The French Promise (39 page)

He grimaced and started the car, glad that it fired the first time, even though it was so cold. He would have to drive carefully along the unlit country roads, although Fontaine-de-Vaucluse was not that far. He checked he had everything he needed, refused to glance in the direction of where Jenny slept
or acknowledge that he’d taken the precaution of writing her the letter that explained everything, told her to contact Max for an even fuller explanation and for help. He’d already put his estate in order, making a fresh will before he’d left Australia with everything he owned there and in France bequeathed to his daughter. She would never want for funds, especially as he’d set up formal legal
enquiries to retrieve the Bonet monies from frozen bank accounts; lawyers were chasing them hard. His father had had plenty stashed in Switzerland, too, and
Jacob had left his executors with details of how to begin procedures to access that. Finally, there was money buried in Saignon. Lots of it. His father had taken the precaution and Luc and his grandmother had not touched it, but he’d never
forgotten its location. He’d provided clear details on that in his letter to Jenny, too. She would be a wealthy woman if the worst scenario occurred.

‘Forgive me, Jenny,’ Luc whispered as he eased the car away from the town, not gathering speed until its few twinkling lights had disappeared and he was on a black road, driving through the black night with only darkness on his mind.

The man who called himself ‘Eric’ Segal stared at the black handset of his phone and pondered what he had heard as an old friend resurfaced. His sixth sense – or wit, as he liked to think of it – had been quietened over the last ten years. The ex-Gestapo officer had draped a brilliantly conceived new life about himself to the point where most days
he believed in it wholly. The flashes of insecurity reared at the oddest moments and then his suspicions would be aroused, his powers of observation and even his fortitude tested.

The last time – the previous summer – had been when a young tourist had ordered his ice cream in German. And while his ebullient manner and voice had not betrayed him, his body had frozen momentarily as the ghost of
Horst von Schleigel was allowed to re-enter his consciousness. A decade earlier, three clearly plain-clothed policeman had entered his café and asked for him. That day his insides had turned watery but his steely resolve had held firm. He’d frowned,
smiled, asked the men how he could help; he’d even offered them coffee, but all the while he’d been waiting for their identification to be shown and
their accusations to be aired. It turned out the purpose of their visit was not even vaguely in connection with him, or former Nazis, or even the war.

He could count on one hand those occasions that the cold fist of fear had punched into his belly the last two decades.

Now his internal alarms were screaming. Why?

Laurent Cousteau’s credentials checked out; von Schleigel had already taken
the liberty of ringing the publishers of the magazine to assure himself that this freelance journalist was on their books. The lady who had answered his call had confirmed Cousteau’s employment as a special features writer and von Schleigel had felt his pulse slow with relief.

How many times had he choked back a helpless laugh at being trapped by his own secrecy?
Hide out in the open
, he had used
as a mantra since he’d first leaked out of Poland with the rest of the retreating German army. But while most of his kind had fled west, destroying files, blowing up the crematoriums, taking Auschwitz inmates as collateral and relying on the SS to shoot the remaining emaciated and numbered prisoners, von Schleigel had made his way in the direction of France, knowing full well he would probably
never make it but believing it might just save him. Using the same creed of hiding out in the open, he had wanted no further dangerous association with the Nazis and changed into civilian clothes before shooting a non-Jewish prisoner. He’d cut off the man’s arm and incinerated it, stolen his number, which he’d hurriedly tattooed onto his own forearm, and spent weeks holed up in the forest eating
only what he could forage, so by the time the Soviets found him, wandering weakly and
nearly demented with hunger while babbling in French, he was instantly assumed to be a prisoner from France, to where he was ultimately repatriated. He feigned memory loss, took care to move like an old man, to stutter and lose his train of thought; no one suspected he was anything but another prison-camp survivor
returning to his homeland – France.

In a wry turn of fate, von Schleigel had been sent to Fohrenwald, a displaced persons camp in Bavaria, which was originally built by the Nazis for slave labourers forced to work at chemical company IG Farben. He kept his guard solid, always speaking French with a look of confusion as his permanent expression. He was also sent to Sweden for a brief
time before he was returned to the care of France as one of its refugees. He spent a year in a hospital until he gradually allowed himself to come back – carefully achieved fractional improvement each week – until after twelve months he claimed to remember that he was Frédéric Segal. This was the name the hospital had hurriedly tracked down as his; they couldn’t know it was the name of the man he
had shot during the winter of 1945 when some of Auschwitz-Birkenau’s ugliness had been disguised with a fairytale layer of snow. He had chosen his victim well, first learning that the man had been a French itinerant of roughly the same age with only six recorded family members. According to the real Frédéric, his parents and grandparents had been executed immediately on arrival into the camp. His
brothers also died there, one shot at the ‘Death block’ in Auschwitz 1 behind Building 11 after a token trial for attempting to escape. Segal’s eldest brother had been sent to the crematorium seven months later for being too sick with dysentery to work at the nearby pharmaceutical firm. That left only him, the middle brother, who would have
survived if not for von Schleigel’s bullet and hunger
to make his sad history his own.

As soon as he’d regained a sense of freedom in France, von Schleigel had fled south to the region he knew best; at first to Avignon, to lose himself in a city, but then as his sense of security increased he permitted himself to live in his favourite town. Perhaps his shrewdest plan of all had been to study and select a woman to marry who would offer him
the complete cover. He needed a woman from a decent family so that their association lent weight to his name.

Von Schleigel, now fully embracing his new persona, had forbidden himself to think about his real name or his past. He had become adept at banishing even the odd drift of a thought, or a memory, to gain a foothold in his mind. He knew he had to think, act, breathe and completely live Frédéric
– Eric – Segal. He found work doing odd jobs for local better-heeled families and over the course of a year had shortlisted three potential women, all widows and living alone but with good local family names. He decided the youngest was too young, leaving him with Gwenoline and another round, middle-aged widow called Anise. He worked on them both, mustering all of his oily charm, doing far
more than he should for too few francs until he’d made himself as indispensable as he could in both homes, doing everything from running repairs to gardening. He impressed himself at how well he adapted and learnt. As soon as he heard that Gwenoline’s mother had died, leaving her and her sister a handsome inheritance, he cast Anise aside and focused his efforts on the small, stout woman with the
pushy nature and dreams of having a family.

Southern France was short of marriageable men, particularly undamaged ones and especially those who might
take on a 38-year-old. Eric Segal worked his charm tirelessly until he made Gwenoline weep on the day he tested his performance and told her he was leaving the Vaucluse region.

‘I need to find more gainful employment,’ he’d admitted. ‘I’m
sure before the war, when I lived in Paris, I was someone. My memory will return, I’m convinced.’ He shrugged. ‘I just don’t know what I used to do but I do know I’m good with figures and also that I wasn’t a gardener or odd-jobs man.’

‘But Eric, what will I do without you?’ Gwenoline had moaned, pouring him a cup of coffee.

‘Oh, I’m sure there’ll be any number of younger men just queuing to work
for you,’ he’d said with a wink.

‘But I don’t want any other man working around my home.’ She’d blushed. ‘I trust you.’

‘I know, forgive me. But I must think of my future,’ he’d pushed, knowing this was the moment. ‘I’m not getting any younger, Gwen,’ he said. ‘I have to improve my position in life; try and claw back what the war took away.’

‘Oh, dear Eric,’ she said, putting down her cup to cover
his hand with hers. ‘I cannot let you leave.’

He feigned a look of bewilderment, staring first at her hand and then lifting his gaze carefully to meet hers.

‘Can you not?’ he’d said, affecting a slightly choked tone. ‘May I kiss you?’

All she could do was nod.

He’d kissed her as tenderly as he could, as Gwenoline had let no man near her since her husband. He’d not lingered on her lips, brushing
them softly with his own before pulling away with a sad, soft smile he’d pasted on. ‘I have wanted to do that since the day I met you.’

It was enough. Gwen had known that no other suitors
would come knocking at her door. She had been nearly four decades old, never a great beauty but always ambitious. Now here was a man professing his love who had shown her he was kind and capable. He’d listened
to those dreams of hers to one day own a business in the town and he was keen to let her make that dream come true.

That was all it had taken for Horst von Schleigel to make an immaculate, seamless shift from Gestapo Kriminaldirektor and impostor on the run, to the all-French Monsieur Segal, husband, father and upstanding citizen of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse.

‘Eric?’ It was Gwenoline bursting
into his thoughts. ‘What are you doing, my love? You’re staring into space and we have a full house. Who was that?’

‘That journalist. I’m seeing him tomorrow.’

‘Good. Are you all right?’ she said, laying a hand on his arm.

‘Of course,’ he said, but while he went through the motions of the rest of his evening, being charming to customers, taking money, nodding at waitresses to hurry up and clear
tables, the voice in the back of his mind nagged. Von Schleigel had spent far too long being exquisitely careful to ignore his instincts now. Two decades of looking over his shoulder, of taking no chances, of being suspicious of everyone and everything had kept him safe, and his secret intact.

He would listen to that voice of caution.

Luc arrived at the haunting time just before dawn, parking his car on a hill road that wound lazily away from Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. He didn’t hide the car in case that drew undue attention but casually positioned it beneath trees on a natural bend in the road. His plan was to go cross-country and steal into the town on foot.

It was the coldest part
of the night, just before daybreak, and he was glad of the protection of the Barbour jacket that Jenny insisted he buy in London as he’d trailed her through Savile Row. He’d finally relented and bought some trousers and a plain jacket off the rack from Moss Bros gentlemen’s outfitters. When she’d watched him admiring the dark wax jacket whose brand he remembered from his past, she’d had the treat
of seeing a genuine flicker of interest.

‘I always wanted one of these,’ he’d admitted, admiring its weight. ‘But we had so little money to throw around. What I wouldn’t have given for one of these on my long
walks in the Orkneys or when we lived in Eastbourne.’

She’d given him a wry glance. ‘I have to presume love kept you warm and dry, Dad,’ and she’d been right. ‘Buy it,’ she’d urged.

He remembered how he’d looked at her with surprise.

‘Go on, do it, even if you buy it just because I want you to. You never spend any money on yourself. It’s sort of stuffy,’ she’d said, with only a note of condescension in her tone, as she touched the waxy surface, ‘but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I liked it and I know you do. Besides, you would use it constantly back home through winter.’

She
was right. The winter months in northern Tasmania were more than cold and wet enough to warrant one of these. And so he’d bought it and not regretted it, especially not right now as it formed a perfect barrier to the drizzle and the creeping frosty chill of this November morning in the Luberon. Luc wrapped the long black cashmere scarf that Lisette had given him many Christmases ago around the bottom
half of his face, and added a dark knitted beanie that he often wore in the lavender fields to keep his head warm. Now he used it to hide his blond hair. He’d considered dyeing his hair with some henna and boot polish but with Jenny in tow that would have been impossible. Besides, when the moment of revelation came, he wanted von Schleigel to have no doubt of whom he was with. Luc slung his
small knapsack over his shoulder and set off, his superb navigational skills that had been such a vital asset to the British spy network during the war coming to the fore again. The journey underfoot was rocky but easy for Luc – it all came flooding back and the dark was no obstacle to him. He used his torch intermittently, scaring the odd rabbit with sudden light.

He hoped not to run across anyone
at this hour and as he could see the first shadowy outline of the buildings, he switched off the torch and trusted his instincts and sharp eyesight that was benefitting from the gentle lightening of the sky as dawn hinted at her arrival.

Luc picked up his bearings immediately. He’d not visited this town much in his previous life but on the few occasions that he had, he’d been impressed
by its stunning natural beauty. And that hadn’t changed. The water flowed quickly and mysteriously like dark lava in its natural rock cradle towards l’Isle sur la Sorgue. He saw a cluster of wildflowers and next to it a seed clock, ready to launch its parachutes. He picked the fluffy pompom and blew on its seeds, making his wish, casting them towards the fast-flowing stream. It pleased the sentimental
man within him that he knew his dismantled dandelion would travel past where Jenny slept and carry with it his love and hopes to see her again. He remembered the flower head of lavender he had brought with him from Australia for this day and reached into his pocket to crush it in his hands so that he could inhale the pungent bouquet it released. It allowed a crowd of memories to flood into
the space.

That was all right, though. He wanted those memories now; needed them, in fact, to fuel his mood and his courage. He hoped the souls of Jacob, Golda, Ida, Gitel, Laurent, Fournier and Marie Dugas were somewhere close watching on, but he especially invited Wolf, Sarah and Rachel to walk with him on this last important journey towards deliverance from so many years of twisted pain and
the need for revenge. They would each fall into step, invisible and yet tangible, to face von Schleigel. He could imagine even Kilian’s spirit
might take pleasure in accompanying him on this path. He wished he could take Lisette and Harry with him too but they had no place here. They were part of the healing, not the hurt. He wanted them nowhere near the evil man or his own angry memories.

Luc covered his face with perfumed hands and smelt the bright fragrance again, recalling not Provence but the achingly bright Australian summer, the easy laughter in Tasmania, the lovemaking and being loved in Lilydale. Lavender and love – they were intertwined for him and so he would now go forward, with only love in his heart, and keep his promise. And then he would be free of the pain.

He tucked the crushed flower head back into his pocket and hoped its magic would keep him safe long enough to do this.

Luc moved soundlessly, his height no encumbrance to the fluid way he had always moved, and he turned his back to the main drag of the town – as though arriving from the main street – and moved towards the small road that would lead him onto the ascent.

He hunched his shoulders,
dug his hands into his pockets, changed his gait to walk deliberately heavily in a trudge and looked around every now and then as if to get his bearings. He whistled softly to himself like a man without any reason to worry about being noticed.

And that’s exactly how he appeared when von Schleigel stepped out of the shadows to greet him. ‘Monsieur Cousteau?’

There he stood, the man Luc had dreamt
of meeting again for so many years, and just for a pounding heartbeat that he felt in his throat, his world stood still. He became acutely aware of his whooshing pulse, his shallow breath and the
hairs on the back of his neck standing up in pure loathing. But he had not forgotten his skills of wartime and he schooled his features to remain welcoming, even dredging up a smile from out of the pain,
using it to cover his momentary alarm.

‘Ah, yes. Monsieur Segal, it’s my pleasure,’ Luc said, feigning delight, holding out a gloved hand, glad he didn’t have to feel the man’s clammy handshake that he recalled from two decades ago.

It was neither fully dark but also hardly light. They stood in a curious netherworld in which each could not clearly make out the features of the other.
Luc kept his scarf around his mouth and stamped his feet to add to the illusion of his cold. Above his pleasant smile Luc looked coldly at von Schleigel – there was no doubting it was his prey. He wondered how he resisted reaching his hands around the man’s throat and strangling him where he stood. Luc was far stronger than the impostor looked and he’d killed a French milicien and Nazi puppet called
Pierre Landry in 1943 for less than von Schleigel’s offences. But good sense prevailed. He was too exposed here. He dropped the scarf from his face casually, knowing it was still too dark to see much but it ensured that von Schleigel’s suspicions wouldn’t be sent into overdrive.

‘I appreciate you allowing me to tag along.’ He stopped.
Don’t overdo it
, he chastised himself inwardly.

Von Schleigel had been watching him carefully too; from what Luc could see in the low light, the man had aged significantly. He still held himself with a straight bearing but Luc sensed it took an effort. The strutting peacock who had once worn the close-fitting dark-grey uniform of the Gestapo with such pride now possessed the wrinkled skin, droopy jowls and paunch of an elder. He was by no means
overweight
but Luc imagined how a blow to that soft belly could likely rupture major organs. He imagined himself delivering that blow, watching von Schleigel double up, gasping for air and –

‘… don’t you think?’

He’d missed it.
Concentrate
! ‘Forgive me,’ he said, lifting the woollen beanie above his ears but being careful not reveal his golden hair. ‘I don’t hear well in this.’

Von Schleigel blinked behind the glasses he now wore instead of his former monocle. ‘I was wondering how you would take notes while we climbed,’ came the equally familiar soft voice that frequently haunted his nightmares.

Luc tapped his temple. ‘No, I’ll just listen and store whatever you share during this bit of our interview. I will get a good overall impression by simply listening.’

His
enemy raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Let’s hope you can hear, then,’ von Schleigel replied and gave a familiar sarcastic laugh that turned Luc’s insides. He remembered that sound after the cruel trick von Schleigel had played when he’d made Luc choose between killing Wolf Dressler himself or walking away unbloodied but knowing he would leave the dear old man to the further whims of the Gestapo.
They had promised to finish another round of torture before the inevitable execution. Luc had taken the proffered gun but when he’d found the courage to pull the trigger the hammer on the pistol had clicked onto a deliberately empty chamber, much to the delight of von Schleigel and his Nazi onlookers.

‘I hope you meant what you said about being fit?’ von Schleigel said now, breaking into Luc’s
memories.

‘I’ll follow you at my own pace if it gets hard,’ Luc said, knowing he could outpace von Schleigel across any distance and in any conditions. ‘For now, shall we?’ He politely
gestured ahead for them to walk side by side. Luc fell in step alongside his loathsome companion. ‘So the idea is that I write a feature about the man behind the mask, so to speak.’

Von Schleigel snapped
a glance at him.

‘By that,’ Luc continued as though he’d barely noticed, ‘I mean the man everyone knows is Frédéric Segal, café owner. We’re going to give readers Monsieur Segal beyond that single dimension.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ von Schleigel said. ‘Incidentally, the locals call me Eric.’

‘I see. And you do this walk each day?’ Luc began, hoping he sounded like a journalist.

‘Not this one, no.
I exercise daily though. It keeps my mind sharp. I like the fresh air, particularly in winter. I can think clearly out here alone.’

‘Does any of your family ever join you?’

‘No,’ he snorted. ‘I have three women in my life, Monsieur Cousteau, none of them interested in my curious joy of a lonely morning on a cliff top.’

Luc nodded. ‘Please, call me Laurent,’ Luc said, enjoying the defiance of using
the beekeeper’s name in the presence of their enemy. Laurent, his best friend, would be amused by it too.

Luc went through the obvious questions of when the café was started, its history, the arrival of von Schleigel’s daughters and his life as a family man.

‘Are you a father, Laurent?’

Lisette always told Luc that a good spy, building a strong cover, skimmed as close to the truth as possible.
‘Yes, of two. A girl and a boy.’ Then added bluntly, ‘My son died recently, though.’

Von Schleigel stopped walking and Luc noted he looked genuinely mortified for a moment. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘No, of course you didn’t,’ Luc said.
But you did mean to have Wolf and my sisters killed, he thought
. ‘It was an accident, no one’s fault.’ He shrugged as he walked, hoping he wouldn’t have to
explain further.

‘No one should outlive their child. I’m sorry for you.’

‘Are you?’ It was out before he realised it had even left his lips.

‘Of course. Why would you ask such a thing?’

Luc moved swiftly to cover his error. ‘I’m sorry. It’s still a gaping wound. It troubles me to hear people’s sympathy.’

‘But sympathy is all one parent can give another in this situation. I worship my
daughters. I cannot imagine not being able to enjoy watching their lives as they mature and take on more challenges.’

Luc nodded, believed him and despised him for having that love in his life. A flutter of guilt trilled through him at wanting to steal the Segal girls’ father from them. ‘Your eldest is how old?’

‘She’s turning twenty any moment, ready to take over the café and farm her parents
out to the old people’s home,’ he jested.

Rachel wasn’t much older when you deliberately picked her out and sent her to the crematorium at Birkenau simply for being my sister.
The thought was so savage it forced Luc to take a deep breath. He must retain control.

‘Where were you during the war, Eric? May I call you Eric?’

‘You may. I was like most French, keen to just survive,’ he said,
avoiding the question.

‘Did you do your STO in Germany?’

‘Is this relevant?’ von Schleigel asked, irritated.

‘Oh, it’s just simply to sketch in the picture behind you. Most readers will relate to the war.’

‘Yes, I did my STO in Germany, making nylon, of all things. The acid burnt my hands terribly.’ Luc wanted to choke the life from him there and then for the lie that came so smoothly
and easily.

‘So when did you come south?’

‘I’m from the south,
monsieur
. He was not going to be tripped. ‘Surely you hear my Provençale accent?’

Luc knew it was an acquired one. Only a true Provençale, like himself, had the inherent singsong quality to their speech pattern. Luc had lost his over years of living with Lisette’s more Parisian accent, plus the effects of Scottish, British
and Australian speech had worn away the lilt and he was glad of that now.

‘Now we talk about it, your accent is very mixed up. Where are you from originally?’ von Schleigel asked.

‘All over,’ Luc said. ‘I was born near Lyon,’ he lied and then began to embellish it. ‘But my family lived in Lille, Dunkerque, even Strasbourg for a while. Then Paris, of course.’

‘I see. What did your father do?’

‘He was a professor. Enjoyed teaching. We moved around a lot.’ He didn’t want to speak about himself. They were arriving at the summit and the sky had lightened considerably.

Von Schleigel paused to sit on a rock. ‘I like to stop here each day.’ He smiled but Luc sensed it was only for show – no warmth touched the expression at all and the small pig-like eyes were magnified behind the strong lenses
of his glasses.
‘It’s a spectacular view from here,’ von Schleigel continued.