CHAPTER THREE
Paris - July 1940
He dreamed again of home, of his village Kermor Ibra. Of times when he ran barefoot along the dusty streets rolling tubeless bicycle wheels with a stick, laughing into the bright sun, and he heard the laughter of his friends. When they reached the stream where they gathered every day after school and sometimes when they played truant, they stripped bare and dived into the rock pool. Their worry and their sorrow could wait yet another hour before they returned to their huts.
He saw his grand-mère clucking over him and his brothers and sister, warning them about the sun that did not always heal, about their school slates they left at home and the stylus that lay abandoned next to the slates.
He saw again the classroom and the faces of his class mates in rapt attention as Teacher Ibou taught them everything ten year olds needed to know - reading, writing, making difficult sums look easy. He saw again his teacher's eyes on him, always, as if he alone could divine all questions and all answers. He even heard the old Ibou's, "You must learn, Lamine, for through learning, you will one day reach beyond yourself and make a difference in someone's life."
He had no idea what Teacher Ibou meant with those words and just smiled, knowing that of all the boys in his class, he was the best reader, the best writer and the best at knowing his sums.
Through the deep, dark fog of his dream, Lamine heard a sound - thin and strident, thumping - very close to him. Mortar! He uttered a cry of dismay, for he had seen those bombs blow his comrades to pieces!
Lamine rocked awake, shaking off the dreariness of his dream. He lay close to the wall of an old building. It smelled of old things - urine, wine, the odours of unwashed bodies that had lain there before him. The street didn't change, except that it was now darker, the lamps dim, too weak to expose his presence. When he looked around, he saw a cat scurrying away, realising the origin of the sound. It was no bomb. Relief swamped him and he closed his eyes and offered a prayer to the god of all things for letting him stay alive.
Awareness brought another reality - hunger and pain. He had not eaten properly in days. The wound to his leg had not healed. In fact, the pain had become unbearable, with pus oozing from the hole made by the bullet of a German rifle. He cried out softly, knowing he had to keep moving. He peered at the address on the dirty, bloodied piece of paper. Rue du Lion... He still had to crawl three blocks.
Resolutely he began crawling again; it was more a dragging of his body for his shattered leg was useless. Two more blocks... He faded in and out of consciousness, dragging his body over the roughened stonework of the pavement when he was awake. One more block. Third of five houses, the old woman had said.
He thought of home, but Kermor Ibra was so far, far away. "Lamine, when you leave this village, will you ever come back?" he heard his mother's voice. Once, he had been angry and told her he wished to leave Senegal forever. Now he remembered her words and felt a great regret that he had not honoured his mother. It was when reading the letter of old Teacher Ibou that he learned his mother had died of the great fever.
When he reached the last block, the third house, he saw the brown front door with the knocker that resembled the head of a lion. "It has the face of a lion. You cannot miss it," the old woman had said. He grimaced as he pulled himself up to reach the knocker. He lifted it once then dropped it with a clank against the wooden door.
"I'm here at last," he murmured as he sagged against the door.
Then images of the last skirmish tumbled into his consciousness. His regiment, his friends, brothers in arms, Lanviers bleeding as the might of the German artillery rolled mercilessly into the town. Retreating into the doorway of a house, he saw his comrades mowed down. German soldiers kicking down the doors of houses and firing indiscriminately at anyone and everyone. Then the sudden appearance of a German infantryman in front of him.
"Du bist es nicht wert, auf dem Schlachtfeld zu fallen, Neger! Not worthy of dying in battle!" the young soldier shouted, his lips curving derisively. Next thing Lamine felt a searing pain. He thought his leg had been ripped off, another bullet strafing his skull. Howling, he fired blindly. In a daze he saw the soldier going down, the helmet flying off his head. Lamine sank to the ground, lost consciousness, unaware of the carnage that followed.
When he regained consciousness he knew loneliness such as he had never felt before. The Germans rolled in, killed without pity, then rolled out again to sow carnage in the next town. Lamine remembered how once in Kermor Ibra a swarm of locusts had destroyed their crops. In the same way the Germans killed everything that moved. Lamine had crawled to the next house, found everyone dead. His comrades' bodies lay strewn across the town square. He had been left for dead; could any of them have survived? Then he crawled from house to house in the desperate hope of finding someone still alive.
He had last cried when his precious grand-mère had died. Now he wept as he crawled from comrade to comrade, unable to identify even one of them. They were from villages as small as Kermor Ibra in their beloved Senegal. They had come to France's aid, for her colonies were in this war as much as she was. But France's people had been betrayed and were now occupied by the enemy.
Was this what his old teacher had meant that day he berated Lamine for not paying attention in class? How would he ever make a difference in anyone's life? How, when he was so broken, with little left to live for except to hope that he could be healed?
Why did the old woman guide him to this address? He had found her hidden under the bed of a house near the end of a road, close to where the village meandered into rural nothingness. Slowly, but surely, survivors of the massacre had begun to emerge. The old woman had tears in her eyes, but he saw how brave her heart was, for she helped him as best she could. He saw how she managed the survivors of the village.
"I cannot cure your leg. Go to this address, my son, for there you will receive help. I have known that man's mother. She was my friend..."
Brought back to the dark present, he waited for someone to come to the door. But Lamine lost consciousness again and was unaware of the front door opening or a concerned Doctor Joseph Blumenthal bending over him.
He opened his eyes slowly. There was light in the room that came from a window above the bed. He blinked a few times, trying to gain a sense of where he was. .
"Bonjour..."
Lamine gazed into a pair of very blue eyes. A child of about five stood next to him. She looked tiny, with golden brown hair nestling on her shoulder.
"Bonjour," he replied.
"Je m'appelle Célestine," she offered. "Quelle est votre nom?"
He stared at the ceiling, then looked around him. He lay on a bed that felt soft. There was a bedstand on which stood a carafe of water. He tried to remember things, like pulling the knocker with the shape of a lion's head and banging it against a door. Like the pain that raged like a fire through his body. Pain! He felt little pain now, almost gone, he realised.
He looked at the child again. She wanted to know his name, waiting patiently for him to answer her.
"My name..." He frowned as memory came flooding back of dark, unlit streets in Paris, of pain, of hunger. "Mon nom est Lamine Bhoutayeb."
"Lamine. I like your name."
"Thank you, Célestine." He had no idea whether he was at the right place. So he asked.
"Dites-moi, où êtes-vous?
"Where am I?" he asked again, this time in English.
A figure stood in the open door of the room. A tall man, bearded, with dark eyes and a riot of dark hair smiled as he entered.
"I see you have met Célestine," said the man. Lamine noticed he carried a little metal dish. It smelled of a hospital, he realised.
"I was told to come here, although I did not know why," Lamine said, trying to raise himself on his elbow, suddenly agitated, afraid the old woman could have led him to the brink of death. Was this man going to kill him?
"Lie still," the stranger said as he shifted Lamine's sleeve and quickly rubbed his upper arm with cotton wool that smelled of antiseptic.
"What - ?"
"Please, you need this," said the man as he injected Lamine, then pushed him gently back against the pillow.
"His name is Lamine," offered Célestine.
"Forgive my daughter. She's a little forward. Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Doctor Joseph Blumenthal. Found you unconscious on my doorstep."
"A-A woman gave me your address. She said she knew your mother."
"Where were you injured?" Joseph asked, frowning.
"Lanviers."
"My mother was born there."
"The old woman was one of the few survivors. The Germans entered the homes of the villagers and killed everyone on sight."
Lamine closed his eyes and thought of how the young fresh-faced German soldier stood in front of him and shot him. He thought of how he'd reacted, shooting back. The helmet rolling, blood everywhere. He gave a cry of pain. Then he heard the doctor's voice.
"Célestine, you go to Maman and tell her our patient has woken up. He'll need something to eat."
Célestine's retreating footsteps could be heard, moving further and further away until he couldn't hear her. He heard the scrape of a chair. When he opened his eyes, the doctor was sitting in the chair he'd pulled up. His eyes were kind, compassionate, without hate...
"Tell me..."
"I am black," Lamine said simply. "The Germans executed my regiment. They called us unworthy."
Joseph's hands stilled. Then he touched Lamine's shoulder gently.
"In the eyes of God," Joseph began, "every man is worthy. Remember that, Lamine - ?"
"Bhoutayeb. Lamine Bhoutayeb. I am from the 14th Senegalese Regiment. I come from Kerbor Ibra, a small village in the St Louis region."
Joseph nodded and smiled. "Well, Lamine Bhoutayeb of Kerbor Ibra, your head wound is superficial. The bullet just grazed your temple. I have cleaned, cut, stitched and dressed your leg wound. In addition I've put you on a course of antibiotics. A wonder drug called penicillin."
This time it was Lamine who frowned. He tried lifting his head, but the injection was beginning to take effect. He slumped against the pillow.
"Anything wrong, my good friend?"
"How long have I been here?" Lamine asked.
"Three days. It was touch and go. Your leg will heal and in time there will only be a scar. It was the poison in your blood that was the real evil demon."
"I have no money."
"I did not ask for any. If an old woman who survived a massacre in a small town could guide you to this house, then she knew there was much in you to be honoured. Stay."
"I have nowhere to go. My village in Senegal... There is nothing for me there."
"No brothers, sisters, family?"
"Died of the great sickness that ravaged the villages."
"My home is - "
Before Joseph could continue, another person entered and stood in the doorway. Joseph glanced back. Lamine gazed at the vision.
"Oh, here is Katrine. Katrine, please tell our guest he is welcome in our home."
She stepped forward and stopped right at his bedside. Then she placed her hand in a featherlight touch on his brow. Her eyes were blue, like Célestine's, and her hair the same golden brown, curling into her neck.
She smiled, and when she spoke, her voice sounded like the cool waterfall of the river near his village.
"You are very welcome in our home, Lamine."
That was the first time Lamine Bhoutayeb met Joseph and Katrine and their little daughter Célestine. He had landed on their doorstep, a broken man, beaten by the enemy and beaten by the circumstance of war - degradation, hunger, racial bigotry and an insatiable yearning for a life better than his past.
Joseph Blumenthal was a Jew, and while born and bred in France, by circumstance of race placed on an equal level with those born of another colour, or of another creed or orientation. Lumped by the enemy as unworthy, they were therefore all cattle to be despatched without mercy. With Joseph he felt a kinship that crossed all barriers.
He, Lamine, knew himself well enough to understand that somewhere there was a Higher Power who looked upon the earth and shook His head in dismay. Did not his old teacher in Kermor Ibra constantly tell them in class, "Remember, God is watching you"? Lamine had always wondered why old Ibou did not just say, "God is watching over you". In his darkest hours, crawling his way through the Paris streets when he couldn't walk anymore, Lamine had wondered whether this deity had forsaken him.
Yet, Joseph could inspire him and tell him no man was unworthy. It gave Lamine courage and a deep and abiding respect for the couple and their little girl.
They asked him to stay. They gave him shelter, a place at their table and a place in their hearts. Young Célestine gave her affection without reserve.
"Let me help you, anyway I can. Please, let me be of service," he had pleaded the first time he had woken from his dark dreams.
Katrine had looked at him with kindness, then said calmly, "We could use all the extra help."
He had not understood immediately what Katrine had meant that day, because the first time he saw her standing in the doorway of the room where he lay, he was almost overcome with awe.
Katrine was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mother was beautiful, his sister was beautiful, the young nubile girls of his tribe were beautiful. But Katrine du Pléssis took his breath away. Perhaps it was also because he had instantly connected to the kindness that exuded from her, from every syllable that left her mouth, every expression in her face, every gesture of her expressive hands.
He remembered the old poem Teacher Ibou had taught them in primary school. "Is she kind, as she's fair? For beauty lives with kindness." That was Katrine.
Katrine and Joseph.
When he realised what they meant by needing all the extra help they could get, he had jumped in with both feet. For France, they all understood, needed saving. Young soldiers who recovered carried messages via bicycle tubes, Bibles, loaves of bread, notes to every other cell in every other city that required reconnaissance. Lamine became a vital member of the Du Pléssis-Blumenthal team who did their work in the dead of night in the cellar beneath the cellar of the house they occupied.
Young Célestine played the violin, Katrine rescued paintings and Joseph mended broken bones, torn flesh, healed hearts, heads and hundreds of fighters for France.
"One day, Lamine, when all this is over, you will be a resident of this country," Katrine told him one day when he'd run an errand to a neighbouring district. They did their work quietly, secretly, and painfully slowly, not enough that they could see any difference in what they were doing, but they managed to destroy munitions depots, slowing down the progress of the Germans. He loved his native Senegal, but France mended his bones, healed his heart and invited him to adopt her as his new homeland.
Gradually, over the next two years, Lamine began to feel at home, a member of the family, working with them in the underground movement.
Which was why it was such a surprise one day when Lucien Blériot came knocking on their door. He had been in the kitchen with Célestine when Katrine herself went to open the door. Blériot stood there with a smirk on his face. He had once been engaged to Katrine who dropped him because she fell in love with Joseph. Lamine had peeped through the lacy curtain that separated the kitchen from the front room.
"And why couldn't the university let me know? A letter direct from the chancellor would have sufficed," Katrine's voice sounded sad and filled with disappointment.
"Let it be known, Katrine, as magistrate of this district, I shall not shirk my duty to my country," Blériot had replied imperiously.
"Duty to your country, indeed, Lucien. Did you wash Vichy's feet today?"
Why, oh, why, did Katrine taunt this man, this turncoat, a traitor, this sell out to the Germans? Could she not understand the look in his eyes, and the way he glanced past her, to rest his eyes on Joseph who had come to stand behind her? Lucien Blériot had clicked his heels, saluted, and said, "You have made an enemy today."
"Leave my home, Lucien. Leave now."
When Blériot left, Katrine stood shaking, the letter fluttering to the floor. He had picked up the paper while Joseph had gathered her in his arms.
"I have been sacked by the university. I'm supposed to stay at home and raise my children from my kitchen..."
Katrine, although very young still, was already a top scientist at the University of Paris, a holder of the Curie Medal, teaching her beloved students. Teaching science was her life. How would she cope now, with no university, no students, no teaching?
Lamine had taken the letter and folded it neatly again. He had an immediate distrust of Lucien Blériot. He knew the man was up to something and that Blériot was suspicious of them. So later that night, when Célestine was asleep in bed, he thought to warn them.
"I think you must be careful. Monsieur Blériot means to do you harm."
"I have taken Katrine's name, as you know, though how long it will protect me..."
"It might not be enough, Joseph," he told the doctor.
Joseph had given a sigh, looked at Katrine again.
"I cannot leave my people, you must understand."
"I know. But chéri, could we not send Célestine away? I have American friends who were visiting professors at the university. Célestine speaks English. Do you think I should write them?"
Joseph had nodded. He loved little Célestine with his whole heart. He couldn't bear to let her go away.
"Perhaps not now, mon coeur. We have so much work to do here. My uncle in Poland wishes work to continue here, to fight the occupation."
So they discussed sending Celestine away from everything she loved so dearly. He could understand why Joseph and Katrine hesitated, unable to bear the thought of being without their beloved child. Brave, talented Célestine who played the violin so beautifully at barely seven years old.
Lamine stayed with Joseph and Katrine for two years, protected Célestine, worked in the Resistance Movement 'til his fingers and heels bled and learned much about good wine, good books, art and music. Lucien Blériot had bothered them three or four more times after that first time Katrine lost her job at the university, and every time he left, their concern grew deeper and deeper. Katrine had spoken of going to the small town of St. Clair, but their work in Paris was too deeply entrenched for them to leave. Her uncle who owned a tavern there was too old to take care of Célestine. He was Katrine's great uncle really, and not capable of handling a boisterous child. Besides, it was so hard to send her away...
In the summer of 1942 their bubble burst.
The outskirts of Paris - the summer of 1942
Katrine du Pléssis thought she was the luckiest woman in France. She'd married a man she loved with her whole heart, she had an adorable little daughter who played the violin and who could speak passable English, and they had made a new friend.
After her initial disappointment that the University of Paris had fired her, she soon realised that it was perhaps, all things considered, a blessing in disguise. Her doctorate in physics would always be recognised and when the war was over, which she hoped would be soon, she could get back to her experiments, her students and teaching.
Right now their primary business was working in secret to despatch intelligence to other cells either in the city or outlying towns and to rescue artworks. They hoped to contain the advance of German troops or at least, cause as much turmoil and trouble as they could. A consignment lost here, or valuable medical supplies stolen there, successfully hiding parachutists of the British 1st Airborne Division, meant her work in the Resistance had become vital.
It was hard to even think of letting Célestine go to live in the United States to keep her safe. French citizens were opting to flee France and settle elsewhere, many moving to the free southern regions. She thought them cowards for leaving others to resist the Occupation. Yet, how could she blame them? She too, wanted what was best for her daughter, even if it meant sending her away to friends in another country.
Célestine. Her light. Her life. At almost seven years old, the child was already a prodigious violin player, a talent she inherited from her father. Joseph was an accomplished pianist and violinist himself.
Célestine looked mostly like her, Katrine thought with some pride. They had the same colour hair and eyes. Her daughter could, when stubborn, stand with her hands on her hips, just like she, Katrine, sometimes did.
The only fly in the ointment of their joy was her former fiancé, Lucien Blériot of their magisterial district. When she fell in love with Joseph Blumenthal, breaking her engagement to Lucien had been inevitable. Now he harrassed them from time to time, mainly, Katrine suspected, to see if she still loved Joseph and wouldn't she be prepared to give him up. "After all, Katrine, you used to belong to me. Why did you choose him?" was what he always declared whenever he pestered them. Yet, they'd heard that Lucien had married before France fell to the Germans; they even heard that he'd fathered two children. Katrine always thought him to be without conscience. She was glad that she never married him.
The arrival of Lamine Bhoutayeb literally on their doorstep brought them all welcome relief. They could, for a few days at least, focus solely on the dangerously sick man who lay close to death yet had managed to ring the heavy knocker on their front door before collapsing in a heap.
He had been unconscious, running a perilously high fever. Almost half of his thigh muscle was blown away. Joseph had cut, injected, patched and brought down the fiery fever which kept the unfortunate man raging in a delirium for three days.
And she'd kept wondering at the deep, dark, sad tones of his murmurings, the longing for a time, a place that was once part of his life. Several regiments of Senegal had been mobilised in France, hundreds of young fighters ripped from their villages in their homeland to fight the cause of another citizen's country. As colonial master, was France exemplary? She always wondered about that when their government surrendered to Germany.
Her heart bled for lonely Lamine, the only survivor of his regiment. She'd heard through the underground how the Germans took no Senegalese soldiers prisoner. They simply executed them.
Many times they allowed Célestine to dab Lamine's forehead with a damp cloth, for she too, was affected by the patient's sadness. Katrine wondered if Lamine could hear the pieces, especially the Mozart Lullaby Célestine played while he lay in a delirium, or remembered them afterwards.
"It will take away his sadness, Maman," Célestine would say before continuing to play.
And somehow, the sadness lessened, the painful murmuring decreased, although Katrine knew in her heart that it didn't go away.
Yes, she sighed, they made a good friend when Lamine tumbled into their lives. He was a willing helper with an eager brain wanting to learn as much as he could.
"I wish to play a part in the deliverance of this country, Katrine," he'd said one evening when they were listening to a recording of piano music.
Lamine had been listening with rapt attention, a question in his eyes when he looked at them.
"Francis Poulenc," Joseph offered kindly. "A true son of France."
After that they'd let him choose from their varied selections to play on their old phonograph. Once, he'd selected something, and Katrine frowned.
"That's very intense," she'd said. "You like Mahler?"
"I like the trumpet sounds."
So Lamine developed a love for things they also loved. It was honest, unvarnished enjoyment through the eyes of a young man from a small village in Senegal who had probably never listened to European music, music made by great masters of the piano - Chopin, Debussy, Ravel...
Lamine was a vital member of their group, but in their home, he was their trusted friend. He learned everything and he learned fast. He read as much as he could, working his way voraciously through through Zola, Dumas, Balzac, De Maupassant, and Jules Verne. He liked Jules Verne best, it seemed.
"I can imagine people going to the moon one day!" he exclaimed excitedly one day after finishing one of the Verne novels.
They had nodded sagely. She taught him as much as she could about art, music, about paintings of the great impressionists and post impressionists. He liked Toulouse Lautrec, she liked Matisse and Joseph didn't much like art.
"Lamine," she told him one day, "if ever the situation should arise, I want you to be the custodian of our art collection. I have heard through Joseph how the Germans are confiscating valuable collections from Jewish households in Germany and Poland and here, in France."
"Katrine, France is my home now. I will do everything I can to assist."
And so they visited great homes around the city, and on some of the estates, to convince the owners to part with their most valuable paintings for safekeeping.
If the Germans ever found out where they were hidden...
"Ready?" Katrine asked as she adjusted the black beret on her head.
"As I will ever be, Katrine."
Katrine gave a little sigh. "Joseph is home today. He's been coughing a lot lately."
"Physicians can heal themselves, can they?"
"I don't think so. Joseph is horrid at self-medicating. Célestine will watch over him. She has a lesson with Maestro Sargozy later."
"I do not like to leave them."
"Don't worry so, Lamine. We'll be back by afternoon, if not earlier."
They'd said goodbye to Joseph and Célestine who remained inside the house. Now they got into Katrine and Joseph's old Peugeot and started the engine which purred smoothly. Katrine gave Lamine a grateful look. He'd performed wonders on the sputtering engine.
"First we visit the Evremondes at their home outside the city. They have a Cezanne, a Renoir and a Monet they've asked us to take for safekeeping."
"Ah, I remember the Morse code message two weeks ago," Lamine said.
"Yes. We take a little used back road to the Languedoc Estate. The Germans are occupying the chateau, while the owners are living in one of the outbuildings."
"That is sad," Lamine said, "to be thrown out of your own home..."
"Yes. Now, what is our business there?"
"Be very careful?"
"That too."
Lamine smiled as he cast her a glance. "We sneak the paintings onto the Languedoc Estate, famous for their table wines."
"I'll be speaking to my good friend Monsieur Charpentier to part with a few bottles of his most excellent vintage."
"Ah, the rest, as they say, is the history we will be making!"
"Good. We will pass only one roadblock on the way to the Evremondes. They can strip poor Clotilde - "
"Clotilde?"
"My car, Lamine, is a girl. Don't you forget it!" she huffed as they left Paris.
The vehicle chugged along, passing smaller suburbs. People walking by looked suspiciously at them - old men with slouch hats, women wearing scarves, young mothers carrying their babies on their arms. They all looked tense, Katrine thought, with the ever present Germans round every corner, their appearance invoking fear in every heart. That was what she thought. The past two years she'd wanted to spit at every soldier. She'd wanted to hiss at the Vichy traitors and turncoats, at Lucien the Vichy lackey who still couldn't leave her alone. Sighing, she focused on Clotilde as they approached the roadblock.
Lamine stiffened in the passenger seat when they saw the Germans squaring their shoulders at the approaching Peugeot. Katrine took a deep breath. Despite the menial task of manning a roadblock, the soldiers looked imperious. The one closest to them had startling blue eyes, but his face remained impassive as he sauntered to the driver's side of the vehicle.
"Have courage, Lamine," Katrine whispered. "They hate their job..."
The soldier sneered as he stared at her and then at Lamine. He gestured lazily for the other soldiers to approach them.
"Get out, you two."
When they scrambled out, the German leered at her, then barked orders at the others. "Search them and the vehicle."
Katrine endured the humiliating touch of the soldier's hands on her body, while they stripped Lamine completely before they told him to dress again.
There followed a thorough search of the vehicle. One soldier slid underneath to search for anything suspicious. In the glove compartment they found a pair of gloves which they turned inside out and found nothing.
Twenty minutes later the commanding officer waved them on their way again. They were clear. Lamine expelled his breath in a long hiss. Katrine sighed with relief. They knew the drill. Never ever travel with papers lying around in the car, or anything that might be construed by the enemy as intelligence.
"We're clear," Katrine whispered.
Three miles south of the roadblock they reached the house of M. and Mme. Evremonde. Their home had not been occupied by the enemy, but they were nervous that it could happen soon. Before that occurred they needed to have some of their most treasured artworks protected. They were old, had seen France through the Great War, lost two sons and a daughter. They didn't trust the galleries and art museums. They'd heard how paintings went missing.
Katrine and Lamine were warmly welcomed by the old man who invited them inside.
"You requested that we take three of your art works, Monsieur Evremonde," Katrine said in a business-like tone.
"That is so, Mme. Du Pléssis. We have two other works you must also take with you. We have faith that our paintings will be safe with you."
"Thank you."
An hour later they had a Cezanne, a Renoir, a Monet, and two works by other painters new to Katrine on the rear seat of the car. A tearful Mme. Evremonde invited them for tea, but they declined. Katrine and Lamine waved goodbye. Lamine kept looking back until he couldn't see them anymore.
They travelled north from the Evremonde home in a long roundabout circle on a little used gravel road towards Languedoc Estate. Katrine's heart thudded wildly as she pondered on the next part of the plan. It was thrilling and nail-biting outwitting the Germans. She stole a quick glance at Lamine.
"Are you alright?"
"I am only now breathing evenly, Katrine. Those Germans gave me the creeps."
"Well, we're clear. Our organisation's done its work. The chateau is occupied by senior SS officers as their base for this region. They keep mainly to the house, are rarely seen outside except for one who is a chain-smoker. He is always seen pacing the paths in front of the chateau. According to Gaston, the servant, they occupy themselves mainly studying maps, plotting their strategies, discussing war plans and whoring our French girls in the great rooms of the house," Katrine said on a bitter note. "They never walk through the vineyards yet they consume estate wine as if it belonged to them. Don't worry. This part of our job gets interesting."
"When you say interesting, I get worried."
"Then don't!"
Lamine looked around him. This area was deserted so Katrine and the others had assured him. They had just crossed a wooden bridge and stopped about a hundreds yards further, where he got out of the car. Katrine had given him a long, urgent look.
"Be careful. Be safe," she'd said before continuing towards the farm, the main entrance right opposite of where she'd dropped him.
He stood next to the lavender bush that was his first marker after Katrine let him out.
"The lavender bush flowers this time of the year. It's instantly recognisable. You cannot miss it. From that point you start counting your steps..."
Filled with the importance of his task, he walked down the embankment toward the dark stream that coursed its way on the north flank of the estate. The area was lush with trees and brush and tall grass.
Lamine closed his eyes. He had memorised every stage of his assignment. It had been necessary, knowing the Germans would be searching their vehicle at the roadblock. No instructions were written down; they were in his head.
He began counting. Fifteen steps along the river's edge, careful not to overbalance and get wet. Then he stopped and did a left turn, looking directly at a thick, heavy overgrown bush and shrubs as green as he remembered from his childhood days at the river in his village. He shifted the weight on his back. The paintings were stacked together, each with a separating hessian-like fabric, all five covered first with hessian, then a hardy plastic sheeting which was tied with string. He locked his arms through the string, carrying the paintings like a great backpack. Lamine looked down and behind him.
"Fifteen paces, no boot prints," he murmured as he turned to face the green wall again. He used his hands to prise the hardy branches apart, dug in a little further. Then he saw it, exactly as he'd been told he would. He touched the embankment wall, a vertical drop of easily three or four yards. Soil had turned hard by the root systems of the undergrowth as well as the surrounding trees. At the point he was now standing it was impossible to be seen from any point on the dirt road. Against the wall he scraped away the soil, reaching a hard surface.
Lamine pushed against the surface. A portion - five feet by three feet - opened inwards. Crouching, he stepped inside the dark tunnel. When he pushed the door closed, only a sliver of light was left. From the outside no one would notice anything.
Then he turned, standing against the door.
Bend down to your left and take the torch from the box on the ground. There are cloths with which to clean your boots when you return.
Lamine smiled as he held the torch in his hand. They really thought of everything.
The Germans know only about bunker 1 and bunker 2. There are cases of estate wine in those bunkers Their access is direct from the basement of the main house. You go to bunker 3.
As if Katrine was speaking to him right there, he allowed her words to guide him.
Count from the door thirty paces. Remember, they are your paces that we've measured here at home.
He shone the torch into the depths of the tunnel. It veered slightly downwards, then levelled again. It was dank and humid.
You are five yards beneath the surface of the vineyards of Languedoc.
He looked at the roof of the tunnel, expecting roots of the vines to protrude. Lamine moved forward, counting his steps. Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen... The tunnel beams looked solid to him. There was no danger of collapse. Twenty five...twenty six...
There is no tunnel system from any of the buildings of Languedoc Estate that leads to Bunker 3. Now you will reach an upright beam. In the space between the beam and the wall hangs a small lantern. It cannot be seen normally from your position.
Lamine found the lantern. It was small, and he would have missed it had he not known about it.
Press the nook behind the lantern.
When he pressed the nook, a door squeaked as it opened to the inside.
Only close the door when you leave that way. You are now in the main tunnel that will lead you to bunker 3. Walk one hundred paces.
He was breathing heavily by this time.
Take very short breaths, Lamine. You will tire yourself so conserve oxygen. There is very little of it in the main tunnel, but that will soon be rectified.
He coughed a few times, almost missing his counting. When he'd reached hundred paces, he was so dazed he could hardly walk, the package on his back becoming increasingly heavy. He perspired profusely, rubbing his eyes as the salty droplets dripped into them. He began heaving, knowing he would throw up if he didn't curb himself.
Have courage, Lamine, he heard Katrine's voice again.
Now turn left again. You have reached the final access to bunker 3. Walk ten paces. You will see a brick wall. Just push against the wall. It will give way. You are now in bunker three, built by the Charpentier family in the mid nineteenth century.
He stood inside the bunker, a massive concrete structure, he realised with awe. And against its walls were stacked the cultural legacy of France. Famous paintings and works by lesser known painters. He saw what he thought to be sculptures and also paintings covered with cloth. He knew what he had to do now. Finally releasing the pack, he untied it and carefully removed the paintings one by one. He looked at the Monet, struck once again by the sun resting on the water in the early smoky morning. On the back of each frame was written the names of the owners in small letters. Lamine decided to stack the Evremonde's art works together against the right wall. A large white linen canvas cloth was thrown over the paintings. The cloth fibre was breathable, allowing for air but not letting in dust.
He also realised he could breathe, that a waft of air came from somewhere...
You will also find breathing easier now. There is a vent that goes right up to the surface, hidden under the leaves of a grapevine. The artworks need to keep dry and not rot.
"You really have thought of everything," Lamine muttered as he took the hessian and canvas, rolled it and tied it with the same string. The covering was placed neatly in a corner, where a box stood containing cloths that covered other art works brought through the tunnel into the bunker.
Taking a deep breath, Lamine retraced his steps, making sure he closed everything as he left. By the time he reached the river, he was exhausted, yet excited that they could once again save paintings before the enemy confiscated them. He blinked several times in the bright sunlight, a welcome relief from the darkness. Still, he remained wary, ever on the lookout for any suspicious movement. By his calculation, he had been gone an hour. Katrine could be expected to reach the wood bridge within minutes if she was not held up. He'd made sure his boots were cleaned of mud, that his clothing was still clean.
He heard the sound of a vehicle in the distance, dived under the bridge, making sure he didn't get wet. They'd have to pass the roadblock again. He gave a giant sigh of relief when the vehicle stopped directly above him and Katrine shouted, "Vous pouvez sortir maintenant, Lamine!"
She was glad to get away from Languedoc. The Charpentiers had been friendly but subdued and even a little sad when she left. She thought they didn't want her to go.
They'd given her two cases of selected Chateau Languedoc wines. The Charpentiers lived in the staff cottage behind their beautiful chateau, unable to move about much in the main house. It was full of SS officers and they had to request the keys to their own cellars in order to get a few bottles for Katrine.
"Is this paid for?" Herr Kommandant Leopold Kruger had asked.
The couple had been effusive in his presence. Katrine had paid for the wine already, they told him and could they please allow Monsieur Charpentier access to the cellar.
Katrine shuddered again as she thought of the German Kommandant who made a sudden appearance in the cottage. He had given her a speculative look before speaking to the old gentleman. She'd stepped forward - perhaps just one step - and stood in front of the SS officer, meeting his haughty gaze. He had shocking blue eyes.
"The estates wines are excellent, Herr Kommandant Kruger," she gushed, "as I'm sure you already know. My uncle owns a tavern further south, and I'd like to present some of the Languedoc wines to him."
After a long pause, Kruger nodded, clicked his heels and left the cottage.
They sighed with relief when the officer had gone, Mme. Charpentier sagging gratefully into a chair. Katrine saw her tears and wanted to hug the old woman.
"One day soon, I hope, this will be over, and you can enjoy your vineyards again."
"Our grandson will inherit the estate one day. He won three gold medals at the Berlin Olympics."
Katrine had frowned. Joseph would probably know the grandson, so she nodded, wondering a little where the absent Charpentier grandson was. Gone underground perhaps, working in another resistance cell like so many young Frenchmen and women.
By the time she left a waving M. and Mme Charpientier, she had only ten minutes to get to the wood bridge again. Lamine had been thoroughly primed for his mission. She had no doubt he had carried it out successfully.
She reached the wood bridge with a minute to spare. Lamine was hiding as he'd been instructed.
She stopped on the bridge, leaned out the open window and called, "You can come out now, Lamine!"
She was glad to see him, his dark face ablaze with excitement.
"It is done, Katrine. The paintings are safe!"
"Did you know," she started, smiling back at him as the Peugeot began moving again, "that bunker number three is not on any of the floor plans of the Languedoc buildings?"
"I know now. A good thing it is too. The Germans would inspect the first two bunkers, finding only estate wines and survival essentials there."
"Correct. Now for the roadblock again."
About ten minutes later, they passed onto the gravel road heading for the roadblock. They could see movement in the distance and when they slowed down, several Germans swooped on the car.
Once again they were told to get out, Katrine frisked by a German whose hands caressed her breasts. She felt like throwing up, the bile rising as his hands went over her body. Lamine was simply ordered to strip, and then ordered to get dressed again.
"Ah, was haben wir denn da?" one German soldier exclaimed as he opened the door to the back seat of the Peugeot and saw the wine. "Where did you get this wine?"
"From the Languedoc Estate. It is for my uncle," Katrine said as she straightened the skirt of her dress and walked back to the car. Lamine was also dressed by now.
"We are sure your uncle of the tavern would not mind donating some of this excellent vintage to very grateful officers of the regiment, would he?"
"No, I guess he would not," Katrine answered as they removed one full case, and several bottles from the second case and simply walked off to their little kiosk with it.
"So, jetzt hau ab!" they shouted.
The little German she understood basically told them to get lost.
"Thank you, we'll be off immediately," Katrine repeated as she started the car and began driving. Half a mile further on she slowed down and looked at Lamine, who looked at her. A second later they burst out laughing so hard that Katrine stopped the vehicle.
Between fits of laughter, Katrine said, "We knew they'd expect us to come back that way with something."
"Knowing," Lamine said, laughing, "they'd be very happy to take the wine."
"It was Languedoc's best wines! Pinot noir, pinot blanc, sauvignon blanc, Cabernet Sauvignon... Damn! They cannot appreciate what they just stole. Hope they don't guzzle the precious liquid!"
"Clever ploy. We can fool them every time. There is enough space for twenty or more paintings, Katrine."
"Not to worry, that bunker will be put to good use. We can drive a different route next time."
"Now I cannot wait to get home and berate Joseph for not taking medicine to cure his cough!" Lamine exclaimed.
"I wish you good luck with that. He didn't listen to me!" Katrine complained.
They became quiet in the car and drove until they reached the city again. She would be in time to take Célestine for her violin lesson with Maestro Sargozy, while Joseph prepared for visits to the hospital, sick as he was. Lamine usually accompanied Joseph to the hospital when he had very little to do, especially after a mission.
She was still pondering on sending Célestine away to the American friends she had made when they visited university. She had written them, a tentative request to offer a home to their daughter. But the more she and Joseph talked about it, the less inclined they felt sending Célestine away. But Occupied France was becoming more and more fraught with unsettling events. She had no relatives in the south of France except her great-uncle who was too old to take care of a boisterous almost seven year old little girl.
"Perhaps," Lamine's voice broke into her thoughts as if he could read them, "we should all move to the south where your uncle lives."
"Perhaps. Our work here is not done."
"There are others. They would be happy to complete your assignments. You can work from your uncle's tavern..."
"Maybe," Katrine said as the car turned into the Rue du Lion where they lived.
"What is that in the distance, near our house?" Lamine asked softly, his voice suddenly trembling.
"A truck," Katrine replied, "and in - in - "
"- front of our house!"
They were two blocks away, and all they could see were German soldiers, the big truck and Lucien Blériot standing at the rear. Katrine and Lamine were out before the car had barely stopped.
Then she stopped dead a few yards from the truck. Katrine turned ice cold.
This could not be happening, but it was happening. Like disbelief that a beloved had died, not wanting reality to take over. A stinging sensation in her ears that seemed to daze her. All words stalled in her brain, turning into a miasma through which any coherent utterance became impossible. Katrine knew only that she felt her world turning dark.
She saw Joseph and Célestine led away, Joseph manhandled roughly over the gate of the truck while Célestine was hauled by a German and thrown into the back. Joseph turned and saw her. His face was a bloody mess. He tried to reach for her.
"Katrine! Katrine! For the love of God, save yourself! Save yourself!"
The next moment a soldier swung his rifle and struck Joseph, the force of it flinging him back into the truck.
"Maman! Maman! Maman!" Célestine cried, arms outstretched. She too was viciously pushed into the back, where other faces looked at her with a strange kind of helplessness and an emptiness in their eyes.
Only then Katrine found her voice. She moved her feet and rushed forward, unaware of the tears that flew from her face as she ran.
"Joseph! Joseph! Célestine, my baby!"
The next moment, Lucien Blériot blocked her way, pushing her viciously back.
"Why? Why are you doing this to us? Why?" she pleaded with him.
"They are Jews!"
Katrine lunged at Lucien, her hands striking his chest.
"Batard! You piece of Vichy filth!"
The next moment Blériot raised the butt of his rifle and struck her across the face.
Lamine Bhoutayeb watched helplessly as Katrine collapsed in a heap and the truck sped off into the distance.
END CHAPTER THREE
