One Day in Oradour (2 page)

Underneath him, Klausner could feel the road surface change and he heard a car pass in the other direction. Were they coming into a town? Slowly and quietly, he lifted himself up and peeped out of the tiny window.

He knew where he was. They had brought him right into Limoges!

Klausner felt in all his pockets, looking for something that might help him escape. He had nothing on him apart from his identity papers. Could those save his life? They could certainly help him to be found.

After another ten minutes or so, the van slowed and turned up a side street. The driver and the lookout both got out, and Klausner listened intently to their boots on the cobbles as they walked round to the back of the van. He had to be ready.

He pulled himself up into a crouching position and the second he heard the bolt being drawn he lunged at the doors, bursting out into the fresh air. His captors were taken aback, and the lookout stumbled as Klausner fell, head-first, into him, driving the air from his chest.

But the driver’s reactions were too quick. As the struggling men fell to the ground, the driver pistol-whipped Klausner across the back of the head.

Stunned, Klausner rolled off the lookout and into the gutter. His vision was blurred but as he looked up into the night sky he could just make out the moon coming out from behind the clouds.

Then everything went dark again as one of the sacks from the back of the van was pulled down over his head.

‘Tie the filthy Fritz up again,’ ordered the driver through gritted teeth. ‘And this time, make sure he can’t get out.’

Once again the earthy smell from the back of the van filled Klausner’s nostrils and he struggled to breathe as the rough cloth was pulled tightly against his face. His starched officer’s jacket was scrunched up under his arms, but he managed to keep one arm up inside the sack before it was tied around his chest. He could still reach his pocket, and his papers.

At that moment, a car screeched to a halt beside them. Klausner’s heart skipped a beat, hoping that this was the moment he would be rescued.

‘Get him in, now!’ A woman’s voice, French. ‘There’s been a change of plan. We’re taking him on to Breuilaufa. Limoges is too dangerous. It’s crawling
with the SS. Seems like we’ve caught ourselves a rather big fish.’

Klausner was shoved in the direction of the voice then pushed into the back of a car. A body got in behind him and the door was pulled shut. Then Klausner heard the now familiar voice of the lookout speaking through the window:

‘Who the devil is he, then?’

‘Only the highest-ranking SS commander ever kidnapped by the Resistance,’ gloated the woman. ‘We’ll be famous after this, Jean. Now get out of here while you still can.’

‘What shall I do with the van?’ called the lookout, as the car started to pull away.

The woman laughed out of the open window. ‘Burn it. Like we will burn him!’

Klausner went cold. He knew now that he had just one chance. Someone had to find the papers he had dropped.

Left behind in the gutter was the only clue to tracking the kidnappers of Major Thomas Klausner.

Sylvie Fournier was tired and more than a little frazzled. Sunday would be the feast day of Corpus Christi and she had worked all day mending, washing and ironing the family’s clothes ready for Mass. Three of her children – Christelle, Sabine and Alfred – had been invited to walk behind the procession after the service, which also meant making each of them a flower garland to carry.

Sylvie had already spent far too long scouring the fields around the village, looking for a pretty selection of flowers and greenery, and it didn’t help that she kept bumping into her neighbours, who all wanted to stop and chat.

‘It’s going to be busy here tomorrow,’ Madame Babin, the clog-maker’s wife, remarked as she met Sylvie on the bridge which crossed the river Glane on the edge of the village. ‘Doctor Depaul says there could be over a hundred children coming into Oradour for
that health and vaccination programme he’s running. How’s he going to get through them all, that’s what I want to know.’

Sylvie shrugged and shook her head. However many children there were, she was sure Doctor Depaul would have it all organised. He would be running those health checks like a military machine.

When she escaped from Madame Babin’s chattering, Sylvie walked on along the river bank, smiling to herself as she remembered the look of horror on Alfred’s face that morning when she’d told him that there was a health inspection in school on Saturday.

He had been sitting at the kitchen table eating his breakfast, his red hair all ruffled from the previous night’s sleep. Three-year-old Paulette was sitting next to him sipping her warm milk, her mouth painted with a glistening, creamy smile, while Louis, exactly one year older than his sister but only a centimetre taller, was happily driving a wooden truck round and round his piece of bread and jam.

‘Argh, Maman, do I
have
to have an injection?’ Alfred had pleaded. ‘Having a health check is bad enough. We have to line up and wait for ages for our turn and I hate having to be prodded and poked about by that nasty old man. And this time it’s going to be worse than ever… he’s going to jab a horrid great needle into my arm!’

‘I’m sure you won’t make a fuss though, Alfie,’ she had said, giving him a wink. ‘You’re the big boy of the family, so I know you’ll be brave.’

Alfred had let out a long sigh, but said no more.

By the time she reached the water mill at the other end of the meadow, Sylvie had filled her basket with flowers and grasses and she was starting to feel thirsty in the late afternoon heat. A fit and nimble woman, just thirty-five years of age, Sylvie loved being out in the fresh air, but her blonde hair and fair complexion meant she had to take care in the strong sun.

Lifting the hem of her cotton summer dress, she climbed over the low fence at the back of the water mill and started back up the lane into Oradour. She followed the high retaining wall which ran in front of the church. The sky over the village ahead of her was a beautiful deep blue and Sylvie tilted her head back, turning her freckly nose upwards to take in the air. The aroma of the early summer crops mixed deliciously with the scent from the flowers in her basket and for a moment she closed her eyes and thought how lucky her family was to have found refuge in such a perfect little place.

As she came to the end of the church wall Sylvie almost collided with Audrey Rousseau, who was hurrying down the sloping pathway out of the churchyard.

‘Ah, Madame Fournier,’ said Audrey. ‘Getting ready for Sunday, I presume?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘I’m glad I’ve bumped into you. I was wondering if you could help me tomorrow afternoon with the church flowers for the festival. I’ve been in there cleaning all morning and Madame Renard from the boys’ school said she would give me a hand tomorrow with the arrangements, but of course now she has to help Dr Depaul. It’s most inconvenient. Do be a dear and say yes. It would really get me out of a hole.’

‘Of course,’ said Sylvie, wishing she had gone the other way and avoided bumping into Audrey. The other woman was several years her elder and had lived in Oradour all her life. Nothing happened in the village which Audrey did not know about, and she had an opinion on everything – usually a strong one. Sylvie found her intimidating.

Not that Audrey had ever been anything but kind to her. In fact, when Sylvie, Leon and the children had first come to live in Oradour, it was Audrey who had paid their first two weeks’ rent on the new cottage until Leon began his job at the bakery. For that Sylvie would always be utterly grateful. But somehow with Audrey, every kindness seemed to come with an obligation.

When Leon and Sylvie Fournier had first arrived at their little stone cottage in Rue Depaul, they had certainly been in need of some help and kindness. They had fled to Oradour from their home in Charly in north-east France with their three children – Christelle, the eldest, Sabine, now eleven and young Alfred, now seven. The whole region of Lorraine had been annexed by the Nazis. All Jews were being deported and any French residents, like the Fourniers, who refused to live under the authority of the Reich were thrown out of their homes. The Nazis simply gave their houses away, to people they considered to be more deserving – the ‘good’ and the ‘faithful’, they called them.

When the Germans arrived in Charly, hammering on every door and searching every home in the village, the Fourniers were given just one hour to pack before they were cast out onto the street. No one was allowed to take more than thirty kilograms of possessions. So, in a state of wild panic and while trying to keep the children calm, Leon and Sylvie had to rush about the house making frantic decisions about which items were essential and which had such sentimental value that they couldn’t bear to leave them behind.

The family was too poor to own a car, so they had made the first part of their journey out of Charly on foot, with the heavily pregnant Sylvie holding little Alfred’s
hand, and Christelle and Sabine struggling to help their father carry the hastily-packed bags. Desperate, and with the frightened children in tears, Leon and Sylvie had no idea where to go but they could hear enough shouting, and then gunfire, behind them to know that they had to keep on moving as fast as they could.

They headed south, out of Lorraine, walking for the rest of the day. As night fell, they reached a railway station on the outskirts of Metz. While Sylvie and the children tried to get some rest, using their luggage as makeshift pillows, Leon went off to find the ticket office, hoping and praying that they could get a train that night which would take them far enough away to find safety.

A long queue had already formed at the counter – dozens of families, men, women and children, all looking as confused, dishevelled and frantic as Leon. An elderly Jewish couple held onto one another in the queue in front of him.

‘Excuse me. Can I ask you where you are going?’ Leon had said, his voice trembling. ‘I feel so useless. I don’t even know what tickets to ask for. I have three children with me and I’m so worried about my wife. She’s pregnant, you see. Where can I take them where they’ll be safe?’

The old man reached out and touched Leon’s arm.

‘It will be all right,’ he said quietly. ‘Have you got money for tickets?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Leon. ‘I mean, I hope it’s enough. It’s all the savings I have.’

‘Then come with us,’ whispered the old man, peering at Leon kindly over his spectacles. ‘My name’s Ethan. I have a brother, Joseph. He’s a refugee, too, but he’s found somewhere safe to live, for now at least. A place called Oradour. Not far from Limoges. He says it’s peaceful there… no trouble from the Resistance, and the Germans leave it alone. It’s a long way but we know which route to take. My wife Rachael and I can help you and your family to get there, at least. Besides, it sounds like your family could be good company for us. It’ll be nice to have some young ‘uns to talk to.’ The old man smiled as the relief showed on Leon’s face.

Three days later, the Fournier family and their two new companions got off the tram that had brought them from Limoges into Oradour. They had travelled over one thousand kilometres, almost to the other side of France. Exhausted, scared and hungry and with hardly a thing to their name, they began the first day of their new life in the village which would become their very last family home.

Sylvie was a patient woman. She had to be, with five children and a husband to care for. But sometimes even her patience was sorely tested, and this was one of those occasions. She had finished the long day’s work and made the garlands, then cooked the children’s supper and was now about to serve it, yet once again there was no sign of Alfred.

‘It’s just typical!’ she snapped, as she took the pot off the stove to stop the fish stew from drying up while she went outside to look for him. ‘After all the rushing about I’ve done today! That boy will never learn to be on time.’

Sylvie peered over the fence at the bottom of the garden, searching in vain for a glimpse of Alfred’s red hair in the paddock behind the cottage. Squinting, she cast her eye along the edge of the woods on the brow of the hill behind the cemetery. Again, nothing. She wiped her hands on her apron.
Bother
, she thought, knowing
that the dinner was definitely going to be ruined. She would have to send Christelle out to look for him.

Most of the mothers in Oradour would simply feed their other children and teach Alfred a lesson by serving his meal up cold when he came home – or by sending him to bed without any supper at all. But Sylvie was too anxious about Alfred’s safety to think of punishing him – for now, at least. She couldn’t assume that he was late, sit back and wait. She had to be sure he was alright.

For Sylvie knew that life could change in an instant; that one moment you could be going about your day without a care and the next moment your world could be turned upside down. There was no getting away from it, bad things
could
happen to you. So when Sylvie set her children a curfew, she expected them to stick to it. And they usually did… except for Alfred. Sylvie had lost count of the number of times she’d warned him not to wander too far. ‘What if the Germans came,’ she would say, ‘and you were miles away?’

Alfred was a good boy really. Small for his age, with thick, floppy red hair, he always took it on his small shoulders to look after everyone whenever his father was at work or away on his delivery rounds. Little Louis and Paulette adored him and followed him everywhere around the cottage, while Sabine and Christelle liked to poke fun at him, affectionately calling him ‘
petit papa
’.

Sometimes it saddened Sylvie that she never saw Alfred playing the fool or just being silly in the way that seven-year-olds should. It was as if, in the upheaval of the move to Oradour, he had left behind his ability to be light-hearted. Even his smile had changed. Now the joyous dimples in his cheeks were offset by a slight narrowing of his eyes, a questioning dip in the eyebrows. It was as if Alfred couldn’t take anything at face value any more.