J. Janes - Hunting Ground

As soon as I could, I came out here to the caves to see if everything was all right. Then, as now, the gurgling of the spring caused me to feel for a foothold. Though I’m now wearing those shoes they gave me, as before, I still hear a whispered, ‘She’s not coming.’ It’s Dupuis, and it’s so like it was in that winter of 1942.

‘The loot must still be here,’ says Schiller as Dupuis lights a cigarette.

The silhouette of that gumshoe’s fedora, scarf, and threadbare overcoat are clear enough. Schiller’s behind him and taller, but even as Dupuis says, ‘It’s impossible. These caves are far too small. Rodents would have got at everything,’ the lieutenant vanishes.

‘Not necessarily,’ comes that other voice from above me and now much closer. ‘The Chevalier girl told us Lutoslawski and the American would have been very careful.’

Michèle had screamed that at them in the cellars of the Cherche-Midi but had also cried out, ‘They would never have told me where those things are hidden!’

They beat her anyway. They very nearly drowned her. ‘Cement,’ says Schiller, ‘into which stones have been pressed so as to make them look as if fallen.’

Tommy didn’t use cement, how could he have, but I manage to move a little away as Dupuis says, ‘There will definitely have been dampness.’ He’s now much closer to me.

‘Who gives a damn anyway? It’s the collections of rare coins, smaller pieces of sculpture, and icons that we want,’ says Schiller. ‘Enough to buy our way out of France and set us up in Argentina or Chile.’

‘You shouldn’t have come back. Even the Americans are looking for you. Those so-called war crimes, eh? Poland and all the rest. Without you, we could have …’

‘Dealt with her, you and the Vuittons and that former husband of hers? Admit it, you need me.’

Irritably, Dupuis pinches out his cigarette but doesn’t throw it away, not him. It’s thrust into a pocket. ‘So, what are we to do? Wait here until someone finds that you killed those two old people and left them to their geese?’

Ah, non , Henri Poulin and his wife. It’s all my fault!

The leaves make a sound that terrifies even though I’ve the Luger in hand. Wire cutters, knife, and a grenade are still in my pockets …

It’s Dupuis who says, ‘She’ll have figured us out and will have gone after the others.’

Schiller doesn’t answer, and again it’s Dupuis, ‘Vuitton simply wants out, but that wife of his is demanding a share of everything. If you ask me, our Dominique sees it as a way to buy them back into favour should anything be said, which it will be if we’re not careful. She’ll simply hand everything over and turn us in.’

Clearly, they don’t yet know that I’ve already dealt with them, but again it’s Schiller who makes no sound, and as Dupuis continues to whisper, the other hunts for me just as they did that night I came back here. Using his silhouette, I see that the lieutenant is now standing on the path above and not three metres from me, his head cocked to one side. He moves away just like he did on that night, me to follow because I have to cut him off from Dupuis, taking out the one and then the other, no ‘lectures’ now because there simply won’t be time.

Yet they’ve anticipated things, for Dupuis has now come up behind me, and so it goes, the one ahead, the other behind, the path running from the caves through the forest to the little clearing where I left my bicycle.

Schiller must have traced it out that other time. Me, I thought I was so clever then, but when he discovers the bike this time, he can’t resist giving a snort of triumph, even though I’m almost upon him.

He turns and I feel him grabbing for me, hear Dupuis breaking through, but the Luger’s jammed! Schiller’s now got a hold of me! Rolling over and over, I try to get at the knife in my pocket, try to hit him with the butt of the Luger, but it’s of no use. A forearm is pressed hard against my throat, and he’s straddling me. I can’t black out. I mustn’t! I’ve got to get that knife. The blade leaps, and I stab him hard at least twice, maybe more, and he screams, ‘Dupuis!’ and rolls off. ‘Dupuis, the bitch has cut the hell out of my leg!’

Leaves, branches, trees-everything is in my way, and I know I must roll away from him and get up, but now it’s Dupuis. ‘Madame,’ he shouts. ‘Madame, your children …’

Hitting the side of the Luger with the heel of my hand to clear the mechanism, I fire at him twice, but he’s darted aside, and I can hear him crawling through the bushes. ‘Madame,’ he gasps. ‘Madame …’ Is he wounded, afraid, terrified and wanting to beg, or has he simply lost that gun of his?

Breaking through the woods, I reach the road and pause to catch a breath, hearing them still as they shout to one another, but they mustn’t find the Schmeisser in that carrier basket of mine. They’ll kill Matthieu if they do, so there’s no other choice. Me, I have to go back, must circle round.

As the dawn breaks, I see them on the road below me. The right leg of Schiller’s trousers is soaked with blood and he’s limping badly, has made a tourniquet that might not be working as well as it should since it’s high up on that thigh. One arm is draped over Dupuis’s shoulders and when they get to that little car of André’s, it’s Dupuis who reaches for the handle only to have Schiller shout, ‘Don’t! Look first.’

They’re both badly shaken by the sight of the grenade I’ve wired to that door handle, and they search the line of the forest for me. There’s fear in those looks but also the thought that I must be insane and that they’ll never really be able to figure out exactly what I’ll do next.

Finally, it’s Dupuis who cries out, ‘Madame, your children are alive!’

My children . Those faces haunt me. They’re all so little, so gaunt-eyed. One asks for water, another for bread, and I have to tell them I have none.

This they accepted. The oldest, a boy of seven or eight, sagely nodded and said, ‘Water tastes so good, isn’t that right, madame, but bread is much better.’

‘Have you seen two children from the Fontainebleau area? One is a girl of nearly nine, the other a boy of twelve. She has lovely soft brown hair and hazel eyes; his hair is black and the eyes are very dark.’

‘Their names, madame?’

I told them, but they shook their heads, and I heard the shrieks and felt the blows from one of the guards. It was not the first time for me. ‘Sprechen verboten, ja? Verboten!’ the guard shrieked. Always so many simple things were forbidden and always I had to search if I could.

Michèle tugged at my arm. For this, she was punched, kicked, and hit with the butt of a rifle. Somehow I dragged her to one side. ‘Your ribs?’ I asked only to see her shake her head and try to swallow.

The children were marched away. It was a long line of them that day. They were going for a picnic, eh? Down to the pretty little house with its garden gate of fir bows and its smoking chimneys. There’d be soup, bread, and maybe some cheese. Yes, cheese, real cheese, and warm milk.

My hands clasped Michèle’s head. The fuzz of her hair was still so soft I found it hard to resist stroking. It was so like Marie’s.

‘They’re dead, Lily. You know this. They died at the house. You do remember, don’t you?’

Simone de Verville found us, and we three went off to report for duty. We’d be sorting shoes that day, maybe handbags, who knew. They’d be baling them for shipment once we’d got them sorted.

There were mountains of clothes in the shed they called Canada. No one else seemed to be around, but it was warm in there and perhaps as safe as any place could be in that little corner of hell.