persuaded me.’
‘Suppose they were warned?’
‘How could that happen? They are not allowed radios or telephones. Your men saw to that, only last year.’
‘You trust me?’
‘We are both French. If the Vichy government chooses to collaborate with these invaders, then they can. I know to whom I owe my allegiance, and he is exiled in London’
‘But he is not in France now. All we have is Pétain and God knows if de Gaulle will ever return. Some don’t even think that is his real name. The Germans will defeat the Rosbifs and all of Europe will eat sauerkraut.’
‘You are unwise to talk too loudly even here. They have spies everywhere. I realise now you are a good man though, Auguste. Of course, you might be working for them, for all I know. Life is a gamble after all—la bonne chance.’
‘Someone else said that to me not so long ago. If it was true, I would not be sending all these innocent people to their deaths. Suppose the Gendarmerie were to have the list of internees and it got ‘lost’?’
‘Why, I would be furious with the man who lost it. I would have to kiss him upon both cheeks.’
Auguste smiled. Arnaud was turning into the first ally he had come across. He was glad he was not alone.
Arnaud stood up. ‘I must go. Would you send me the records so I can go through them? I can then let my men know where they will be expected to go. Of course, some of them have great difficulty finding their way around in this neighbourhood. Some of them might get lost or go astray.’
‘You appreciate the Germans will say we are incompetent?’
‘Well, vive la difference, is all I can say. I must go.’
They shook hands and Auguste noticed the old man had a warm dry hand and a firm handshake. Arnaud had not found the conversation stressful. A spark of admiration grew within him and he smiled when the door made its soft click, as Arnaud closed it behind him.
Auguste could hear the old man whistling. It was a military tune, he recognised. He remembered his father singing it, after drinking wine. It was from the first war, to do with love triumphing over all and the importance of duty.
His admiration and nostalgia left him as fast as it had emerged; he felt sick. It was not the tune, it was his feeling of betraying his father, his country and his beliefs. He believed in God. God the Almighty, who gave ultimate forgiveness, ultimate absolution. Would his God —his Father, Son and Holy Ghost—forgive the internment and final murder of Jews because they had in some way, ancestrally, been instrumental in the Saviour’s Passion? He knew it was not so, deep inside. It was not the God he believed in. His God was kind. His God was one who forgave. He had never believed in Mortal Sin, unforgivable, eternal, final.
He had friends who had sinned, it was true. They had committed adultery. Did his God judge them so finally? Hell had no meaning to him for he could not believe it was eternal. He thought if his actions resulted in the death of some Jews, saving the ones he could, it would counterbalance the evil he committed for the sake of saving his child, his woman.
He realised his hand trembled, holding the pen. It was enough, he thought, to do what he could for the people to whom he had access. God would forgive him. Auguste would warn them. If they refused to run, refused to hide, then he could not help them at the expense of those whom he loved.
His thoughts this time, settled him. He had made up his mind and had a course of action ahead of him. He felt as if the tension of his indecisiveness had resolved itself and the calm came as a peace, a tranquillity he had sought for days. He wondered if it was always the same, whatever the mental conflicts. Decisiveness brings relief.
He stood and walked to the window. There was no Pierre, cycling in aggressive defiance. No marches, no protestations. The German occupation of his home, his country, had quietened them all, but he knew the fire raged, burned and
‘Suppose they were warned?’
‘How could that happen? They are not allowed radios or telephones. Your men saw to that, only last year.’
‘You trust me?’
‘We are both French. If the Vichy government chooses to collaborate with these invaders, then they can. I know to whom I owe my allegiance, and he is exiled in London’
‘But he is not in France now. All we have is Pétain and God knows if de Gaulle will ever return. Some don’t even think that is his real name. The Germans will defeat the Rosbifs and all of Europe will eat sauerkraut.’
‘You are unwise to talk too loudly even here. They have spies everywhere. I realise now you are a good man though, Auguste. Of course, you might be working for them, for all I know. Life is a gamble after all—la bonne chance.’
‘Someone else said that to me not so long ago. If it was true, I would not be sending all these innocent people to their deaths. Suppose the Gendarmerie were to have the list of internees and it got ‘lost’?’
‘Why, I would be furious with the man who lost it. I would have to kiss him upon both cheeks.’
Auguste smiled. Arnaud was turning into the first ally he had come across. He was glad he was not alone.
Arnaud stood up. ‘I must go. Would you send me the records so I can go through them? I can then let my men know where they will be expected to go. Of course, some of them have great difficulty finding their way around in this neighbourhood. Some of them might get lost or go astray.’
‘You appreciate the Germans will say we are incompetent?’
‘Well, vive la difference, is all I can say. I must go.’
They shook hands and Auguste noticed the old man had a warm dry hand and a firm handshake. Arnaud had not found the conversation stressful. A spark of admiration grew within him and he smiled when the door made its soft click, as Arnaud closed it behind him.
Auguste could hear the old man whistling. It was a military tune, he recognised. He remembered his father singing it, after drinking wine. It was from the first war, to do with love triumphing over all and the importance of duty.
His admiration and nostalgia left him as fast as it had emerged; he felt sick. It was not the tune, it was his feeling of betraying his father, his country and his beliefs. He believed in God. God the Almighty, who gave ultimate forgiveness, ultimate absolution. Would his God —his Father, Son and Holy Ghost—forgive the internment and final murder of Jews because they had in some way, ancestrally, been instrumental in the Saviour’s Passion? He knew it was not so, deep inside. It was not the God he believed in. His God was kind. His God was one who forgave. He had never believed in Mortal Sin, unforgivable, eternal, final.
He had friends who had sinned, it was true. They had committed adultery. Did his God judge them so finally? Hell had no meaning to him for he could not believe it was eternal. He thought if his actions resulted in the death of some Jews, saving the ones he could, it would counterbalance the evil he committed for the sake of saving his child, his woman.
He realised his hand trembled, holding the pen. It was enough, he thought, to do what he could for the people to whom he had access. God would forgive him. Auguste would warn them. If they refused to run, refused to hide, then he could not help them at the expense of those whom he loved.
His thoughts this time, settled him. He had made up his mind and had a course of action ahead of him. He felt as if the tension of his indecisiveness had resolved itself and the calm came as a peace, a tranquillity he had sought for days. He wondered if it was always the same, whatever the mental conflicts. Decisiveness brings relief.
He stood and walked to the window. There was no Pierre, cycling in aggressive defiance. No marches, no protestations. The German occupation of his home, his country, had quietened them all, but he knew the fire raged, burned and
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