Read Online The Collaborator by Margaret Leroy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Leroy
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they can do as they wish, they could walk in anywhere—there’s nothing to stop them, nothing.
But for now, they drive off.
Later I hear another engine. I rush upstairs to my bedroom, look out over the lane.
It’s a different vehicle this time, with four men in it—two in the cab, and two in the back. I watch as the men in the cab get out. One is spare and dark, with a hollow, cynical face, the other is rather broad-shouldered, with greying hair. The second man takes out a pack of cigarettes, taps it to release one, holds it between his lips as he fumbles for his lighter. I notice that he has a ragged pink scar on his cheek. I’m immediately curious. I wonder how he acquired the scar, what happened to him. Perhaps he fought in the Great War: his face has a lived-in look, and there’s a web of lines round his eyes—he seems old enough.I wonder what he has been through, what he has seen. How much this injury hurt him.
Then I push the thought away. These men are the enemy: I shouldn’t really be thinking about them at all.
The other two men are younger and both have fair hair. I guess they are lower in rank than the men who sat in the cab. They jump down, pull out kitbags. The man with the scar goes round to the back of the vehicle, and holds the cigarette in his mouth as he reaches in for his bag. The man with the hollow face pushes open the gate. All four of them seem more leisurely than the men who came with the clipboard. They look around with an appraising air—almost an air of ownership: and, seeing this, I feel a flare of impotent rage. They’re joking, laughing, their gestures expansive, easy. They have the look of men who have come to the end of a journey.
They walk down the petal-littered path between the overgrown borders. The roses snag on their uniforms as they push their way through the flowers; the hollyhocks, pale as skimmed milk, brush against their legs as they pass. I see that Alphonse is sleeping in a pool of sun on the path; it’s a favourite sleeping spot of his, because the stone gets warmed there. He’s curled in a perfect circle, as though he feels quite safe. As the men approach he wakes, and languidly stretches. One of the younger men crouches to stroke him, makes a fuss of him; the man has the kind of pink, freckled skin that peels in the sun. Alphonse rubs against the man and arches his back ecstatically, so I can see the supple bones rippling under his fur. I feel an irrational surge of fury with the animal—that he’s so easily won over, that he isn’t resisting at all.
The men go in and don’t come out again.
An hour or two later, I’m in my yard in front of my house, picking some herbs for a stew, when I see that the window of Les Vinaires that overlooks us is flung open. I can hear German voices through the window. I can’t tell what they’re saying—I know only a little German, just the words of some Bach cantatas, from when I was in London and used to sing in a choir. I can’t even judge the emotion from the sound of the words.
The thought slams into me—that we will be so exposed. When we are out in our yard, or if our front door is open, the Germans will hear our conversations. I wonder if they will understand us, if they speak English at all. But even if they can’t understand us, they will see what we do: whenever I come here to pick some herbs they will see. We won’t be able to hide from them.
The day feels unstable, feverish. The outward things—the sigh of the wind in my pear tree, the long light of afternoon slanting into my yard—all these things are just so, just as they should be: yet it feels as though there’s something strange on the air, subtle but troubling as a faint smell of scorching, or an insect whine that’s almost too high to be heard.
I will have to move these pots that stand beside my door. I will carry them through to the back of the house and put them out on the terrace. There I’ll be able to tend them without being seen.
But
But for now, they drive off.
Later I hear another engine. I rush upstairs to my bedroom, look out over the lane.
It’s a different vehicle this time, with four men in it—two in the cab, and two in the back. I watch as the men in the cab get out. One is spare and dark, with a hollow, cynical face, the other is rather broad-shouldered, with greying hair. The second man takes out a pack of cigarettes, taps it to release one, holds it between his lips as he fumbles for his lighter. I notice that he has a ragged pink scar on his cheek. I’m immediately curious. I wonder how he acquired the scar, what happened to him. Perhaps he fought in the Great War: his face has a lived-in look, and there’s a web of lines round his eyes—he seems old enough.I wonder what he has been through, what he has seen. How much this injury hurt him.
Then I push the thought away. These men are the enemy: I shouldn’t really be thinking about them at all.
The other two men are younger and both have fair hair. I guess they are lower in rank than the men who sat in the cab. They jump down, pull out kitbags. The man with the scar goes round to the back of the vehicle, and holds the cigarette in his mouth as he reaches in for his bag. The man with the hollow face pushes open the gate. All four of them seem more leisurely than the men who came with the clipboard. They look around with an appraising air—almost an air of ownership: and, seeing this, I feel a flare of impotent rage. They’re joking, laughing, their gestures expansive, easy. They have the look of men who have come to the end of a journey.
They walk down the petal-littered path between the overgrown borders. The roses snag on their uniforms as they push their way through the flowers; the hollyhocks, pale as skimmed milk, brush against their legs as they pass. I see that Alphonse is sleeping in a pool of sun on the path; it’s a favourite sleeping spot of his, because the stone gets warmed there. He’s curled in a perfect circle, as though he feels quite safe. As the men approach he wakes, and languidly stretches. One of the younger men crouches to stroke him, makes a fuss of him; the man has the kind of pink, freckled skin that peels in the sun. Alphonse rubs against the man and arches his back ecstatically, so I can see the supple bones rippling under his fur. I feel an irrational surge of fury with the animal—that he’s so easily won over, that he isn’t resisting at all.
The men go in and don’t come out again.
An hour or two later, I’m in my yard in front of my house, picking some herbs for a stew, when I see that the window of Les Vinaires that overlooks us is flung open. I can hear German voices through the window. I can’t tell what they’re saying—I know only a little German, just the words of some Bach cantatas, from when I was in London and used to sing in a choir. I can’t even judge the emotion from the sound of the words.
The thought slams into me—that we will be so exposed. When we are out in our yard, or if our front door is open, the Germans will hear our conversations. I wonder if they will understand us, if they speak English at all. But even if they can’t understand us, they will see what we do: whenever I come here to pick some herbs they will see. We won’t be able to hide from them.
The day feels unstable, feverish. The outward things—the sigh of the wind in my pear tree, the long light of afternoon slanting into my yard—all these things are just so, just as they should be: yet it feels as though there’s something strange on the air, subtle but troubling as a faint smell of scorching, or an insect whine that’s almost too high to be heard.
I will have to move these pots that stand beside my door. I will carry them through to the back of the house and put them out on the terrace. There I’ll be able to tend them without being seen.
But
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