Page 17 of The French Wife

‘Of course,’ Emma said, feeling a thrill of anticipation.

She heard Gaston turn a handle and push against a warped door until it gave way.

‘Wow,’ he said, stepping into the next room. ‘Look at this.’

Bursting with curiosity, Emma followed Pierre through the little door behind the shelves. Gaston was holding up the flashlight so she could see around the room. She gasped.

The room was about twice the size of the first. Dim light filtered in through a window high up in the end wall, which was partially obscured with black mould. This room was furnished with several wooden chests and cot beds, on which dusty blankets and pillows were piled untidily. It was almost as if their occupants had just got out of the beds and forgotten to make them. The tops of the chests were cluttered with cups and glasses, and two plates encrusted with mould, their knives and forks placed together as if someone had left them like that after having finished their food.

‘This is amazing,’ Emma said, trying to process what she was seeing. ‘I wonder why the beds are here…’

‘I have no idea,’ Gaston said. ‘Shall we look in the cupboards?’

They were locked, but on Emma’s bunch of keys she discovered two small ones that fitted them perfectly. She opened the first cupboard and peered inside. Gaston held up the flashlight up. There was a wooden crate on one of the shelves, and Emma pulled it towards them. They all peered inside.

‘Zut alors!’ Gaston said.

Emma’s eyes widened in surprise; inside the box, the barrels of several guns glinted in the beam of the flashlight.

Gaston took the box from Emma and placed it on the floor. Then, carefully, one by one, he took out the weapons. Four rifles and four pistols, all covered in dust. Underneath them lay several belts made of webbing.

‘That must be the ammunition,’ Gaston said. ‘I’m going to put them back where they were for now. I think we should call the local police station.’

Chills ran through Emma and she stared at the weapons that must have been lying there for decades. She was scarcely able to believe her eyes.

SEVEN

AMÉLIE

November 1942

Amélie was still trembling with the shock of the visit by the German soldiers, even though the sound of their engines had faded away several minutes before. She stood, rooted to the spot beside the window, staring across the courtyard towards the gateway, half expecting them to return any minute. Instead, two men wearing work clothes and berets cycled through the gate and propped their bikes up against the barn wall. Amélie recognised Jean Moreau, one of Bruno’s regular itinerant workers, and his son, Étienne, who must have been fifteen or sixteen. Bruno must have hired them for the day to help with the olive harvest.

‘Bloody Boche,’ Bruno said, breaking the silence in the kitchen.

The four remaining workers, who still stood in a line along the wall where the SS officer had ordered them to stand, shuffled their feet and murmured in agreement.

‘You men,’ Bruno said, turning his attention to them. ‘Make a start down at the olive groves. Take the tools with you. I will be along shortly.’

The men left the kitchen through the side door, trooping back to the herbergerie to put on their coats and boots, and prepare themselves for the day’s work.

‘So,’ Bruno said, turning towards Amélie, a sly look in his eyes, ‘those are the devils you’re working for now.’

Amélie dropped her gaze. She knew that look, and she knew the twisted way Bruno’s mind worked. ‘I’ve got to get ready for work,’ she said, moving quickly towards the door.

He lunged at her, grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back, forcing her to turn around to face him. She cried out as his fingers dug into her skin.

‘Not so fast,’ he said. ‘I saw the way you looked at those men.’

Her heart sank, knowing what was about to come. ‘I didn’t look at them,’ she said, lifting her eyes to his. ‘Or at least, I tried not to.’

‘They’re not bad-looking, are they, those Krauts? Even though they’re the enemy. They’re still hot-blooded men.’

She didn’t answer, but she could see from his eyes he was waiting for her to. Waiting to pounce on whatever she said, like a cat lying in wait for its prey. She tried to keep her breathing steady, trying to work out what to say to him to defuse the situation.

‘I’ve got to get ready, Bruno,’ she said. ‘Let me go.’

But instead of letting her go, he tightened his grip and pulled her closer. ‘I saw the way you looked at them,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t think for a moment I wasn’t watching you. I’ll bet you’ll be looking at them when you’re at work at the mairie, won’t you? With your simpering little smile. Yes sir, no sir… whatever you want, sir.’ He mimicked her voice.