J. Janes - Hunting Ground

‘We want to make them afraid of us,’ said Nicki. ‘Certainly, the damage is important, but so, too, is the psychological effect. Kill only if you must, and then quietly.’

There were nods of agreement. ‘With a knife,’ said someone, and I realized it was Dmitry and that it might be to Moscow’s advantage if all but he were killed.

The gully is still empty. There’s only the sound of the birds and the wind as it sweeps under the eaves to lift a tattered piece of roofing paper. Out over the plain, some of the fields lie fallow, others before the plow, while behind me the escarpments climb and I know I should get out of here before Schiller and Dupuis come, yet I can’t seem to leave, can’t stop wanting to remember the past.

Tommy handed me his cigarette. Hurriedly, I took a drag and handed it back, but he was not there anymore, though I wanted to warn him of Dmitry.

That supplier of false papers was waiting for me when I got to my bicycle. ‘Dmitry, I don’t think it’s wise for you to use the potting shed anymore. I’m sorry, but I must ask you not to come back with me. Tommy feels Schiller must be up to something.’

‘And what does Lutoslawski have to say about it?’

‘Nicki? The same, I think, but perhaps you should catch up with them and ask. If they okay it, then fine.’

‘Trust is basic to everything we do, madame. I’ve risked my life time and again.’

‘As have others, myself included. Look, it’s not safe, that’s all there is to it.’

‘Then I’ll come with you and pick up my Luger.’

‘That’s not possible. I’ve already passed it on to one of the others.’

He knew I was lying. I could hear him following and yet I kept on pushing that bike of mine through the darkness until his voice came at me again. ‘Moscow wishes me to inform them of the hiding place, madame. They would rather the Germans didn’t recover the stolen works of art since some of them belong to Russia.’

Nicki’s things … He had grabbed my bike! Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. In panic, I tried to fight back but he was too strong. With a final yank, he threw me to the ground, and as I lay under him, I heard the sound he gave as his throat was cut.

‘Tommy had to be convinced,’ said Nicki as he helped me up, ‘but for myself, I’m sorry I had to use you the way I did.’

Where once there had been a mound over the hasty grave, there’s now a shallow depression. I’m not sorry Dmitry’s dead, only saddened that it had to happen. There’s still no further sign of Schiller and Dupuis. The forest is as it was back then, and soon, all too soon, there’s the sound of train wheels in my head, and I feel myself rushing inevitably towards the abyss. My children were beside me, and we were on our way into Paris, me with two large hampers, hidden in each of which were a kilo of Nobel 808 wrapped in much decorated bread dough, two Webley service revolvers, and a packet of cartridges, and I knew it was suicidal to attempt that. Having flour, even the grey of the ‘National’ was one thing. I’d added onions and had sliced some of them and bulbs of garlic, too. Though it was always chancy bringing food into the city, it was the smell of the Nobel that terrified me.

‘Ihre Papiere, bitte. Ausweis und der Passierschein, ja? Schnell!’

This Scharführer couldn’t seem to let go of my papers but I’d raise his rank anyways. ‘I must have a medical checkup, Herr General. I’m pregnant.’

He didn’t give a bloody damn. ‘What’s in the baskets?’

‘Food, a few spare clothes, a little bedding for my children. Things I’ll need so that the people with whom we’re staying overnight won’t have to provide everything.’

He still didn’t give a damn. ‘Their names?’

‘Dr. André de Verville and his wife, Simone.’ He got the address, too. This he carefully wrote down in a small notebook before closing up my papers and handing them back. He knew I’d said ‘people’ instead of ‘friends.’ He thought Jean-Guy might be Jewish-sometimes it was hard to tell. Marie was far more Aryan, and he lay the tip of a forefinger under her chin and asked, ‘ Mein Kind, what’s really in those baskets?’

‘ Bitte, Herr General, my daughter only knows a few words of Deutsch .’

‘Guns and bombs,’ said Marie en français . ‘That’s why I’ve brought my paints and paper.’

I stammered something and tried to pass it off with a grin, but he slapped her face and shrieked: ‘I could have you shot for that!’

The Gare de Lyon was crowded. Flics in blue capes with their leaded hems seemed everywhere, so, too, those in plain clothes, but somehow we got through, and soon the station was behind us.

‘Will we see Papa?’ asked Jean-Guy.

‘Of course. As soon as we get to Simone’s I’ll call him to tell him we’re here.’

‘Are you really pregnant, maman ?’

It was Marie who asked and I couldn’t lie to her. ‘ Oui . Is it such a bad thing, Jean-Guy?’

‘Only if you don’t know who the father is.’

‘Hey listen you, it’s Tommy’s, and you’d better not say anything about it for all our sakes.’

Marie looked up at me. There was such innocence in her eyes. ‘Will Dr. André help you to get rid of it?’

I shook my head, and she heaved a contented sigh and locked her arms more firmly about the handle of the basket. ‘Then I will help you and we’ll have a baby brother for Jean-Guy and me to play with.’

Paris in the late autumn of 1942 was, if anything, shabbier than before. Oh, for sure, everything was wide open for the Nazis and those that were with them, but there were the beginnings of doubt even amongst the most ardent of collaborators. On 8 November, the Allies had landed en masse in Algeria and Morocco, on the 11th, the Wehrmacht, in retaliation, had ended the existence of the zone libre by taking over the whole of France, but were being held up at Stalingrad. If the winter should be particularly harsh, they might be stopped, even turned back, and the Allies were determined. Everyone knew there would be an invasion, but when?

Sometimes we’d hear the RAF going over to bomb targets deep in the Reich, or they’d come closer to home to hit the Renault Works in Boulogne-Billancourt, a suburb of Paris. I remember being with André and Simone in that flat of theirs and watching. I remember so many things but what was it about the rue Mouffetard that made me so edgy? I’d left the children and the things I’d brought with Simone. Marcel was to pick up the Nobel 808 and the guns later when he came for me. Normally, there was a street market every Sunday morning, and there was one that day, but it didn’t seem right. Lots of people milling about, not a lot for sale, but it was as if everyone in that street sensed that something terrible was going to happen.

The street climbed steeply. It was narrow, paved with blocks of stone, and you got that lovely closed-in feeling of a village and its market. The grey and pale-green of slate and copper roofs were often four or five storeys up to attic garrets and but a jumble, since some of the houses were very old. Innumerable chimney pots reached for the sky, the windows shuttered or open, but no balconies. Shops lined the street. Basically, it was a nation of small shopkeepers, but many were down on their luck.

I hurried along but kept asking myself what could be wrong? Me, I felt it, you understand, and at a point, one hundred metres from the courtyard that led to my sister’s flat, I foolishly broke into a run, someone immediately yelling, ‘ Halt, verfluchte Französin!’ as another shouts, ‘Hände hoch!’

I tripped, fell, banged my knees, and tore my only pair of stockings, but found that the courtyard door was locked. I shouted at it, nearly breaking my fists while down the street, people turned to watch. ‘JANINE, LET ME IN!’