. I’m sure he could find him for me. He received a decoration for his work against the Germans. I think we’ll manage it, between us. And in that case, I should go now. I’ll put in a call to Washington when I get home; the time difference is about right.’

‘If he does come back,’ Sophie said, ‘and he isn’t married …’

‘I will lose what little of your mother I have now,’ he said gently. ‘But if it saves her being hurt in any way, then it is worth it.’

Sophie stood up. She despised the social habit of kissing on the cheek; she held out her hand.

‘I take it back,’ she said. ‘Some men are faithful. I suppose I’ve been picking the wrong ones.’

‘Go to Bonn and look after her,’ Raoul Delabraye said. ‘And try not to worry. Say nothing to her about this. Just leave it with me.’

The court was full; when Louise, Sophie holding her arm protectively, came in to take her seat, there was a loud hum of interest; people turned to stare at her. The trial had been in progress for four days. On Kopner’s advice, Louise stayed away until he decided it was time to call her evidence, and she was only too relieved not to be present. The newspapers and German Television carried daily reports. Minden’s chances looked poor; the prosecution had made out a damning case against him. His participation in Brühl’s hideous project was established earlier than the six months he had spent on the staff at Château Diane. He had been engaged on research work the previous year, although not part of the team which had operated in Auschwitz. His membership of the Nazi party was lifelong, his record of allegiance to it unswerving. For years he had lived in hiding, fully aware of his criminal record. The prosecutor was a flamboyant personality, who was presenting the court with a picture which Louise herself knew to be grossly exaggerated. The Minden she had known at St. Blaize bore no relation to the callous Nazi fanatic portrayed at the trial. On the morning when her own evidence was to be given, there was an early telephone call from Siegfried Kopner.

‘Just to assure you, Madame de Bernard,’ his voice said briskly. ‘You needn’t be nervous. I will see you in the court. My car will come for you at nine o’clock.’

Before she had time to ask any questions he had said goodbye and hung up. The court was a large one, decorated in pale green; the panel of three judges and six jurors sat on a raised platform at the far end. The chair for witnesses was to their left. It was the first thing she saw, apart from the crowded rows of seats. At the entrance to the Criminal Court itself, they had run a gauntlet of photographers; Sophie had swung her shoulder bag at one who tried to block their way. Shaken, Louise hurried into the building, where they couldn’t follow her, and was met by one of Kopner’s clerks. She took her place in the front of the court on the defence side. It was pointed out, politely, that Mademoiselle de Bernard would have to sit in the body of the court. Louise sat down, and immediately Siegfried Kopner came beside her. The same flowery toilet water smell enveloped her; she leaned a little away from him.

‘I open the defence this morning,’ he said. ‘And you are my star witness. You mustn’t be nervous. And answer my questions as fully as you can.’

‘It’s going badly for him, isn’t it?’ Louise asked.

‘The prosecution has made a strong case,’ Kopner said. ‘But they’ve said no more than I expected. You are his only chance, Madame.’ For a moment the blue eyes were cold, the look of friendliness was gone. There was a suggestion in his tone that somehow she was to blame for something.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Louise said. The sensation of being stared at was overpowering; she lowered her head for a moment, seeking to hide from it. The feeling increased. She glanced towards the left of the dais, and recognised the prosecuting lawyer from his photographs. He looked at her with hostility. On an impulse, Louise turned round and found Ilse Minden seated behind her. There was no smile, no nod of recognition. She looked thinner, more lined, and there was a tense expression on her face. As her eyes met Louise’s glance, there was hate in them. And expectation. Louise turned to the clerk beside her. The heat seemed overpowering suddenly …

‘Could I have a glass of water? Thank you.’

Two doors at the side of the raised platform opened; everyone stood up, with a regimented unanimity, and the three judges came in. They wore loose black robes and white neckties. The most senior took his centre seat as President of the Court. There was a command called out in German; the spectators sat down again, and through a second door, on the opposite side of the judges, Heinz Minden came into the court and took his place on the right.

He wore a dark suit and a white shirt, the collar of which stood away from his neck; it made him look old and pitiable. Kopner, who knew the value of visual impressions, had told his wife to bring a size larger than the normal. He didn’t look at the judges; immediately he searched the front rank, and when he saw Louise, an expression of distress was clearly visible. She smiled at him, trying to show encouragement. In return he shook his head. Then he clasped his hands and stared down at them. Siegfried Kopner got up, pushing his chair back; the court was so quiet that it made a loud rasp on the floorboards.

He faced the judges, one hand tucked into his gown. ‘If it pleases you, Herr President, I shall open the defence case for Heinz Minden by calling my first witness. My only witness.’ There was a sharp hiss of breath from behind him, coming from the tightly packed hall. ‘I shall call someone who has travelled from Paris at her own behest to speak on behalf of the man you have heard described by my learned colleague as an inhuman monster, a man who worked on an infamous weapon without a scruple of conscience for its effect upon helpless human beings. I call the Comtesse de Bernard to come before the court!’

There was a touch upon Louise’s arm; one of the court officials had come up to her, and with an outstretched hand was showing her the way to the witness chair. As she walked the short distance, passing under the judges’ eyes, there was a low murmur from the crowd. She took her place in the chair, and swore the oath. Kopner advanced towards her. He walked slowly, his gown swinging round his legs, his head thrust forward. He came to a stop in front of her.

‘Madame de Bernard, you are the widow of Comte Jean de Bernard, a hero of the wartime French Resistance, are you not?’

‘Yes, I am his widow.’

‘Would you tell the learned judges how you came to know the accused, Heinz Minden.’

‘He was billeted in our house, the Château de St. Blaize, at St. Blaize en Yvelines.’

‘During what period of time?’

‘About seven months; from November 1943 until June 1944.’

‘What was his attitude to you and to your family while he was living in your house?’

‘He was very friendly.’

‘What does “friendly” mean, in this context, Madame? Describe what forms this friendliness took, if you please.’

‘He used to bring us things—things we couldn’t get. He got his batman to help in the house.’

‘When you say “things” I assume you mean food and drink? Luxuries, perhaps.’

‘Yes, that would be correct.’ He wasn’t looking directly at Louise, although she was impelled to watch him, trying to anticipate his questions. At present their purpose seemed confused. He moved about, shifting from one foot to the other, addressing his questions more to the judges than to her.

‘And you accepted these presents from Heinz Minden?’

‘My husband did.’ It was said before she realised that she had made the distinction. Kopner paused, and looked at her.

‘Your husband accepted presents from Major Minden? Can I assume he wasn’t in the Resistance at this time?’

‘No,’ Louise said. ‘He wasn’t.’

‘So up to June 1944, your husband, who was afterwards so heroic, was not engaged in any anti-German activity at all?’

‘No.’

‘Describe the relationship between you, and your family and Major Minden. Please address yourself to the judges, Madame, and not to me.’

She moved a little in the chair. Nervousness made the judges’ faces seem a blur. She had said something which had put Jean in a false light, but how—what …

‘I will repeat the question.’ Kopner raised his voice. ‘Did you and your family get on well with Major Minden? Did he take meals with you, for instance?’

‘He dined with us every evening.’

‘As a person, Madame de Bernard, how would you describe him?’

‘He was very quiet; he never intruded.’

‘He didn’t force his company upon you then?’

‘No. He was invited.’

‘By your husband—they got on well, didn’t they?’

‘Yes.’

‘The prosecution has described Heinz Minden as an ardent Nazi, a man without humanity. Was that your impression of him?’

‘No. He seemed perfectly ordinary to me.’

‘Perfectly ordinary,’ Kopner repeated, raising his voice. ‘A typical German from a middle-class background, serving his country in a war. Would you agree with that description?’

For the first time Louise hesitated. ‘I can’t say that exactly. I know nothing about typical Germans. I only knew Nazis occupying France.’

‘Nazis like Adolph Vierken, the S.S. commander who was sent on a punitive expedition against your village?’

It didn’t seem to need an answer and she didn’t say anything. One of the judges leaned towards her.

‘Please answer the defence counsel’s question.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘A lot has been written about that incident at St. Blaize en Yvelines. It might be described as one of the most publicised Resistance operations in Europe. The battle with the S.S. The rescue of the children who were being deported.’

Deported. Suddenly she was stiff with alarm; her hands gripped the chair seat. He had said deported. It was a deliberate misrepresentation. The face looking down at her was harsh and full of enmity; the mask had been ripped away.

‘They weren’t going to be deported,’ Louise protested. ‘They were going to …’

‘The witness will confine herself to answering questions. She is not allowed to comment.’ The President’s voice cut across her reply. ‘Proceed, Doctor Kopner.’

‘Your Honours, members of the jury.’ Kopner addressed the judges above him. ‘In order to establish the case for my client, I need to elaborate on the situation in which he found himself. I assure the court I have a definite point to put before you.’

‘Proceed,’ the senior judge said again. Kopner turned back to Louise.

‘Heinz Minden was on General Brühl’s staff at the Château de Diane when he was billeted with you. Were you aware of the nature of his work?’

‘No. God forbid.’

‘When did you become aware of it?’

‘When I was told what he was doing. In May.’

‘Until then he had impressed you as just another army officer? You had no suspicion that you were in fact entertaining in your family a fanatical Nazi scientist, bent on destroying the human race with a nerve gas?’

‘No.’

‘Up till that month of May, everyone at the Château and in the village itself had lived at peace with the occupying German forces, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Until just before the invasion, in fact. There was no sabotage, no outbreaks of violence against the army?’

‘Nothing. But then two years before …’

‘You have answered my question already,’ Kopner interrupted her. ‘Nothing, you said, no resistance, no hostility to the German troops. They can hardly have been such brutal Nazis, can they? Any more than Major Minden, who was made so welcome in your house. Would you tell the court what changed this state of affairs, apart perhaps from the imminence of the Allied invasion …’

In the body of the court Sophie de Bernard watched her mother. At one stage in the questioning, Louise had flushed; now she was terribly pale. The atmosphere in the court was quivering with tension. It was obvious to those observing that Minden’s counsel was treating Louise de Bernard as a hostile witness. And it was even more apparent to Sophie that his questions were taking a completely different direction to the one her mother had anticipated.

‘Why did Adolph Vierken come to St. Blaize?’

‘To punish the village.’

‘And what crime had this peaceful, might I say, collaborationist community committed, to bring the S.S. upon them?’

‘There had been two murders,’ Louise said slowly. Her throat felt tight, and she swallowed. Now she was on guard, watching her answers, trying blindly to protect herself from a menace that she didn’t understand. He wasn’t defending Heinz Minden so much as attacking her. Attacking the people of St. Blaize. And Jean de Bernard.

‘Explain, if you please. Who was murdered, and by whom?’

‘General Brühl,’ Louise said. ‘He wasn’t murdered, that was the wrong word. He was killed, by an Allied agent. To stop the gas being made.’

‘I see,’ Kopner said. ‘And the village sheltered the killer: isn’t that right? They hid a man who broke into the Château Diane and murdered two Germans with his bare hands. And they were not aware that General Brühl was anything but an ordinary serving officer in the Wehrmacht at the time?’

‘Nobody knew what he really was,’ Louise said.

‘So, perhaps understandably, the German authorities were angry. They sent Adolph Vierken with his S.S. troops to investigate. Was Adolph Vierken known to you?’

‘No,’ Louise said. Visibly, Kopner sneered. He half turned his back on her, almost addressing the spectators. There was a movement among the prosecutor’s seats. She didn’t look at them; she saw only Heinz Minden staring at her.

‘Not to any of you? To your husband?’

‘No,’ Louise said. Régine. She knew what was going to happen. She knew now that she had been tricked and lied to, that whatever this man wanted, it was not so much the vindication of Heinz Minden as the ruin of the de Bernard family.

‘You did not know Adolph Vierken. Your husband, who was so friendly to the German officer staying in his house, he didn’t know him either. But your sister-in-law Regine de Bernard did!’

‘I object to this line of questioning!’ The prosecutor was on his feet, advancing over the floor towards them. For a moment Louise’s vision swam. ‘It is completely out of order. It has no relevance to the case!’

‘It has every relevance,’ Kopner snarled at him. ‘Heinz Minden is on trial for crimes against humanity. I am going to prove that he was more humane than the people who accuse him! That in the sordid and despicable story I am going to lay before the court, his was the only honourable, decent action!’

‘Your objection is overruled.’ The President spoke to the prosecutor. ‘Continue, Doctor Kopner.’

‘Your sister-in-law, Régine de Bernard, was another Resistance heroine, was she not?’ Now his tone was soft, insinuating.

‘Yes,’ Louise answered boldly. ‘She died fighting for her country. And whatever you say won’t alter that.’

‘But she was still the mistress of Adolph Vierken?’ Kopner raised his voice to a shout. ‘There we have this typical French household in this typical French village; the aristocrats at the château pretending friendship to Heinz Minden while they battened on his generosity to supply themselves with rationed goods, the sister of the heroic Comte de Bernard, Grand Cross of the Legion d’Honneur, herself a posthumous heroine, sleeping with a notorious S.S. commander! And it was to people like these that Heinz Minden showed much more than generosity! But we will come to that, Madame de Bernard. First let me ask you one more question. Was Major Minden in love with you?’

Down in the court, Sophie de Bernard clenched her hands. ‘Oh you bastard,’ she said out loud. ‘You bastard!’ A man sitting beside her hissed at her fiercely to keep quiet.

There was a gasp from the crowd; she half rose from her seat to see what had caused it. Heinz Minden was on his feet.

‘I wish to change my plea.’ His voice rang out, loud and strong. ‘I plead guilty to the charges against me!’

Siegfried Kopner opened his arms wide.

‘There is no need for you to answer, Madame de Bernard. The officer you duped has answered for you. Even now he tries to shield you! I ask that this interruption be stricken from the record of the trial. The plea cannot be changed except through me.’

‘The senior judge spoke for a moment to his colleagues. ‘There will be a recess,’ he announced, ‘while you speak to the accused. We will reassemble in half an hour.’

A moment later Sophie de Bernard had fought her way through to the front and seized Louise’s arm. Behind them the silence had changed to an excited babble; reporters were struggling to get to the exits and the telephones in the main hall. ‘Darling!’ Sophie threw both arms around her. ‘Come on—we’re getting out of here!’

But Louise didn’t answer; she didn’t seem to feel the pressure on her to move forward. A man was coming towards them. Sophie saw her mother’s face and stepped away, letting her go. She knew, before either of them spoke, that Raoul Delabraye had succeeded.

‘Now,’ Siegfried Kopner said, ‘you asked to see me. What can I do for you, Senator?’ There were five of them in the little side room. Outside the door a policeman stood on guard. Heinz Minden and his wife were seated side by side; Louise, with Savage near her, sipped a glass of water. Kopner examined the American. He was a tall, strongly built man, middle aged but without a grey hair. Kopner had the card with his name on it in his pocket. Senator Brian McFall. He had come into the room with Louise de Bernard on his arm, and there was something about him which alerted Kopner. He sensed that this was a different type to the suave American politicians of his acquaintance, anxious to ingratiate themselves and prove their lack of bias towards Germans. ‘What can I do for you?’ he repeated. Savage put a hand on Louise’s shoulder.

‘You can change your client’s plea to guilty,’ Savage said, ‘and save yourself and him a lot of trouble.’ He lit a cigarette and passed it to Louise. Kopner smiled unpleasantly.

‘Really? And are you qualified to give me such advice?’

‘Better qualified than you know,’ Savage answered him. He looked for a moment at Minden, who was staring at him.

‘I have no idea why you make this suggestion,’ Kopner said coldly, ‘but I can assure you there is no question of changing the plea. I shall resume my examination of Madame de Bernard as soon as the court reassembles. Major Minden has been under a great strain. He’s not responsible for that outburst in the court.’

‘I am responsible.’ Minden spoke suddenly. His voice sounded tired. ‘I want to plead guilty. And don’t keep calling me Major. It was only a sham rank.’

‘You should be proud of it.’ Kopner rounded on him angrily. ‘Proud to have served your Fatherland! I will not change the plea!’

‘Then I shall take the witness stand for the prosecution as a special witness.’ Savage didn’t raise his voice. ‘They have the right to call me. And by God you’ll regret it when I get up there. I’ve watched you bullying this lady for the last half an hour, Herr Doctor. I only hope you try to cross-examine me!’

‘If that’s a challenge,’ Kopner said contemptuously, ‘then I accept it. But I have yet to see how your testimony could make the slightest difference.’ He turned away and lit one of his cheap cigarettes.

‘As I understand it,’ Savage said, ‘your defence will be that your client was a patriotic German, acting under orders, that he was an unwilling subordinate who had no choice but to work on the project, that he showed no enthusiasm for it, and everything about his character confirms that he wouldn’t willingly hurt the proverbial fly—right?’

‘You should conduct the defence for me,’ Kopner sneered.

‘You’re going to prove he was a humanitarian, aren’t you? That’s why you brought. Madame de Bernard here—to testify to his saving her children’s lives? First you show up the French as a lot of self-seeking, double-crossing bastards, turning on the Germans when they thought the Allies were going to win—you crucify Madame de Bernard and her family—then you present Heinz Minden as the true Teutonic Knight, bravely risking his own safety to rescue the children of the woman he loved?’

‘Really,’ Kopner shrugged, ‘I need hardly go into court at all. You have won my case for me. Senator.’

‘I’m the one who’ll lose it for you,’ Savage said. ‘Because I saw Minden’s notebook. I saw the work he was doing on Brühl’s formula. They were having trouble with it; water neutralised it. It was all there, written out in Minden’s own handwriting. And one phrase. I can testify to that one phrase, and how in his anxiety to perfect this filthy weapon, he had underlined it. “We must find a solution”. That shoots the hell out of your unwilling subordinate plea!’

‘How did you see it?’ Kopner asked the question slowly; his look narrowed.

‘Because I am the Allied agent who killed Brühl,’ Savage said. ‘And the people who sheltered me were the de Bernard family. He knows me.’ He spoke to Minden. ‘You knew who I was the minute I walked in here, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Minden’s voice was listless. ‘I recognised you. Her cousin. That was a lie then?’

‘It was a lie,’ Savage said quietly. ‘I went to your room, opened your briefcase and read your notes.’

‘I did write that,’ Minden muttered. ‘“We must find a solution”. I remember it well. God forgive me.’ He hung his head again.

‘You listen to me,’ Savage said. He stepped close to Kopner, who did not recoil. ‘Whatever the dirty game you’re playing—and being a politician myself I guess it’s a nice little job of whitewashing the Nazis for political ends—you might as well give up. I haven’t gone to the prosecution yet and offered myself as a witness. But believe me, I’ll make a hell of a good one. I’ll give them a picture of Heinz Minden and the gas he was so anxious to make perfect that will send him to prison for the rest of his life. And leave a very dirty smell around anyone defending him. Especially when I describe how that gas was used to kill my wife and child at Auschwitz!’

For a moment Kopner fought back, silently, using an intangible force of will, he struggled against Savage and against his own conviction that he faced defeat.

‘Change the plea to guilty,’ Savage said. ‘Otherwise I’ll go in there and blow your case and your political future to smithereens!’

‘Don’t listen to him!’ Ilse Minden had leapt to her feet; she confronted Savage and Louise, her face blanched and contorted with hate. ‘You swine! You dare to threaten what you’ll do to Heinz—you who killed in cold blood! My husband isn’t pleading guilty to please you—or to save her! She was just a whore who made a fool of him, and it’s all going to come out—she’s going to stand in front of the world for what she is!’

‘Be quiet!’ Kopner shouted at her. ‘Hold your tongue! Minden, we have no choice. The plea will be changed to guilty. I’ll ask the court for mercy. There’s nothing more I can do now.’ He flung the cigarette on the floor and trod it to pulp. For a moment he looked at Louise. He seemed as if he were going to say something, but Savage stepped between them. He took Louise by the hand.

‘Come on,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve finished here.’ With his arm around her shoulders, they left the room.

Sophie de Bernard was watching as they came out of the side room. She started forward to meet them, and then stopped. Neither her mother nor the tall man, unmistakably American, had seen her. They appeared oblivious of their surroundings; he was bending over Louise, with one arm around her, she was looking up at him. A pang of jealousy caught Sophie by surprise; this was the man who had meant so much to her mother that even now, after so many years, there was no place in her life for anyone else. They had paused in the corridor, talking quietly. He had taken his arm away from Louise and was holding her hand, they faced each other. Sophie stayed in her seat, watching them. He was not a conventionally handsome man, but there was power in the way he held himself, authority in the face. Her father had been slim and graceful, elegant even in the captivity of a wheelchair. This man was hard and big boned; there were no fine edges about him. Beside him, her mother looked small. Sophie got up and walked towards them.

‘It’s all right, darling!’ Louise said. ‘He’s pleading guilty—it’s all over! This is my daughter, Sophie. Senator McFall—Roger Savage!’

He had a deep voice. ‘The last time I saw you, you were a little girl,’ he said. He held out his hand and Sophie shook it. She saw her mother’s radiant smile.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said to him. She had never felt awkward or inadequate with a man before. Her jealousy retreated in shame, and with it the regret that none of the men she had known would have crossed the world for her.

‘I hope you’ll have lunch with us,’ Roger Savage said. ‘Then we can tell you all about it.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Can I ask you one question?’

‘Of course.’ He was looking as happy as Louise. She felt he would have gone on smiling whatever she had said.

‘Are you married?’

‘Sophie!’ She ignored her mother.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then in that case,’ Sophie said, ‘you and Mother had better lunch alone.’ She took out a cigarette and lit it, throwing the empty Gauloise packet away. ‘I’ll join you for dinner tonight.’ She kissed Louise quickly on the cheek and walked away.

Savage looked down at Louise.

‘It’s taken a very long time,’ he said. ‘But I think you’ll be happy to come home?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I will.’