Page 34 of The French Wife

‘Of course,’ she said, taking the notes from him. She glanced at them, but was aware Bauer’s eyes were still lingering on her. When she looked back up, she realised he was staring at the red marks on her wrists. She quickly put the papers on the desk and her hands in her lap, out of sight. She felt her cheeks heat up in embarrassment. ‘When do you need this by, Hauptmann Bauer?’

‘The end of the morning, if possible. I’m intending to take this afternoon off,’ he said.

‘I’ll bring them to you before twelve then,’ she replied stiffly.

If it had been Monsieur Colbert or Monsieur Gilles, she would have been happy to spend a few minutes asking them about their plans for their afternoon, but not Hauptmann Bauer. It would be hypocritical to become too friendly with him, despite the fact he seemed to be a genuinely pleasant, genial man.

She separated two sheets of white paper with a sheet of carbon, rolled them into the typewriter and began to type the letters. She had no idea what information they contained, but she was making two copies anyway. She would take them home to Raoul and see what he made of them.

As she typed, she gathered they were reports to the ‘Militärverwaltung in Frankreich, Paris’, which she soon realised was German Military Command in Paris. They appeared to give details of the number of troops stationed in St Marie and the local area and, as far as she could make out, gave a report about the sabotage of the bridge at Trèbes on the first day of the occupation. She worked on, having very little idea what she was typing, only hoping it might be of some use to Raoul and his camarades in the Resistance.

Shortly before noon, she took the top copies through to Hauptmann Bauer’s office. He took them from her with a friendly smile and reviewed them quickly.

‘That is excellent work once again, Madame Garnier,’ he said, his eyes straying once more to her wrists.

This time she’d pulled the sleeves of her cardigan right down over the wheals left by Bruno’s rough hands.

Bauer looked up at her, still smiling gently. ‘Would you mail these for me this afternoon, please? I’m off to enjoy my first free afternoon exploring St Marie-des-Champs,’ he said. ‘It is indeed a beautiful town.’

She smiled politely and left the room. Glancing back through the window, she saw he was looking after her with a bemused expression. It was the first time she’d rebuffed his attempts at conversation and he’d obviously noticed. It went against the grain with Amélie to be so frosty – she’d been brought up strictly by her father to be polite and sociable – but to do otherwise when she was secretly passing information from Hauptmann Bauer to the Resistance would feel disingenuous in the extreme.

Amélie returned to her office and saw that Commissaire Gilles, who was now back at his desk, had placed some witness statements marked ‘Urgent’ on her typewriter. With a sigh, she sat down and began to type them up. It was almost lunchtime by then and she was getting hungry. The boulangerie would be closed by the time she got there at this rate, and she would either have to see if any of the cafés on the Boulevard des Promenades were selling cheap pastries or go hungry. She knew she should really bring something from home to eat, but she enjoyed chatting with Monsieur and Madame Lalouche when she went to the boulangerie to buy her lunch, and she was aware they needed all the support they could get.

When she’d finished typing up the witness statements, she handed them to Monsieur Gilles, then put her hat and coat on and headed outside. It was bitterly cold in the market square; a northerly wind whipped about her ankles, making her pull her hat down over her ears and draw her coat tightly around her. The off-duty soldiers had disappeared now, and there was no sign of Étienne either. There were just the parked tanks and armoured cars, and the soldiers on patrol marching up and down, maintaining the occupiers’ show of strength. She happened to glance back at the mairie as she turned the corner and was shocked to see two blood-red banners bearing the swastika covering the front wall, one on either side of her office window. Shaking her head in dismay, she hurried off, turning into a side street and walking quickly through the cobbled streets to the Boulevard des Promenades.

Sure enough the boulangerie was closed and shuttered, and the cafés opposite were also closing after lunch and had nothing to sell. Amélie remembered there was one small grocery that occasionally sold bakery products down beside the river opposite the abbey. It used to cater to the occasional tourist visiting the abbey and didn’t usually have much stock, but it was worth a try. Her stomach rumbling, she set off towards the river, avoiding the market square, and she soon arrived at the little shop. The proprietor was just closing, but he nodded as she approached and let her in.

‘All I have is the remains of quiche my wife baked this morning. There is only one slice left and I’m afraid it is made with powdered egg. It’s all we could get,’ the man explained. Then he leaned forward, checking warily around him and said, ‘Those Boche soldiers buy up anything and everything. They come over the river on the stepping stones from the abbey first thing in the morning. I don’t want to serve them, but what choice do I have?’

‘I know,’ Amélie said with a sympathetic smile. ‘We’re all in a difficult position, monsieur. None of us has much choice at the moment. But the quiche looks good, thank you. I’ll take the slice.’

He wrapped it up in greaseproof paper. Amélie paid, left the shop and wandered across the road to the wall opposite to look over the river towards the abbey. All was quiet there and the thick, stone walls didn’t betray that they now housed enemy soldiers. Glancing back at the little shop, she realised the cottage beside it with the primrose-yellow shutters was one of those she’d brought a letter to a few days ago, informing the occupant that a German soldier would be posted there. It was the house where the old woman had shouted at her, complaining bitterly at the news. Madame Argène was the woman’s name. Her words still rang in Amélie’s head. I only have a spare room because my son is a prisoner in Germany!

She thought about the woman’s words as she wandered beside the river, remembering her outraged expression. It had seemed to encapsulate all the injustices of the German occupation. But walking along this pretty street, it would be easy to forget what was happening to this quiet little town. If she half closed her eyes, listened to the voice of the babbling river, and focused on the row of cottages on one side and the pale stone walls of the abbey opposite, she could almost believe things were just as they’d always been since her childhood; that nothing had changed.

She strolled until she came to a place a little way along where the bank opened up into a grassy area beneath a medieval stone bridge that nowadays was only strong enough for pedestrians to cross. Beyond it was a view of the rocky hills above Le Châtaignier. Amélie would often come here at lunchtimes in the summer to enjoy the tranquillity and beauty only a few steps away from the market square. There was a bench down on the grass where she would sometimes sit and she went down the steps from the road and walked towards it. To her surprise there was already someone sitting there. It was a man wearing a felt hat and an overcoat; his back to her and his head bowed, as if he was looking at something on his lap. As she got closer, Amélie realised two things. First, it was none other than Hauptmann Bauer, and secondly, on his lap was a sketchbook. He was busy sketching the bridge.

Feeling awkward and not wanting to engage the German officer in conversation, Amélie was about to turn and walk away but she was too late. He looked up and spotted her, and his blue eyes lit up.

‘Madame Garnier! How good to see you here!’ He patted the wooden bench beside him. ‘Come, sit down for a moment. This is such a peaceful spot.’

‘It’s alright,’ she said, a little flustered. ‘I have to go and eat my lunch.’

‘Well, come and eat it here. I know it’s cold, but you look well wrapped up. Please, I insist,’ he said, moving aside to make room for her.

She wanted to make another excuse and walk away, but realised how rude that would appear. So, reluctantly, she sat down beside him on the bench.

‘Please, go ahead. Do eat your lunch, you must be hungry,’ he said, smiling at her.

She unwrapped the slice of quiche and took a bite. As she chewed the tasteless, soggy pastry, she couldn’t help stealing a glance over Bauer’s arm at his sketchbook. What she saw there surprised her and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. A charcoal sketch of the arched medieval bridge, it showed the rock-strewn mountains beyond and the bubbling river in the foreground. It had the clinical accuracy of a photograph, but more than that it had the warmth and flair of a work of art. Amélie had an eye for beauty, and she could instantly see that the sketch was definitely not the work of an amateur. Bauer had captured the essence of the view perfectly.

As she stared at the drawing, she gradually realised there was something familiar about it. Eventually she understood why; it was in the same style as the paintings of the Bavarian Alps she’d found Hauptmann Bauer hanging in his office the previous morning.

‘It’s you, isn’t it? You painted those pictures you were hanging in your office yesterday. You’re an artist.’

He laughed. ‘I didn’t mean to mislead you about those pictures,’ he said. ‘It’s just that… well, some people might not think art and soldiering are very compatible.’

‘Were you an artist before the war?’ she asked, intrigued.