The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 27)

‘Stay in the trees along the edge of the field,’ Gustave whispered. A dimmed set of headlights could be seen coming along the lane on the far side. They flickered off for a second and then on again. ‘That’s her. Go now, dépêchez-vous!’

The three figures slipped along the line of acacias that bounded the field and then cautiously made their way along the hedgerow, crouching to keep their heads below the cropped line of hawthorns. The truck pulled up beside the gate and its headlights went out, so that the only light was from the pinpricks of stars in the night sky above them. Lisette got out of the truck and came around to loosen the cover and lower the tailgate. Daniel jumped up and then reached back to help Francine and Amélie scramble into the back. Quickly and quietly, Lisette pulled the tarpaulin cover taut again, sliding the toggles through the loops that held it in place. Without a word, she climbed back into the cab and pulled away, putting the headlights on once more as she navigated her way through the country lanes and back roads that she knew so well.

At the mill, Gustave walked back across the weir to where Eliane and Yves stood waiting in the doorway of the darkened kitchen. He nodded at them. ‘And now we wait. And we pray.’

Abi: 2017

I can’t begin to imagine the courage it must have taken Francine and the others to leave. I suppose that they had reached a crossing point of their own, just as Lisette described. For them, though, it was also the point of no return: flee or be sent to the death camps. The possibility of life or the certainty of death. There was no choice left to be made.

I know how living in a state of fear creates an inertia. It saps your strength and drains your energy, until you become trapped like a fly in a spider’s web. The more you struggle, at first, the tighter the silken threads are woven around you, until finally escape becomes impossible.

Why didn’t I leave Zac? It’s a question I’ve asked myself often, since. I can see people thinking it, too, in physiotherapists’ treatment rooms and in survivors’ support groups. The counsellors and psychologists explain it to me in their clinical terms of codependency, a lack of self-esteem, a secret, shameful belief that I deserved the emotional and physical abuse, which was delivered with an addictive mixture of just enough attention and love (of a kind) to keep me there.

But maybe my reality was simpler than that: I had nowhere else to go. I had no family, no job, no friends. And by the time things got so bad that I should have left, I’d lost the strength to do so. The fear of the unknown world on the other side of the plate-glass window became stronger than the fear of what might happen within the four walls of the apartment. That’s why I stayed.

That, and maybe, too, the tiny flicker of hope inside me, which he never quite succeeded in extinguishing – a hope that things would get better. That somehow, if I just did this or wore that, the way he wanted me to, he would change. That’s what made me stay.

Eliane: 1942

It was the longest two hours of their lives. A feeling of panic was beginning to flutter in Eliane’s chest, like a trapped bird, when at last they heard the crunch of the truck’s wheels on the gravel of the track.

Both Yves and Eliane scrambled to their feet.

‘Wait!’ ordered Gustave. His son and daughter exchanged a frightened glance, realising that she might have been followed; or that perhaps it wasn’t even their mother who was driving the truck if she’d been caught.

After what felt like another small eternity, they heard footsteps and then the door opened. Lisette set her bags on the floor and bolted the door carefully behind her.

Then she smiled an exhausted smile. And she nodded at the three of them and said, ‘Another successful delivery by the local midwife.’

In the golden half-hour before dusk, when Eliane was shooing the last recalcitrant chicken into the hen house and Gustave and Yves were closing up the mill for the night, the Germans arrived.

From the window of the grain loft, Yves had caught sight of the jeep and the army truck coming along the road at speed. As he’d watched, the vehicle slowed and turned into the track, picking up speed again as they careered towards the mill.

‘Papa!’ he shouted. ‘The sluices!’ He almost tumbled down the ladder in his haste to get to the mechanism that closed the gate to the channel beside the mill wheel. It took Yves and Gustave’s combined strength to shift the gears against the powerful force of the water, but just as the Germans pulled up in front of the barn, the river reared above the top of the weir in a thrashing torrent.

Eliane’s hands shook as she slid the bolt into place to lock the chicken-shed door. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward to meet the soldiers, giving Gustave and Yves an extra moment or two to finish what they were doing. The general got out of the jeep, accompanied by Oberleutnant Farber. Half a dozen more soldiers jumped out of the truck, their loaded rifles at the ready.

‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Martin,’ Oberleutnant Farber said. His tone was even, but the look in his eyes was grave. ‘Messieurs.’ He acknowledged Gustave and Yves. ‘Is Madame Martin at home?’

Lisette appeared in the doorway, soothing Blanche, who’d been startled by the sudden, angry roar of the river when the sluice gates closed, as well as the sounds of screeching brakes and slamming doors,

‘Please, Madame Martin, you will come with us.’ The officer took a step towards her.

‘May I ask what this is all about?’ Lisette asked, calmly. Eliane could scarcely hear what her mother said above the rushing of the river and the frantic pounding of her own heart.

‘We rather hope you will be able to tell us, madame.’ His words were almost pleasantly conversational in tone, although the glower of the general standing behind him was in marked contrast.

‘Eliane,’ Lisette beckoned her daughter. ‘Please take Blanche and get her ready for bed.’

Gustave stepped forward as Lisette walked to the jeep. ‘I’ll come too.’

One of the soldiers raised his rifle, sliding off the safety catch, and took aim at the miller. Lisette gasped.

‘Lower your weapon, sergeant.’ Oberleutnant Farber’s voice was still calm and reasonable. ‘Monsieur Martin, that will not be possible at the present time. You and your son will stay here. This work party –’ he gestured to the group of soldiers behind him – ‘have a job to do. It would be in everyone’s best interest for you not to hinder them. We are taking extra precautions to seal off further potential crossing points along the demarcation line.’

The soldiers began unloading rolls of barbed wire from the back of the truck.

‘But it’s impossible to cross here, as you can plainly see,’ objected Yves.

The general glared at him and barked a stream of German, guttural and angry.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Oberleutnant Farber, ‘the river will be sealed off here. After all, one cannot be too careful these days.’

Gustave, Yves and Eliane stood and watched, helplessly, as the jeep disappeared back up the track, carrying Lisette away from them.

As the remaining soldiers began to hammer stakes into the riverbank and stretch the vicious-looking, spiked wire along it, Blanche’s sobs mingled with the sound of their blows and the roar of the river.

That first night, when they’d taken Lisette away, there could be no sleep for Eliane, Gustave and Yves, left behind at the mill.

During the day, Eliane tried to calm Blanche and sing her to sleep, but the little girl was frightened and fretful, disturbed at having witnessed her ‘maman’ being taken by the soldiers – and by the sounds of hammering, which went on even as darkness fell.

At last, the men climbed back into the military truck and it rumbled off up the track. Eliane drew the blackout curtain aside cautiously and looked out. Her father stood there looking wretched, his strong, capable hands hanging uselessly at his sides, as he surveyed the riverbank. In the moonlight, the barbs of the wire winked with malice, glinting their threatening message into the darkness. It needed no translation: attempt to cross here and you will be cut to ribbons.

Without Lisette, it felt as though the very heart of the mill house had been torn out. Eliane’s own heart felt tight and heavy and it raced with the fear of what might be happening to her mother. Where was she? What would they do to her? Had someone seen her smuggling Francine, Daniel and Amélie across the unoccupied zone to the rendezvous with the passeur? You couldn’t trust anyone nowadays: neighbours would denounce neighbours for any number of reasons – to gain privileges, to settle old scores, to protect members of their families or to save their own skins. But if the Germans had known for certain that the weir had been used as a crossing point then they’d have arrested Gustave, and probably Yves as well.

Another thought occurred to Eliane, which made her shiver with dread: perhaps Francine and the others had been caught and had given Lisette’s name to the Gestapo. Francine certainly wouldn’t have betrayed them, but what about Daniel? If he’d thought it might save his wife and their unborn child, surely he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet. What if they’d been tortured . . . ?

It was unbearable. And yet, they had to bear it.

The hands on the kitchen clock crept round with an agonising slowness that made Eliane want to wrench it off the wall. All she could do was what Lisette would have wanted – to look after Gustave, Yves and Blanche, supporting them as best she could and staying strong. That thought, and a sudden vision of her mother’s face – calm, kind, smiling – made Eliane gather herself. They had to keep going, for Lisette’s sake, and in the fervent hope that she would come back to them soon.