Citadel

  She chatted for a while and bought a sheet of one-franc stamps. When she emerged into the sunshine, she crossed the square and went into the post office. Its wide double door wasn’t visible from across the road. If the man was following her, he’d have to move.

  She spent ten minutes queuing inside, pretended to have left the letter she wished to post at home and came out again. The Tramontana was starting to blow, sending the dust swirling up and around. She glanced again towards the doorway and, this time, saw nothing.

  The man had gone.

  Liesl let out her breath, hoping it was just a false alarm. She, Geneviève and Eloise saw shadows everywhere. It was hard to distinguish real threat from their overheated imaginations.

  She paused a moment, allowing her heart to steady, then headed to the Grand Café Guilhem, where she was due to meet Geneviève. Liesl knew she was late, but she was still within their agreed time frame. As she walked, with her long, elegant strides, someone wolf-whistled. She turned and a rather sweet-looking man grinned at her. Liesl didn’t acknowledge him, but she did smile slightly as she walked past. No sense in making a fuss.

  In two years, Liesl had grown from a solemn, quiet girl into a tall, graceful and self-possessed young woman. She was very slim, but it enhanced her beauty rather than diminishing it and she was much admired. She could have had her pick of the few young men left in Couiza, if she’d wanted. Only a few close friends knew how much time she and Yves Rousset spent in one another’s company. It was harder now, but they contrived to meet when they could. Like this morning. She smiled at the memory.

  Liesl sat at their usual table on the terrace, the one with the best view of both the bridge and the road. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass window and wondered, as she often did, if Max would even recognise her now. It had been so long since they’d seen one another.

  No one in Coustaussa or Couiza had ever challenged the story that Liesl was a cousin of the Vidals from Paris. So many of the old mountain families were distantly related – Sandrine and Marianne were cousins of the Saint-Loup girls, several times removed. Liesl had rarely been asked to produce her papers and, when she had, there’d been no trouble. The false documents Suzanne had obtained for her continued to pass muster. But the need to keep her true background secret meant Liesl rarely got news about her brother. What few scraps of information they did receive came from the waitress in the Café de la Paix in Le Vernet village, who telephoned Sandrine in Carcassonne, who then relayed the news back to Coustaussa via Raoul. As for her nephew, little Jean-Jacques, Liesl hadn’t seen him for over a year.

  The waiter came to take her order. ‘S’il vous plaît? ’

  Liesl looked in her purse and discovered it was all but empty.

  ‘Actually, I’m expecting a friend,’ she said. ‘We’ll order when she gets here.’

  ‘Un café . . .’

  ‘No, really, I’m happy to wait.’

  ‘. . . on the house,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Liesl looked up at him. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said quietly. ‘Then, yes please.’

  She checked the road, wondering where Geneviève had got to, then glanced at her watch. It was unlike her to be late, despite the difficulties in getting from one place to another. She had gone to Limoux yesterday to hand over a film to Raoul for Sandrine, but Liesl had expected her back before now.

  The waiter brought the ersatz coffee and she sipped it as slowly as she could, making it last for as long as possible. She looked at her watch again, tapping the glass in case it was losing time. The hands continued to move steadily round. Liesl felt a flurry of nerves in her stomach. The meeting place might have been discovered, someone might have talked. The rule was that if a contact was more than half an hour late, you left. You took no risks. The fact that the contact was Geneviève – her closest friend – made no difference.

  Time was up.

  Liesl smoothed down her dress, picked up her basket and walked quickly down the steps to the road. She looked towards Limoux, the direction she’d expect Geneviève to be coming from, willing her to be there. The road was empty.

  She collected her bicycle, put her basket on the front, then began to cycle towards home. It was only as she passed the boulangerie on the corner that she saw him again. The same man. She pedalled faster, not wanting to run the risk of him stepping out in front of her. He did nothing, though he made no attempt to hide the fact that he was looking at her. And as she cycled east on the road towards Coustaussa, Liesl felt his eyes drilling into her back.

  Liesl took a roundabout route, doubling back in case the man had somehow managed to follow her in a car or by motorbike. By the time she walked into the kitchen in Coustaussa, she was hot and worn out.

  She handed the cherries to Marieta. ‘The rest are for Madame Rousset,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them over to her as soon as I’ve got my strength back.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Marieta, looking at her flushed face.

  ‘I was followed,’ Liesl said, pouring herself a glass of water and sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘At least, I think so. Didn’t want to take the risk.’

  Marieta’s eyes sharpened, though her voice didn’t change.

  ‘Followed, you say,’ she said, putting the cherries into a colander. ‘Where?’

  ‘In Couiza. Not before.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About an hour ago. I was due to meet Geneviève in the café, but she didn’t arrive. I was late, so it’s possible I missed her. In the end I decided it was better to come home.’ She met Marieta’s gaze. ‘Just in case.’

  Marieta nodded. ‘Perhaps Madomaisèla Geneviève went straight down to Tarascon?’

  Liesl looked up. ‘Why would she change her plans when we’d arranged to meet?’

  Marieta frowned. ‘An old friend of Na Saint-Loup passed away at the weekend. It was a natural death and Pierre was old, but even so. Geneviève would wish to be there to comfort her mother, I’m sure of it.’

  The explanation gave Liesl some comfort. It made sense and Geneviève was usually so reliable.

  ‘Yes, I can see she would want to be there.’

  ‘No reason to think anything else,’ Marieta said sternly. ‘No sense worrying yourself to a thread.’

  Liesl sighed. ‘No.’

  Marieta held Liesl’s glance for a moment, then pointed to the empty glass bottle on the draining board. ‘Could you pass me that?’

  Liesl got up and handed it to her, then sat down again. She watched as Marieta ladled the cherries into the narrow neck, pushing them down with the handle of a wooden spoon.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What I can,’ Marieta said quietly. She took a small bottle of cognac from the table in front of her and started to drizzle the brandy on top of the cherries. ‘Making a kind of Guignolet. It is Monsieur Baillard’s particular favourite drink.’

  ‘But . . .’ Liesl began, then stopped. She had been about to ask what the point was in making Monsieur Baillard’s favourite drink, but knew better than to say the thought out loud. ‘Where did you get the brandy?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Madomaisèla Geneviève was given it.’

  Liesl smiled. ‘They all adore her.’

  ‘She has a good nature,’ Marieta said.

  Liesl hid her smile, perfectly certain that it wasn’t Geneviève’s good nature the maquisards appreciated so much as her face and her figure. Unlike everyone else, she had kept her perfect hour-glass curves and looked as healthy and pretty as ever.

  Marieta drained the half-litre of cognac. ‘When Monsieur Baillard comes back,’ she said, with a slight tremor in her voice, ‘I want to welcome him home properly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Liesl said. Her heart went out to the old woman. She knew Marieta missed Sandrine and Marianne. Little Jean-Jacques too; the house had seemed so quiet when he’d gone. But she forgot that Marieta missed her old friend most of all. ‘Yes, of course you do. He’ll be so delighted.’

  For a mo
ment, silence fell between them. The only sound was the knocking of the spoon against the glass. Liesl watched as Marieta put the flat blue metal cap on the bottle, twisted it shut and turned the bottle over and back several times, like an egg-timer. Then she walked slowly to the larder and put the Guignolet inside on the shelf.

  ‘There,’ Marieta said, ‘perfect in a week or two. At least, good enough.’

  She lowered herself on to a chair with a sigh, poking wisps of grey hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck. ‘So, you said you were followed. Is there any particular reason, madomaisèla, why such a thing should have happened today?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Marieta fixed her with a look. ‘You know quite well what I mean.’

  Liesl met her gaze. Marieta was perfectly aware that the girls delivered food and weapons to the men. But she also knew that they carried out small acts of sabotage or disruption, and that Liesl took great risks to photograph the atrocities committed by the Milice and the occupying forces, when she could get the film.

  ‘No. I paid a visit to the hills, that’s all.’

  ‘There is nothing particular being planned?’

  Liesl wasn’t sure what Geneviève would want her to say. The fact was, there was something being planned, but as the guerrilla war between the maquisards and the Gestapo grew more vicious, no one was safe. They told Marieta what was happening only in general terms, therefore, hoping it might keep her safer.

  ‘No,’ she replied, though she couldn’t meet Marieta’s gaze. ‘Si es atal es atal,’ she rushed on, quoting one of the housekeeper’s well-worn phrases back at her. She found a smile, trying to persuade herself that everything would be all right. ‘What will be will be,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?’

  Marieta didn’t return the smile. ‘Even if there is nothing planned,’ she said in a sombre tone, ‘it would be wise not to go down into the town for the time being. Your friends can manage for a day or two without you, do you hear me?’

  Liesl stared. Marieta never made a fuss, never overreacted. That she was taking this seriously upset her more than any scolding would have done.

  ‘Wait until Geneviève and Eloise come back,’ Marieta said, ‘then we’ll see, è?’

  Chapter 108

  CARCASSONNE

  ‘Sandrine?’

  There was a sharp tapping on the door. Sandrine blinked, stretched and half woke, without identifying what had disturbed her. The knocking started again.

  ‘Sandrine, are you in there?’

  She opened her eyes, surprised to hear Lucie’s voice. She glanced at the clock, and was horrified to see that it was early afternoon. They’d slept for hours.

  Slipping out from beneath Raoul’s arm, she took her cotton dressing gown from its hook, pulled the belt tight around her waist, then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  ‘Sorry to barge in and all that,’ Lucie said in a whisper, ‘but Marianne wants you to come.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘We’re in the kitchen,’ said Lucie. ‘I’ll tell her you’re on your way.’

  Sandrine nodded. Quickly she gathered the items of clothing that lay strewn across the bedroom floor. She took a last glance at Raoul, pleased that he was so peaceful. A month’s worth of sleep in a real bed to catch up on.

  ‘A bientôt,’ she murmured, then, resisting the temptation to kiss him again, she crept out of the room and downstairs.

  Marianne, Lucie and Suzanne were sitting at the kitchen table. The windows were tilted open to let in a little fresh air, but the door to the garden was closed and the room was hot.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’d no idea it was so late.’

  ‘But you’re all right?’ Marianne was saying. She looked harried, exhausted, the lines around her eyes dark as if drawn on with ink.

  ‘Fine,’ said Suzanne gruffly. ‘Don’t fuss.’

  Lucie was sitting in her chair, frowning.

  ‘They had to release me,’ Suzanne continued. ‘They had no grounds to hold me. No evidence.’

  ‘Evidence! ’ Marianne said. ‘Did they tell you why you’d been arrested?’

  ‘I wasn’t arrested.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Sandrine sat down at the table with a thump. ‘When?’ she said.

  ‘After I left the Café des Deux Gares,’ Suzanne said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Two plain-clothes—’

  ‘Gestapo?’ Sandrine interrupted.

  Suzanne shook her head. ‘Police. Not local. I didn’t recognise them.’

  ‘Had they been following you?’ Sandrine asked.

  Suzanne shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They took me to the Commissariat. Must have been about ten thirty.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I got back fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘I’d been trying to find her all morning,’ Marianne said to Sandrine. ‘Lucie came to tell me what had happened.’

  Sandrine threw a glance at Lucie, then back to her sister.

  ‘How did Lucie know?’

  Lucie answered for herself. ‘Gaston Bonnet saw them. J-J and I had spent the morning by the canal, looking at the boats, and in the Jardin des Plantes. He noticed I was still there and asked me to let Marianne know.’

  Sandrine met her eye. ‘Thank you.’ Although Lucie was prepared to run errands for them from time to time, mostly she kept her distance for the sake of Jean-Jacques.

  Lucie flushed. ‘My pleasure, kid.’

  Marianne looked distressed. ‘They didn’t—’

  ‘No,’ Suzanne said firmly. ‘No one laid a finger on me. They just asked questions.’

  ‘About Libertat?’ Sandrine asked.

  ‘Not to start with. They were fishing. Who my friends were. Tossed a lot of names about, all résistants who’ve been arrested recently – Léri, Bonfils, Lespinasse – but nothing that could stick.’ She looked briefly at Marianne. ‘They asked about the protest your students staged last November. If I knew anything about it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I admitted we were friends, there’s no secret in that. Said that Marianne was engaged to my cousin.’

  A sudden wail from Jean-Jacques in the salon stopped the conversation for a moment.

  ‘He’s teething,’ Lucie said, getting up. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Sandrine quickly, as soon as Lucie had gone.

  ‘They asked if I was aware Marianne had been suspended for refusing to take books by Jewish writers off the classroom shelves.’

  ‘That was eighteen months ago,’ Sandrine said.

  ‘I know. I said I didn’t know anything about it.’ She looked at Marianne. ‘I told them you were a bookworm. That it had been an oversight, nothing political.’

  Marianne smiled, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did they believe you?’ Sandrine asked.

  ‘Possibly, but what could they say?’

  Sandrine was frowning. ‘It’s odd for the police to ask about that. That sort of thing’s not their responsibility.’ She paused. ‘Who conducted the interview?’

  Suzanne gave a wry smile. ‘They didn’t formally introduce themselves.’

  Realising Suzanne was now deliberately playing it down so as not to worry Marianne, Sandrine mustered a smile.

  ‘No, sorry. Stupid of me to ask.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But you were at the Commissariat de Police all the time?’

  Suzanne nodded. ‘It was all courteous and formal, but I’m sure someone outside the room was listening. There was a mirror. Could have been two-way.’

  ‘Did you hear any German?’

  ‘In the corridor outside.’ She took another hard drag of her cigarette. ‘After an hour or so they got on to Libertat. But even then all they asked was if I read it.’

  Sandrine glanced towards the corridor, listening for signs of Lucie coming back.

  ‘I said I’d seen it, but I didn’
t read it.’

  ‘They didn’t ask about anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing about last night?’

  Suzanne shook her head. ‘No.’

  Sandrine let out a long sigh of relief. ‘That’s something, at least.’ She paused. ‘What were they really after, do you think?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. They switched topics so quickly, everything in the same tone. I said I’d seen the newspaper around Carcassonne, but I was too busy to spend time on the regular dailies, let alone underground newspapers, et cetera, et cetera. I thought they’d press me more than they did, but they suddenly jumped to asking about the Croix-Rouge. They even asked if I was a member of the Communist Party. They must know I’m not.’

  ‘And they asked about Marianne, but not me?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Not the Bonnets? Not Coustaussa?’

  ‘No.’

  Sandrine traced a pattern on the table with her finger, thinking hard. ‘All we can hope is that this is nothing to do with “Citadel”, then. That it simply comes from next door, no real information. Just tittle-tattle from Madame Fournier.’

  Marianne sat forward in her chair. ‘She did stop me on the doorstep yesterday and ask how many people actually lived here.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s all right,’ Sandrine said, aware that she was trying to convince herself. ‘They have your description on file, Suzanne. A couple of officers saw you, decided to bring you in. A fishing expedition, nothing more.’

  Suzanne was nodding. ‘You and I are more often together,’ she said to Marianne. ‘And although we do everything not to duplicate the same arrangements, or use the same distribution routes for Libertat too often, there are plenty of other people like Madame Fournier looking out of their windows.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘Hoping to make a little extra.’