The Lavender Keeper (7 page)

Luc didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to accept it. The whole notion of doing nothing to help the people he loved was alien. Saba? They were taking away a harmless old woman?

‘Why are they doing this?’ Luc croaked.

‘There is no reason. Your family has done nothing wrong other than to be Jewish.’

‘Give me a gun. You don’t have to—’

‘Stop.’

‘I’ll involve no one else,’ he gabbled his promise. ‘I have
to … my sister is just nine, my mother’s heart … Rachel is in love. Fougasse, Sarah’s going to be a doctor to help the people here. Why don’t you understand? My grandmother is eighty-seven!’ He was clawing at the baker in his desperation, his cheeks wet with tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.

‘Luc,’ Fougasse finally said gently. ‘You must promise me that you understand there is nothing you or any of us can do to prevent your family being taken from Saignon today. The SS has the power and the authority. If you try and fight back now, they will send more men – soldiers – and they will take reprisals on the whole village. I have heard what they do, and it is more ugly than even your worst nightmare. They will not only gun down your family in front of you, but they will kill women and children in ways they find amusing. They do not care.’

Luc held his head in his hands. ‘You want me to watch my family being taken away and just do nothing?’

‘Yes, for anything you do will result in death for them, for yourself, and for many more. I can promise you that.’

Luc shook his head. Uncontrollable tears dripped down his face. ‘I don’t care about my own life.’

‘But your father does. He wants you to survive. But I will promise you revenge, Luc. Can I trust you?’

Luc nodded, feeling trapped. This was just short of blackmail.

In a state of denial, he followed Fougasse around the back of the village until they were at the rear of the bakery. Soon they were at the top of the baker’s small house and climbing out a window onto the rooftop. Fougasse pointed to areas that Luc should beware of in case tiles loosened. They disturbed some
pigeons that took off but it was a familiar sound and Luc was sure no one would look up. Fougasse finally turned with a forefinger against his lips, urging Luc forward. His expression was all sorrow. Luc wriggled along on his belly and then lifted himself up onto his elbows. What he saw made his previous meal feel as though it were roaring back up his gullet.

Gitel was crying, clinging to Sarah, who had encircled her arms around both Gitel and Rachel. Jacob was holding Golda, whose eyes were closed; she was praying and weeping at the same time. They were being harangued by none other than Gendarme Landry; Jacob was trying to reason with him but Landry was manhandling him, swaggering up and down the line of the family. And then Luc’s tiny grandmother was dragged out of the house. Ida was the most vocal of all. While the others cowered, she gave as good as she got. Luc could hear her every shrill word, as she cursed and waved her frail arms.

It was Landry who silenced her, striding up and punching the old woman with a full fist in her midsection. Luc gasped as he saw his beloved saba double up. In her hand she had been clutching a spray of lavender, which she’d tried to curse them with. The flowers dropped from her grasp as she staggered first and then fell to her knees. The girls screamed, Gitel wet herself where she cowered, and villagers who rushed to the elderly woman’s aid were threatened by Landry.

Luc was so shocked he couldn’t have made a sound even if he’d wanted to.

Landry pointed at Jacob, who was permitted to help his mother-in-law, lifting her gently to her feet and into his embrace. Ida was quiet now, curled over herself by the side of her praying daughter.

It was so silent that Landry’s words could be heard clearly.

‘There is a son. Where is he?’

One of the German officers addressed Catherine, who was standing nearby. Luc only now noticed the flame-haired traitor. Had she done this out of spite? Whatever her reason, he drew the smallest satisfaction at realising she looked as shocked as any of the other villagers. Luc watched her shake her head, mumble some words. He couldn’t believe she had done this to them.
A woman scorned.

‘Where is Luc Bonet?’ Landry demanded, even louder.

Catherine began to weep now. She pointed a shaky finger towards the hills, towards his fields.

Luc was so numb he struggled to speak. ‘What will happen to them?’ he whispered to Fougasse.

‘Jews are being rounded up everywhere.’

‘Non-French Jews, I was told,’ Luc said.

The baker shook his head sadly. ‘Any Jew.’

Luc dropped his shoulders.
Let it be a nightmare
, he begged.
Let me wake!
‘Where will they be taken?’

‘Camp des Milles, a transit camp for Jews.’

‘Transit to where?’ He grabbed Fougasse’s shirt.

‘Drancy, most likely. Outside Paris.’

‘So I can get to them, I can petition for my father. He is an important and senior man in—’

Fougasse made a hissing sound. ‘You do not understand yet, Bonet? No one will see them. No one gets out. There are no privileges, no matter who you are. Monies, property, belongings – everything is confiscated. Bank accounts frozen. They belong to Germany now. And your family? There is nothing you can do for them except pray.’

‘There is always a way,’ Luc said beneath his breath. ‘Let me go.’

Suddenly he had a rope around his neck. Fougasse’s shadowy companion had crawled up behind him and slipped it on.

‘He will throttle you before he lets you give us away.’

Luc could feel his eyes bulging as his breath was constricted. The rope was relaxed slightly and he gasped, sucking air into his heaving chest. He realised there was no choice, and that his future, whether he wanted it to or not, lay with the maquisard and his cause.

‘They’ll go down into Apt first,’ Luc groaned in a choked whisper. ‘I want to see them.’

‘Impossible,’ Fougasse said, shaking his head.

‘Then I will not go quietly with you,’ Luc said. ‘Have your friend choke me now.’

They stared at each other, neither blinking. After a tense silence, Fougasse finally relented. ‘Let’s get down the mountain before they do,’ he whispered hoarsely.

Luc laid his cheek down against the warm terracotta roof and could feel the damp of his tears soak into the tiles. Earthy smells assaulted him as he closed his eyes, just for a moment in silent prayer; the tang of bird droppings and the musty aroma of drying leaves added to the decay of a long dead and desiccated rodent. But on the evening breeze he caught a gentle whiff of lavender being drawn down the hills and pushed through the alleys of his village … and that brought him hope.

He prayed his grandmother could smell it too.

The sight of his family being taken kept repeating in Luc’s mind. He hated that he could replay it in such exquisitely painful detail. He hoped Catherine was haunted forever by this scene and the darkness of her foul deed.

Luc almost gagged to recall it, and swallowed the involuntary
motion. He had to find them. Had to do something, no matter what Fougasse said. He’d rather die than desert them. What was he doing here? He’d been forced by Fougasse to wait at a tiny café in the back streets of Apt with the silent companion, whose name he had still to learn. He had to content himself with a weak but bitter coffee made from barley. They’d insisted he wear a beret pulled low to cover part of his face while Fougasse dropped in to the local gendarmerie.

The baker returned just as Luc was sure he was going to explode and start flinging chairs and tables around. He felt so helpless.

‘They’re not holding them here even briefly,’ Fougasse said. The words were blunt but spoken softly.

‘What?’ Luc said, beginning to push his chair back.

Both men growled at him. ‘No scenes, Bonet,’ Fougasse warned. ‘I told the gendarmes that your father owed me money and I was chasing him. They could tell me only that the SS officers took control at Apt and they continued on to the internment camp at Aix.’

Luc stared at him blankly.
Aix-en-Provence!
It felt as though his family were suddenly beyond his reach.

‘There’s more,’ the baker said, looking down. ‘You might as well hear it all.’ Luc couldn’t imagine it could get any worse. He waited and watched Fougasse’s expression darken further. ‘My sincere regrets. Your grandmother died on the way down the mountain.’

Luc stared uncomprehendingly at Fougasse, who did not look away. He wondered whether he’d heard correctly. He felt breathless, as though a great weight had suddenly pressed onto his chest. The memory of his grandmother being punched flashed again into his mind. A tremble passed through him
and then strengthened – it wouldn’t stop; he was shivering in summer. Luc leant his elbows against the table to try to steady himself, and then put his head in his hands.

His companions shared uneasy glances.

‘Breathe, Luc! We must be careful. The town is crawling with soldiers, and there’s Gestapo and SS around too. This is not a clever time for us to be seen at all, let alone together.’ Fougasse touched Luc’s shoulder. Luc shook it away. ‘The gendarmerie knew your family and were as shocked as we were, but they can do nothing.’

Luc groaned at the thought of his grandmother. No long goodbyes, no tears. Her life stolen from them by a Frenchman’s fist.

‘I’m going to be sick.’ He shook off their arms and ran around the corner. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, breathing in deep draughts. Soon he became aware of someone behind him.

‘We must go,’ the baker said gently. A wet handkerchief appeared. ‘Here, wipe your mouth. Pull yourself together.’

‘I can’t,’ Luc moaned.

‘Shhh. You must not draw attention to us.’

‘Then go away,’ Luc growled, spitting to clear the sourness.

‘I gave your father my word that I would protect you. Our word is all we have to give between patriotic men. Stand up now, and find your courage.’ Fougasse waited.

Luc’s cheeks were burning with rage. It was all right for Fougasse; he had no one to love and no one loved him.

‘It is easy to accuse me of that,’ Fougasse said and Luc realised he had spoken aloud. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that you are not the first to lose someone you love to this war. I am sorry for you, truly, but you can keel over in this gutter
or you can find a new courage and fight back, as your father hoped you would.’ Fougasse stopped suddenly, an alarmed look on his face, as Luc heard the sound of boots. Instinctively he straightened. Soldiers. They laughed as they passed and threw some wisecracks at him in poor French.

Luc stared at the broad, straight backs of the young men walking away, their green uniforms clean and proud, the sound of their polished boots taunting him.

‘Is she here?’ he asked.

‘She’ll be buried tonight.’

‘Can I take her back, bury her in Saignon?’

‘
Non!
’ Fougasse looked angry. ‘Absolutely not.’

Luc swallowed hard. ‘Then I will see her.’

‘You cannot—’

‘I will kiss my grandmother goodbye.’ He glowered.

The baker relented. ‘Follow me.’

Ida had been left in an old storeroom at the back of Apt. It was empty for the moment, awaiting the autumn when the harvest of apples, pears and plums would tumble in by the cartload. Luc wanted to do so much more for Ida but for the first time in his life he felt totally helpless. His father had been right. All the money, the status, the respect in the world couldn’t help his family in their hour of need – not against this sort of persecution.

He steeled himself to look upon his grandmother. She was on her back, and the lovely silver hair had come loose from its bun and lay in wisps around her face. He wished he had a comb to neaten it. Fougasse left him alone with her, keeping a tense lookout over the storeroom. He knelt by her side, unaware of the tears that dampened his cheeks or the silent sobs that tightened in his chest. Today he had wept twice in as many hours. Shock,
he knew, was helping him; it prevented him from looking beyond the tiny, frail body to the larger pain of the loss of his whole family. He didn’t want to think about where they were, or how frightened they must be. He didn’t want to see his father’s desperation, his horror at the treatment of his children, his wife.

Ida embodied all of that sorrow in her stillness. His tears splashed onto her hand as he took it, clasping her stiffening, arthritic fingers to the unshaven cheek she would never pinch again. Her earrings and necklace had been taken but he noticed her rings were intact, stubborn beneath her swollen knuckles. Her wedding band was her most precious keepsake of her husband and she kissed it each night before bed. Seeing it safe gave Luc relief to think that his grandmother would not be separated from her beloved husband, even in death.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small spray of lavender he had put there earlier.

‘Here, Saba. Carry this with you,’ he whispered and tucked it into her palm, folding her fingers around the flowers, squeezing them shut, before he kissed her hand and then bent to kiss her cheek.

As Luc pulled away, laying her hand gently back on her chest, he felt a bump in her cardigan pocket. He knew what this was: her precious seeds.

He gently pulled out the familiar silken pouch that she carried around. Inside were lavender heads, drying and dropping seeds that she would, from time to time, cast around her. The old girl would sow lavender wherever she found herself. The pouch was bulging. He pushed it into his pocket and made an oath he would always carry it. He would be her lavender keeper.

He took one final look at his dead grandmother, smoothing her hair back from her face, and as he did so, all of his anger
at the war and its hardships – at his family’s humiliations – seemed to gather tightly in his chest, along with the death and destruction. The numbness at losing his family was the final blow to a pain that had been building. Yesterday, it was the revelation of his birth and the melancholy that it had stirred; today, his family. The swastikas, the
Sieg Heils
, the arrogant smiles of the Germans, the pandering approach of too many French who had decided that collaboration was the only way to protect France … all of it began to gather and pound in his heart and at his temple in a new, brooding rage.