The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 45)

The oberleutnant translated as the general spoke. ‘Ladies, our units have been ordered to move north. We thank you for your work to make our stay at Château Bellevue as pleasant as possible for all concerned. However, the château will not be empty for long. We leave tomorrow and you will have approximately two days to prepare for your next visitors. Another unit will be coming through the region on its way north also. The château will be used by them as a base for a few days – perhaps longer – until they receive further orders. The situation is a little uncertain right now. Oberleutnant Farber will be staying on here as a liaison officer to assist the new unit, as he knows the ropes. So it is auf wiedersehen from the rest of us for now. But, who knows, perhaps we’ll be back before too long if the rumours of an invasion attempt turn out to be yet another false alarm.’

With a click of his boot heels he turned and left, the oberleutnant following in his wake.

The next twenty-four hours were a flurry of noise and activity as the soldiers packed up and prepared for deployment. A couple of hours after the last of them had gone, setting off to the station with a final revving of truck engines, Eliane paused at her tasks with the beehives, raising her head as she heard the distant rhythmic beat of a train. This one, she assumed, would be filled with soldiers instead of civilian deportees. But perhaps it was carrying those soldiers to another place of horror and death. She sensed that the paths of the war were converging as it reached a climactic turning point. Would it be an ending, or just the beginning of something even worse for France?

As the sound of the train faded into the distance, she closed up the hive she’d been working on, picked up her pails of honey frames and carried them back to the château.

The new ‘guests’ at Château Bellevue were quite different to the soldiers who’d occupied the château for the past four years. The soldiers of the Panzer regiment, who arrived just as Eliane and Madame Boin were remaking the last few beds, were battle hardened from their previous experience of fighting on the Russian front, with eyes that were deadened by the things that they’d seen and souls that were numbed by the things that they’d done. Their tanks rumbled up the track to Château Bellevue, crushing stones and pulverising pebbles into a cloud of thick dust that hung in the air long after the throbbing roar of the engines had ceased.

Eliane hurried about her duties with her head lowered and her eyes downcast. In their black and silver uniforms, these soldiers brought with them a new darkness and she had to swallow the sour taste of fear that rose in her throat whenever she encountered one of them.

When not helping Madame Boin, she spent as much time as possible in the garden, watering the new season’s crops, pruning dead branches that had been touched by last winter’s frosted fingers, and hoeing the weeds from the beds of the potager. She immersed herself in her work, thankful that it distracted her from the heaviness of her heart. She still grieved for Jack, and often walked up through the fields to the young oak tree on the edge of the copse to visit his grave. The grass was well established again there now and wildflowers made a coverlet for his body. Throughout the winter months, the slender branches of the oak tree had been lifeless-looking twigs, with a few dry, crumpled brown leaves clinging on here and there despite the winter storms; but then, early one spring morning, she’d noticed the first of the new growth beginning to open at the end of each twig, tentatively unfurling into tender flourishes of green. That day, she’d turned her face towards the rising sun and gazed eastwards in the direction of Tulle. She wondered what Mathieu was doing at that moment. Does he ever think of me? How is he managing to survive the despair and deprivation that this war has brought upon us? In some ways, she thought, it was easier to grieve for the loss of Jack than for the loss of Mathieu. Death brought a sense of conclusion that abandonment did not. Her heart still longed for Mathieu – Yves’ words at the graveside had lodged themselves in her head, a flicker of hope like a candle flame in the darkness – even though she still tried to tell herself firmly that she had to accept that he’d made his choice and gone. And even if Yves was right and Mathieu did deserve forgiveness, so much time had passed now – and so much had happened – that neither of them could be the same carefree young people that they had been before war broke out.

‘Where is Monsieur le Comte?’ Madame Boin grumbled. ‘His supper is going to be completely spoiled.’

Eliane, washing pots and pans at the sink, looked out of the window and across the courtyard. It was a beautiful June evening and the swallows swooped and soared around the stone cross above the chapel, slicing effortlessly through the stillness of the summer air. ‘He must still be at his devotions, I think. He’s later than usual.’

As she watched, the count emerged from the chapel, fumbling with the keys as he hastily locked the door behind him. He hobbled across the courtyard almost at a run, moving faster than she’d ever seen him move before. Quickly, she dried her hands on her apron as she went to meet him.

As he crossed the threshold, his eyes blazed with something even greater than hope: it was the light of triumph that she saw there.

‘Eliane! Madame Boin! It’s happened. The day has arrived. The Allies have landed on the beaches of Normandy! I’ve just heard General de Gaulle broadcasting from London. He’s issued a call to us all: “The duty of the sons of France is to fight with all the means at their disposal.” Will you walk for me, Eliane? One last dance to tell our brothers in the hills that the hour has come to rise up and take back our country?’

Hurriedly, she pulled the silk scarf from the pocket of her apron. ‘Of course, monsieur.’ Her fingers shook as she knotted it behind her head at the nape of her neck. ‘What would you like me to do?’

To her surprise, he stepped towards her and gently pulled the scarf from her hair, pressing it into her hand. Then he hugged her tightly for a second before stepping back and saying ‘Walk back and forth along the outside of the far wall, as you did once before. Only this time, Eliane, hold that silk square high, so that everyone can see it and know that France’s hour has come.’

Madame Boin tutted and shook her head. ‘Just make sure that none of our “guests” see you, my girl . . .’

Monsieur le Comte turned and hugged her too, a gesture so astounding that she was instantly silenced.

‘Don’t worry, Madame Boin, they will be far too concerned with their own orders to worry about what a handful of helpless civilians are up to.’ As if in confirmation, they heard the pounding of heavy boots running down the château’s main staircase and the sounds of harshly barked commands. ‘Come, Eliane.’ He smiled. ‘It’s time to dance.’

‘But, monsieur, your supper . . .’ Madame Boin protested, trying to regain her composure.

‘I’ll have it later. Now I must get back to the chapel. As soon as our friends in the Maquis see Eliane’s signal, they’ll get on to the radio so that I can tell them the news.’

He hurried back outside, his cane tapping briskly across the dusty yard.

She felt more exposed than ever as she paced along the narrow pathway outside the garden wall. Hesitantly at first, she held the frayed square of red silk in the air. She jumped with fright as a squadron of swifts swooped past her, their wings slicing the air before soaring off across the steep rock face that fell away to the valley below. But she regained her poise, and the surge of adrenalin through her veins made her feel braver, and she held the scarf high and waved it as she walked. Back and forth she went, sending out the message of hope, at last, to the maquisards watching from the hills, scarcely caring, now, whether the Milice or the Gestapo saw her as well.

But then, hearing a flurry of activity from the far side of the walled garden – the crunch of boots running across the courtyard, shouts, the slamming of truck doors – she instinctively shrank back against the wall. Shortly, the evening air began to hum with the throb of engines as the tanks parked in the field below the château started up. She began to walk again, feeling a little safer in the knowledge that what the count had said seemed to be true – if the soldiers were so busy preparing to dash north to try to repel the invasion in Normandy, perhaps they wouldn’t have time to take any notice of the kitchen maid out on an evening walk.

But just then, as the sound of the tanks’ engines grew to a throbbing crescendo, a series of shots rang out suddenly from the direction of the courtyard. The crack of rifle fire was followed by a rattling burst from a machine gun, which made her heart pound in her ears even more loudly than the noise of the revving tanks.

She looked around, frantically. What should she do? Keep walking until the count appeared and told her that she could stop, or go and see what had happened?

She forced herself to keep walking: Three more times along the length of the wall, she told herself, and then I’ll go and find Monsieur le Comte and ask him if I should continue . . . Surely they’ll have seen me by now.

Her heart leaped with relief when she turned back for the final time, as a figure appeared around the corner at the far end of the wall. She stopped short, though, when she realised it wasn’t the Comte de Bellevue coming to release her from her duty but Oberleutnant Farber.