CARCASSONNE
Leo Authié faced the west door of the cathédrale Saint-Michel and ran his hand over the battered stonework. He was pleased to see the damage wasn’t too extensive. At least, Laval had carried out those orders effectively.
He went inside. Although there was evidence of the explosion, in the layer of white dust that covered the hymnals and votive candles for sale on the table, the calm and tranquillity of the cathedral was unaffected.
Authié dipped his finger into the bénitier of holy water and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. For a moment, he allowed the burden of his responsibilities to lift. Here, he felt certain of his mission. Here, everything was unequivocal. Absolute.
‘The cathedral’s closed.’
Authié looked in the direction of the voice and saw a charwoman mopping the flagstone tiles. He ignored her and walked up the nave, pausing only to make obeisance, then strode to the confessional.
‘Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?’ she called after him.
Authié walked round to the far side, pulled back the curtain and peered inside. It was empty.
‘Where’s the priest?’ he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous stone spaces.
‘I told you, the cathedral’s closed. Come back on Sunday.’
Authié walked back towards her, sharp heels, sharp eyes. She held her ground.
‘Get out,’ he said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you to talk to me like that?’ she said. ‘See the mess they’ve made? I’ve got to get things straight.’
Authié put his hand to his breast pocket and produced his identification.
‘Do as you’re told.’
The char peered at the card, and Authié saw her knuckles tighten on the handle of the mop. Without another word she picked up her pail and walked back towards the small room behind the choir.
Authié stepped into the pew third from the front on the left-hand side. As he waited, he let his gaze move over each of the high side chapels in turn. He looked at the soaring stained-glass windows dedicated to St Bernard and St Benedict and at the unlit thick tallow candles on the high altar. All of it spoke of the magnificence of grace, the power of God.
The bells in the tower struck the half-hour. He glanced behind him, but the west door remained firmly closed. The car to take him north was ordered for midday.
His thoughts returned to Erik Bauer. Authié knew Bauer had no interest in the Codex other than to placate his masters in Berlin. The ambitions of the Reich were writ large in its headlong acquisition of everything and anything.
Authié considered the Nazi attempts to extirpate God from civil life both childish and pointless. He believed in a theocracy. His mission was to re-establish God at the heart of daily life. The absolute rule of religious law and obedience to the Church. His God was the God of the Old Testament, a God of judgement and wrath and punishment for those who transgressed the laws. Not a God of light or tolerance or one who postulated the equality of all men.
He believed the time was at hand for Europe to return to Christian rule. A new crusade against the Jews and the Moslems, any who refused to accept the one true faith. Those who had turned their faces away, as well as those who supported them. Authié had ensured that clerics of his rigorous persuasion were appointed to the key positions in the diocese, although he’d not yet been able to get rid of Abbé Gau. He’d made it impossible for Jewish businesses to continue to thrive, made sure that the schools of Moslem learning were shut down. He had done everything he could to turn the local population against anyone not prepared to return to the waiting arms of the Church.
To start with, his strategy had worked. The majority of Carcassonnais were inclined to put their trust in Pétain. They disliked Hitler and his Nazi party, but they wanted their sons, their husbands, their brothers returned from German POW camps and so were prepared to see Vichy work with Berlin to achieve that.
But signs were that ordinary citizens were becoming impatient. As the stringencies of rationing had begun to bite and fewer POWs than promised had been repatriated to France, views were changing. The endless queues and checkpoints, the lack of freedom to travel over the line or communicate with relatives in the north: citizens were starting to criticise and question whether the ‘voie de collaboration’ was working to their advantage. The churches were still empty and time was running out. Authié knew the status quo would not hold for very much longer.
He needed to find the Codex. It was a heresy, a proscribed text. If the authority ascribed to those verses was to be believed, the man who possessed it could be a modern-day Joshua, before the walls of Jericho, powerful and invincible. But Authié would not make use of it. His faith was strong enough to resist such temptation. He would, of course, destroy it, in accordance with the church’s wishes.
At last, Authié heard the creak of the door and the scrape of the wood on the stone steps. He did not turn and he did not react, but waited and listened as the footsteps came closer, closer until they stopped. The man stepped into the far end of the pew and knelt down.
‘I came as soon as I got your message,’ he said.
Authié pushed the hymn book along the wooden rail. The sepia border of a hundred-franc note just visible between the pages.
‘Fournier, I have a job for you.’
Sandrine walked across the Pont Marengo towards the mainline station. The streets were oddly quiet for a weekday morning, as if Carcassonne itself was waiting to see what the day might hold. She was pleased Marianne had let her come, but her past ignorance of the true state of affairs had made her confident and bold. Now, she was scared. She expected at every moment to be stopped and challenged.
‘Where do we go?’ she asked.
‘Just do what I do,’ Marianne replied.
There were hardly any passengers, but there were scores of police checking the papers of anybody trying to go in or come out of the railway station. Sandrine hoped Raoul was already many kilometres clear of Carcassonne.
The officers checked their cartes d’identité in silence, then waved them through to Marianne’s Croix-Rouge colleagues who were already on the platform. As well as food and drink, they had blankets, various bits and pieces of clothing, a few pairs of men’s shoes and, oddly, a pile of spectacles.
‘This is my sister, Sandrine,’ Marianne said.
Everyone was friendly, though quiet. Sandrine said her hellos. A woman in a broad-brimmed straw hat smiled back, another nodded and handed Sandrine a pail of water and three tin cups. Marianne picked up a panier that contained medical supplies: bandages and iodine swabs and sticking plasters.
‘How many are we expecting?’ Marianne asked.
‘Originally we were told twenty prisoners would be deported to camps in the Ariège today,’ said a tall, dignified woman in uniform. ‘But after yesterday’s arrests, I’m expecting more.’
On the way from the rue du Palais, Marianne had explained that the Red Cross was allowed to see the prisoners on humanitarian grounds only. They were not allowed to intervene or talk to them about the charges against them, discuss politics or anything else, otherwise they would be forbidden access in the future. All they could do was to try to make the men’s journey less uncomfortable. Still surprised that Marianne had let her come in the first place, Sandrine hadn’t wanted to admit she was nervous about what she might see.
‘How long before the prisoners get here?’ she asked.
Marianne shrugged. ‘It could be soon, might not be until the end of the afternoon. They always get us here much earlier than necessary.’
‘What’s the point in that?’
Marianne gave a tired smile. ‘To make it as difficult as possible. The authorities have to allow the Croix-Rouge to monitor the situation, but they’d prefer it if we didn’t. Keeping us waiting for hours, it’s just one way to put people off. Lots of the women have children, can’t get away for so long.’
Sandrine noticed how deep the worry lines around her sister’s eyes were and again felt stupid at how she’d managed to miss the signs of the burden Marianne had been under. Not only the work itself, but also the strain of keeping up appearances. Ensuring that life seemed to be carrying on as usual. Sandrine wondered if she’d have the courage to do the same. To risk her life for the sake of people she didn’t even know.
‘Where are they being sent?’ she said, talking to keep her nerves under control.
‘To internment camps in Ariège and Roussillon,’ Marianne replied.
‘And then? Do they stay there?’
‘It depends on the charges against them,’ she said. ‘Those classified as undesirables or enemy aliens will be sent over the line to camps in the north.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps even into Germany, I’m not sure. There are lots of stories we’ve not been able to verify yet.’
The sound of the guard shouting disrupted their conversation. The sisters looked round to see the train driver leaning out of the cab of the engine.
‘Looks like they’re coming,’ Marianne said. ‘They walk the prisoners from the gaol on the route de Narbonne.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Some of them will try to give you letters, trinkets to pass on. We’re not supposed to take them, but if the guards don’t see, it’s all right. It’s a great comfort to them, but we only get a few minutes to hand over clothes or shoes to those who need them and to check they are fit to travel before they’re put on the train, so don’t get caught up with one person for too long.’
‘And if someone’s not fit to travel?’ Sandrine asked. ‘What do we do then?’
Marianne didn’t answer.
There was a belch of smoke. A heavy hiss and a grinding of brakes and iron on the tracks, as more third-class carriages were shunted towards the engine. The guard jumped down, then began to lift the heavy chains to connect the new rolling stock to the rest of the train. All the windows in the third-class carriages had been painted over, making it impossible to see in.
Then, at the outer edges of the station compound, above the Quai Riquet, Sandrine heard shouting and the sound of feet. Moments later a unit of armed gardes mobiles came into view, herding a line of prisoners through a side gate and across the rails towards the transit carriages at the back of the train.
The guards were shouting, even though there was no trouble, pushing the prisoners with their sticks, the butts of their machine guns. Sandrine felt her fingers clench around the thin handle of the bucket. Some of the other ladies walked to the far end of the station to help those at the back. Sandrine and Marianne moved to the head of the line.
‘Remember,’ Marianne said, ‘our job is to be kind. To patch them up. Do the best we can, as quickly as we can, then move on.’
‘But there are so many of them,’ Sandrine said, looking up and down the long platform, aghast at the sight.
‘Just do what you can.’
As they came closer, Sandrine saw the men were handcuffed, though not chained together. They looked disreputable, dirty, in filthy clothes, their faces grey. Marianne had warned her that they were held in unhygienic and unsanitary conditions, but Sandrine was shocked to acknowledge her first reaction was disgust rather than pity.
Then she recognised the older brother of one of the boys in her class at school. A quiet, gentle boy, not one to cause trouble. Straight away the mass of prisoners became individuals and she rushed to help. He had a cut on his head, the blood brown on his temple, and his knuckles were bruised and swollen.
‘My God, Xavier,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
He tried to smile, revealing a couple of broken teeth.
‘They came for a friend of mine. Said his papers weren’t in order. The police didn’t take kindly to me trying to intervene.’
‘That was brave,’ she said, dipping a metal cup in the pail and giving him a sip of water. She waved to attract her sister’s attention. ‘What happened to your friend? Where’s he now?’
Xavier shrugged, then winced. ‘I haven’t seen him since we were arrested. Could you try to find out?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Marc Filaquier.’
‘I’ll try,’ she promised, then waved again. ‘Marianne, over here.’
Marianne quickly appeared, took a look at Xavier’s injuries and started to patch him up.
‘Go,’ she said to Sandrine. ‘There are plenty of others who need help.’
Sandrine threw herself into the thick of things. Rushing up and down the line, giving everybody water, handing out dry biscuits, calling for medical assistance, accepting letters and rings when the guards weren’t looking.
‘I was going to propose,’ one boy was saying. ‘But we quarrelled, and now . . .’ Tears began to run down his dirty cheeks. ‘Never got the chance to make it up.’
‘Write a note and I’ll take it to her,’ she said. She pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from her pocket, then noticed he was cradling his right hand in his left. She licked the end of the pencil. ‘On second thoughts, tell me what to say.’
He tried to smile. ‘She’s called Maude Lagarde, rue Courtejaire. Red door, just past Artozouls.’
‘All right.’
‘Tell her I love her – I’m Pierre-Jacques – and I’ll write. They allow letters, don’t they?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘They do allow letters.’
A police officer appeared, poked him in the ribs with his stick.
‘Enough. Get on the train.’
Sandrine couldn’t stop herself. ‘He needs medical attention.’
‘Are you trying to tell me what to do?’
‘No, of course not,’ Sandrine said quickly, stepping back. ‘But his wrist is broken. He should be in hospital.’
The guard moved closer. ‘Unless you want to find yourself going with him, mademoiselle, I suggest you get out of the way and let me do my job.’
Sandrine could do nothing but step back as Pierre-Jacques was forced on to the train with the others. She tried to catch the boy’s eye, but his head was bowed and he didn’t look back.
‘You said they had to be fit to travel,’ Sandrine said, when she found Marianne, ‘but there’s someone with a broken wrist. He should have been taken to hospital, but the guard just didn’t care.’
She felt her sister’s arm go around her waist. ‘Come on,’ Marianne said quietly. ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’
Sandrine turned away. The remaining prisoners were being loaded into the last carriage at the far end of the train. The woman with the broad-brimmed hat stepped forward and put a blanket around the shoulders of a tall, stooped man at the end of the line. He had his back to her, but Sandrine briefly glimpsed his aquiline features and black hair. She frowned. Was there something familiar about his profile? Then the woman moved and blocked her view.
Sandrine quickly started to walk down the long platform towards the group, trying to look past the Red Cross ladies standing between her and the man. Although he was covered by the blanket now, she could make out his cuffed hands were held out in front of him. Sandrine saw him slip. The woman tried to help. The warder pushed her roughly away.
Sandrine started to run, suddenly desperate to get to them before the doors were shut, but Marianne put out her hand and stopped her. She watched in despair as the warder raised his baton and struck the man across his shoulders, then shoved him on to the train.
‘No!’ she shouted, but the guard took no notice.
The woman raised her hand to warn Sandrine not to say anything more.
‘That’s the lot,’ the warder said, slamming the door and walking back up the platform towards the front of the train.
The driver nodded and sat back in his cab. The guard banged the side of the engine, then blew his whistle and waved his flag. Slowly, the wheels began to move, metal grinding on metal, steam belching out into the clear blue sky.
The women were left standing on the platform, watching as the train disappeared around the bend in the track.
‘Is it always like this?’ Sandrine said to Marianne.
‘It was particularly awful today. There were many more prisoners than we’d been told to expect and they were in a worse condition than usual.’ She paused. ‘Do you wish you hadn’t come?’
Sandrine looked along the empty platform, then up towards the white stone crosses and tombs in the cimetière Saint-Vincent on the hill above the station. She thought of the risks Marianne and Suzanne took every day, of how Raoul kept fighting against the injustice they saw all around them. Then she thought of Xavier and Pierre-Jacques. She’d hardly done much, but it was better than doing nothing.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Quite the opposite.’