J. Janes - Hunting Ground

The kitchen was full of warmth and the aroma of baking bread, for I’d a full house: Schiller and two others, also Neumann and his adjutant, and Rudi, of course. Poor Rudi.

The Boche were conducting another sweep of the forest and surrounding district. Hostages had been taken. Eleven German soldiers and one captain were killed during the robbery, five of ours, all of whom had far too many relatives.

‘Me, I think God should punish the Boche !’

‘DON’T YOU DARE CALL THEM THAT IN THIS HOUSE OR ANYWHERE ELSE! ARE YOU CRAZY?’

She burst into tears and ran away to her room as I bowed my head and tried to get a hold of myself, but knew that for us, the agony had just begun.

‘Jean-Guy, go and see if there are any more eggs.’

‘I’ve just been.’

‘Then look, damn you! Wait … wait, please. I’m upset. Scared.’

‘You should be!’ he yelled and ran out the back, leaving the door for me to close as again I plunged my hands into the flour the Germans had begrudgingly provided. Kneading the dough, working it, I finally shaped a loaf. Would I make a dragon for Marie, one with big, woeful eyes and a long tail with spikes?

It was Jean-Guy who caused me a problem. It was always guns and tanks and aeroplanes with him in those days. ME-109s, Heinkels, and Stukas. Rudi and he had been talking constantly about the war, especially in the east. Our little German was very worried. The fire down the road was one thing; that corpse I cut up and he buried in the cellar, another, and then the robbery. Schiller had given him hell and had again threatened to bring in SS guards, having accused Rudi of being slovenly, and I knew in my heart of hearts that it was only a matter of time until he talked.

The aeroplane I made was a Spitfire, but I daren’t put British insignia on it and substituted that Maltese cross the Prussians had liked for far too many years.

‘Rudi, your lunch is ready.’

He’d been out by our gate for more than five hours, marching steadily back and forth across the drive and seldom, if ever, standing still, and the dampness and freezing wind had been heartless. ‘Madame Lily, it’s not safe for you to stay here. Obersturmführer Schiller has asked me about that old couple and their house. I’ve not told him the truth, have said we were all asleep, but that one, he didn’t believe me.’

The woollen cap I knitted protruded from below that helmet of his. There was also a scarf I’d knitted out of an unravelled sweater, a vest, too, and mittens, but there was no sense in my denying I was responsible for that fire. ‘Is it to be Poland again?’ I asked.

We both looked along the road in the direction of Georges and Tante Marie’s house whose ashes lay just beyond a last gentle rise. ‘Poland,’ he said. ‘They’ve taken thirty-six hostages from the surrounding villages and towns, Madame Lily. One is to be shot tomorrow, then two on the following day, then three, and so on until all are gone unless someone comes forward to tell them who the robbers were and where they’ve hidden what they stole.’

Eight days, then.

‘This war, Madame Lily, it’s never going to end.’

I had my children to think of, he his family and little farm, so the lie came readily and I gave it to him with the gentle touch of a caring hand. ‘They’re sending you to Russia.’

‘Me?’ he managed, stricken.

I nodded grimly, even gave him a quick hug, for he’d been a friend. ‘Please, I’m sorry you should hear this from me, but I thought you should know ahead of time. Obersturmführer Schiller is insisting that Oberst Neumann get rid of you.’

There were tears. He was devastated but would he run, be shot in an attempt to desert, or simply wait for what he believed would be his orders?

It was all a gamble. Everything. ‘You’ve been such a good friend, Rudi. We’ll all miss you terribly but when this war is over, you’re to come and see us. Please, I must insist. Your wife as well.’

Liar, cheat, fraud, coward, I silently cursed myself, for he was the one good thing in all the slime.

‘I knew this could never last,’ he said, indicating the woods, the pasture, the house, and the cushiest job he could ever have asked for had he had any choice in the matter. ‘Russia. I won’t come back from there, Madame Lily. This I know.’

‘Come in and get warm by the stove and have some soup. Perhaps if you eat a little, things won’t seem so bad. I’ll try to speak to Neumann. I know it’s not to be for a few days, well one or two. I can’t be sure.’

Ashes … there were ashes all around me, the remains of Georges and Tante Marie’s house. Bundled in overcoat, scarf, fedora, and gloves, Dupuis was standing where the front door used to be, while Schiller’s jackboots waded in the rest.

It was the inspector who picked up the twisted remains of a wine bottle, but the lieutenant who said, ‘What have we here?’

He was behind me and I didn’t yet turn, for beyond the farmyard, along the edge of the forest, German soldiers with rifles had formed a line, each three metres from the other, and the lightly falling snow had made their grey-green uniforms greyer still. It was freezing.

‘Well?’ shrilled the lieutenant.

‘Well, what, please?’ I asked.

The scar tugged at his chin. ‘Silver. Where did they get it?’

The thing in that black-gloved hand had bubbled with the heat and was the size of a small pancake and about as thick, and as our eyes met, I told him as calmly as I could, ‘How on earth should I know? They didn’t exactly like my living in my husband’s family home.’

‘You were afraid they’d talk.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘Madame, this fire was deliberately set,’ said Dupuis. He was still holding that wine bottle.

‘Deliberately set? You’re crazy, Inspector. Who would wish to do such a terrible thing, especially since they had no enemies? Not that I knew of.’

‘Is any silver missing from your husband’s house?’ asked Schiller. They’d got me right between them.

‘Silver? I’ll have to check, but with so many visitors …’

‘A list of the contents, I think, Herr Obersturmführer,’ said Dupuis. ‘Have her prepare one. We can get the husband to check it over.’

He thought of everything. ‘Just why are you so certain the fire was not an accident?’

‘Because, madame, there are melted bottles where the front and back doors were, and also at one side of the house. That one.’

Where I had found a window I could easily open. ‘Georges loved his wine, Inspector. He made it, borrowed it, and stole it from time to time. If you look closely, you’ll find bottles all over the place. That shed is full of those he had been gathering for sale.’

On the marché noir , but Dupuis didn’t say this, because it was then Schiller’s turn to go at me.

‘And these?’ said that one. He was very pleased with what he’d found, and as the wind teased the ashes from that black-gloved hand, he took on the air of a triumphant archaeologist confronting a competitive colleague with the remains of a pair of gold cufflinks.

Instinctively, I shrugged. His hand lashed out. Knocked almost off my feet, I found my lip was bleeding and my jaw hurt like hell, but it was Dupuis who fetched the dog. Grousing up to me, that poor creature with the beaten eyes found the will to wag its tail and lick my fingers, and I heard the inspector saying, ‘So, madame, perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us what has happened here.’

In panic, I fought for composure and stiffly said, ‘I’ll make the lists as you have requested and my husband will, I’m sure, thoroughly check them, but should anything be missing, I can’t vouch for any of the guests he’s had, nor for these two old people who knew that house and its contents far better than myself. They were always taking things, even in the time of my husband’s father, or so I’m sure my husband will inform you he told me when he first brought me here to meet them.’