The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 40)

Once the sun had warmed the hives enough for her bees to venture forth, they still worked on indefatigably searching for nectar in the scrubby wild thyme and the last of the clover. They, alone, seemed to remain untouched by the stranglehold of the war.

‘Here, Eyann. One, two, three, four.’ Blanche showed off her newly acquired counting skills as she took each egg from the hammock of her apron and carefully placed them in the basket.

‘Well done, Blanche, that’s perfect. One egg for Papa, one for Maman, one for Eliane and – oh, who is the last one for?’

‘For me!’ Blanche giggled and clapped her hands.

‘Of course it’s for you, silly me.’ Eliane gathered the little girl into a hug and kissed her dark curls. ‘And now, shall we go and look for some wild mushrooms too? If we can find a big, fat, juicy cèpe then Maman can make a delicious omelette for Princess Blanche’s lunch today.’

They were walking back along the narrow path by the riverbank, Eliane holding Blanche’s hand to make sure she didn’t stray too close to the barbed wire as she danced beside her, when they caught sight of the black car parked outside the door of the mill house.

‘Ouch! Eyann, too tight!’ Blanche objected as Eliane involuntarily gripped her hand.

‘Sorry, Blanche.’ She relaxed her hold a little, although a fear that wouldn’t let go was gripping her own stomach like a vice.

As they approached the house, the pair of Gestapo officers stepped out of the kitchen, having clearly been watching for their return.

‘Mademoiselle Martin.’ The smaller of the two men smiled as he greeted her, but his eyes were as cold and weasel-like to her as ever. ‘How pleasant it is to see you again.’

‘Messieurs.’ Eliane kept her tone neutral, trying not to let her voice shake.

‘We have a task for you, mademoiselle. You will accompany us in the car, please.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Eliane nodded, unable to speak as Lisette and Gustave appeared in the doorway. They are safe, at least, she thought. She handed her basket to her mother and ushered Blanche towards Gustave, who was holding his arms out to her.

The larger of the two officers, whose neck overflowed the collar of his shirt and hung in a fleshy fold over the knot of his black tie, said something in German to his colleague, who smiled his cold smile again and nodded.

‘Non. Bring the little girl, too.’

Eliane froze, horrified. ‘But, monsieur, she is only four years old. Please, whatever the task is I will do it for you, but let her stay here with my parents.’

The man shook his head. ‘She will be of use as well.’

Lisette began to weep and, for a moment, Eliane thought Gustave might leap forward and attack the officers. She stretched out a hand to stop him and turned to address the man.

‘In that case, please at least tell us what the task is. A small child needs to be cared for properly. I have to know . . . Does she need her coat? Can she have something to eat before we go? When will we be coming back?’

The weasel laughed. ‘You are brave, mademoiselle. I like that about you. Very well. As you are probably aware, the so-called Resistance has been carrying out many acts of sabotage of late, in a futile attempt to prevent the authorities from undertaking duties essential to the war effort. This evening, a train carrying vital supplies will pass through the region on its way to Bordeaux. We are collecting together some “volunteers” to ensure that this train makes it safely to its destination. You and your little sister, along with a few others, will travel on an open car at the front of the train so that you will be plainly visible to anyone who might be considering trying to stop it. So yes,’ he laughed, ‘perhaps a coat might be a good idea. After all, the nights are getting a little chilly now.’

Eliane stared at him, aghast. ‘Please, monsieur, don’t put Blanche through such an ordeal. She’s just a little girl.’

His lips compressed into a thin line and anger flickered across his face. ‘And that is precisely why she is of use to us. Perhaps those criminals will think twice about murdering a child. We’re sick and tired of their interference and have already lost more than enough men and supplies thanks to their acts of treachery. Get her coat. Your own as well.’ And then he smiled his cruel smile again and added, as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and put on that red headscarf that you’re so fond of, Mademoiselle Martin. They’ll be sure to recognise you in that.’

As Eliane scrambled to get their coats, her mother hastily made up a greaseproof-paper parcel of chestnut bread and honey, which she tucked it into Eliane’s pocket as she embraced her at the door. ‘Keep your strength up, ma fille,’ she whispered. ‘Courage.’

Gustave didn’t care whether anyone saw him as he drove the truck up to the tiny cottage where the count stayed. He hammered on the door, but there was no reply. Desperately, Gustave glanced towards the chapel. He would be putting everything at risk if he was seen over there: if anyone was watching him then he didn’t want to draw them towards the hidden radio transceiver. If it was discovered, it would be an immediate death sentence for both him and the count. But he had to get word, somehow, to the network to cancel tonight’s operation. Eliane . . . And Blanche . . . He couldn’t bear to think about it.

He pounded on the cottage door again and finally, to his immense relief, he heard the count’s shuffling footsteps making their way down the narrow passageway, accompanied by the tap of his stick on the floorboards. Gustave almost fell across the threshold when the door opened, and the count put out a steadying hand.

‘Woah there, Gustave. What is it? Calm yourself and come and tell me.’

Briefly, Gustave explained and the count listened, a frown creasing his brow as he nodded.

‘There is no question. The operation must be stopped. Don’t worry, Eliane and Blanche will be safe – and whatever other women and children they’ve rounded up. I’ll get word to Jacques. He’ll be able to stop them.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ Tears of relief filled Gustave’s eyes. ‘If anything happened to them . . . If Yves himself were responsible for their deaths . . . How could he live with that? How could any of us?’

‘Wait here. I’ll get the message through and be back soon.’

Gustave wiped his eyes and blew his nose on his spotted handkerchief as he watched from the window of the tiny cottage as Monsieur le Comte limped across the courtyard to the chapel. He paused at the door, fumbling in his pocket for the key as if he were in no great hurry. And then he disappeared inside, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him.

After what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been about half an hour at most, the count re-emerged, carefully locking the door again, and shuffled back to the cottage.

He nodded at Gustave, who had leaped to his feet. ‘Jacques has got the message. He understands the full horror of the situation. But he has no transport – the others have already set off to reach the intercept point and set everything up before it gets dark. He says can you bring your truck and meet him in the usual place? You’ll need to go right now.’

Gustave took the count’s hand in both of his and kissed it. ‘I can’t thank you enough, monsieur. You are saving my family.’

‘Go now,’ the Comte de Bellevue replied with more urgency. ‘And God be with you.’ As he watched Gustave drive away, he sent a prayer heavenwards, that the spirits of all their forebears who would be about on that Toussaint eve might conspire to protect all innocents from the evil that was going to be abroad that night. ‘And please let there be no roadblocks in the way, either,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Every second is going to count.’

The black car pulled up in front of the mairie in Coulliac behind a canvas-covered army truck. The place was eerily deserted, apart from a huddled group of people who stood on the steps of the mairie between two German guards. In the days before the war, at this time on the eve of la Toussaint, the shops would usually have been bustling with shoppers buying provisions for tomorrow’s extended family lunch – choice cuts of meat, fresh oysters from Arcachon, and exquisitely crafted pâtisseries from the bakery. But such delicacies only existed as distant memories, and the shops were empty of both provisions and customers. Even so, ordinarily there would have been a few people about, queuing in the hope of a scrap of something to break the monotony of their near-starvation diet: a bit of rabbit, perhaps, or a small slice of fatty pork to flavour tomorrow’s soup. But, at the appearance of the army truck and the sight of yet more people being rounded up, the inhabitants of Coulliac had melted away, taking refuge behind their shutters and their lace curtains, barricaded in by their fear of being selected to join the little group on the steps of the mairie.

The wind was picking up, and it broke the silence as it swirled around the square, scattering drops of water from the fountain on to the cobbles and blowing the dust against the blank faces of the villagers’ closed doors.

The Gestapo officers gestured to Eliane and Blanche to get out and join the group in front of the mairie. Among the shabby and threadbare clothes that they all wore, Eliane’s bright headscarf stood out like a beacon.