J. Janes - Hunting Ground

‘My father-in-law’s been dead for years.’

‘But not your husband, madame. If I understand things correctly, he’s in the pay of the Germans.’

‘Look, all I want is ten kilos.’

‘Ten!’ He was electrified. ‘For that, you’d need to pay me ten thousand francs.’

‘And the seven your family’s been owed all these years?’

‘Of course. Twenty it is.’

The French never forget the interest. Me, I was so agitated I wanted to sit down to calm myself, but he said, ‘You’ll have to hurry if you’re to make it home before curfew.’

It had again been extended to midnight, which would give me a little more than five hours to ride the twenty or so kilometres, if I headed straight for home.

We went out to the shed where he kept the clarifier, the smoke pots, nets, and other things. He’d been making more hives, and the place smelled of pine sawdust, wax, and honey.

Patiently, he counted the money twice, to be certain. ‘As it happens, madame, the Boche and the cooperative allow me to sell ten percent, so you’re in luck.’

The block of wax he set in the carrier basket and said, ‘Happy sculpting or whatever else you do. Hey, wait a minute. De St-Germain …? Yes, now I remember.’

‘More debts? I haven’t a franc left.’

‘Wasn’t there a bad fire up your way? Two old people …’

He knew damned well who they were, but I told him anyway, and that their stovepipes must have needed a good cleaning. ‘I was always telling Georges this, as was my husband.’

‘But did you see it happen? The flames?’ he asked. ‘The corpses?’ Like the French everywhere, he really wanted the details.

I shook my head and heard myself saying, ‘We were asleep, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. My hands and face would have been badly burned trying to rescue them.’

‘Peut-être,’ he said, giving me a knowing smile before pinching his windpipe and adding, ‘Some are saying things aren’t right with that fire.’

Stung by this, I pushed my bike into the darkness, but the lane seemed to take forever and only when I reached the road did I look back to see him still standing in the doorway of his house, ignoring the blackout.

I was some three kilometres almost due east of the robbery, but long before I got there, I heard the sharp bursts of a Spandau and knew the worst had happened. There was the crump of an explosion, the broken, agitated, and far-too-rapid sounds of inexperienced rifle and pistol fire, but the Spandau stopped, just like that! I hurried, came to a rise, and looked down on a scene of utter chaos. Two of the railway trucks were burning. Men were racing about. The antiaircraft gun was being readied. They were aiming it at our lorries! Clateau was racing for his van. Tommy had leaped up on to the flatbed. A German soldier turned. There was a burst from Tommy’s Schmeisser, and the man fell back to lay half on and half off the flatbed as others swarmed in on the antiaircraft gun, with more bursts of firing and ragged shots all along the train. One of our men fell, and then another, and I called out to Tommy, ‘ON THE ROOF!’ only to realize he’d never hear me.

Men ducked and ran, yelling, ‘Over there! No, underneath, behind the wheels! In the woods. Stop them!’

There was more and more firing, the constant racket of it and the crackling of flames, the sight of those burning cattle trucks as a great wall of sound began to rise. It was the terrified screams of those that were being deported and were inside. Fifty, a hundred-two hundred, four hundred? I wanted to scream at Schiller for he’d done it on purpose, but I was unable to run to their assistance.

Nicki raced through the flames. There was a burst of firing from the gun in his hands. Hot iron was flung away, and people poured from the truck, gasping for air. In ones, twos, and threes they were helped away, but I heard someone urgently shouting, ‘Leave it! There’s no time. We can’t just let the artwork burn!’

A ladder was brought. It was run through the milling throng by two men and leaned against the side of a truck. Clateau returned to fetch the cutting torch. Matthieu Fayelle was still helping people away from the fire.

Tommy climbed the ladder. There were flames on either side of him. He pulled a set of goggles down over his eyes and yelled something to Nicki, who stood at the base of the ladder. ‘Tessier … Vite, vite! ’

Dynamite. They were going to have to blow the door. That gueule cassée appeared and went to work right in the heat of the flames. Two sticks, three, four, I don’t know how many, but something was needed to contain the explosion, a sheet of metal-anything so as to direct the force if possible.

With a bang, the door lifted off, and the men rushed in to fling out the corpses of the four German soldiers who had been sealed inside.

Not realizing that I would be outlined by the fire, I stupidly waited, though I knew I had to get home and that my job had been done, and when the muzzle of a pistol touched the back of my head, I wanted to cry out in alarm but couldn’t.

Paintings-large canvases not in crates or anything-were being hustled out of that railway truck and raced towards the waiting lorries and Clateau’s van.

‘Let go of the bicycle, Fräulein, and raise your hands.’

‘As you wish, but please, you must understand I’ve nothing to do with this.’

‘Save it for later. The hands!’

It was a German officer who had lost his cap and was burned about the face. Sweat clung to the scorched brow. Pain registered in his eyes.

‘Yes, I’ve been hit,’ he said in perfect French.

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘In the guts.’

‘Then let me help you. Look, I don’t know who those people are. Honestly, I don’t. I’ve been to buy some beeswax for our church and am on my way home.’

Not for a moment did that gun of his waver, and I can see him still, even after all that’s happened to me. He wasn’t young or old, was a man with a family perhaps. ‘Have you children of your own?’ I asked. ‘I’ve two that are waiting for me.’

As I tore open his tunic and picked my way through the blood-soaked clothing, he kept that pistol at my head. Part of his intestines was showing in the light from the fire. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he said.

How had he managed to get this far? ‘Not too bad. Yes, it’ll be okay, I think. Let me cover the wound with something. I’ve a shawl in my carrier basket.’

Why should he trust me? he wondered but said, ‘All right,’ and I ran for it, headed straight for the woods and dove into them to roll about and hit my head against a tree!

Dazed, bleeding-scared, damned scared-I waited for him to end it all, but saw him teetering in the middle of the road with the fire and the confusion behind him. That gun had fallen from his hand. My bike was to one side, the block of wax having tumbled away.

Slowly, with difficulty, I crept forward and when I was at the edge of the woods, stood up. Our eyes met, and he began to drop for the gun as I raced for it, grabbed it, and pulled the trigger. I can still hear the sound it made and smell the cordite.

He was lying there, sprawled on his back, his face torn away, and the gun was still in my hand-it would always be there because I couldn’t comprehend what I’d done. In four days, I’d killed three people.

‘ Maman, will Georges and Tante Marie go to heaven?’

‘I don’t know, chérie . Does it matter so much?’

She nodded, this daughter of mine. Those great big hazel eyes had such sensitivity. Her hair was then a light brownish, that soft shade of amber, and long. She was incredibly beautiful.

‘Rudi says it matters. That only if people are good to one another will they enter the kingdom.’