The White Venus Read online

  ‘Ah, don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be a very nice Kraut, and I’m sure you’ll all live happily ever after together.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Xavier. You’re still an idiot.’

  *

  Xavier had, at last, found his parents and disappeared with them into the throng of people now meandering back to their homes. Heading home down a side street, Pierre walked alongside his mother while his father walked behind, talking to Kafka. Pierre had told them the news – they were to expect a lodger. They took it rather well, he thought. ‘What does it all mean, Maman?’

  ‘The Germans? I don’t know. Maybe the mayor was right; maybe it is for the best.’

  ‘What? To have a bunch of Germans telling us what to do?’ Further ahead, they saw two German soldiers peering through the window at the baker’s.

  ‘I remember the last war, Pierre,’ said his mother quietly, as if the soldiers might hear her from twenty metres away. ‘They were terrible, terrible years. The Marshal knows what he’s doing; he’ll find a way.’

  ‘What, Pétain? That old goat?’

  ‘Pierre, please. Keep your voice down. You don’t know what you’re saying. He saved us once; he’ll save us again.’ The soldiers, sharing a joke, were now heading towards them, ambling leisurely, looking around them as if sightseeing in the sunshine.

  ‘But the lad is right,’ bellowed Kafka from behind. ‘Pétain is an old goat; he’s sold us down the river.’ The soldiers were getting closer but Pierre feared that Kafka was far from finished. ‘In sucking up to the Krauts, he’s signed a pact with the Devil.’

  The soldiers had heard Kafka’s shouting. They were watching him as they strolled past them in the lane. Pierre’s mother turned to Kafka, ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘No, sorry, Lucienne; I cannot hold my tongue. Pétain has betrayed us and betrayed his country.’ This time the Germans had clearly heard him. Pierre saw their faces harden. ‘And so now we have to tolerate having these Krauts telling us what to do.’

  ‘Hey, you; watch your tongue,’ said one of the soldiers in German, a man with a boxer’s nose, gripping his rifle in front of him.

  ‘Fuck off back to Germany.’

  It took but a second – Kafka was on his knees on the tarmac, clutching his stomach. The soldier had hit him with his rifle butt. Lucienne screamed; Georges’s face turned white; Pierre had taken his mother’s hand. The soldier was leaning over Kafka, screaming at him: ‘You filth! You talk like that again you’re dead; you got it?’ The second soldier kicked Kafka, catching him in the arm. People stopped, shocked, open-mouthed.

  ‘Please don’t say anything else,’ Pierre whispered to himself.

  The first soldier had his rifle poised, ready to butt Kafka a second time. Pierre held his breath, gripped his fingers over his mother’s, but a voice rang out in German: ‘Hey, stop right this instant.’

  Kafka spat as a German officer ran onto the scene. ‘Stop right now, Private. What’s going on?’

  The second private spoke. ‘This piece of shit was insulting us, sir.’

  ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know that much French.’

  ‘He’s got a bad attitude, sir,’ said the other, lowering his rifle.

  Kafka rose unsteadily to his feet, still holding his stomach.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ said the major. Pierre released his mother’s hand.

  Georges helped his friend up. ‘You’re OK, Kafka?’

  ‘I can manage,’ he said, shrugging Georges off.

  ‘Kafka? What sort of name is that? Are you a writer?’ asked the major in perfect French. Turning to his soldiers, he said in German, ‘OK, men, you can go now.’ The two soldiers looked at each other. One shrugged and with a half-hearted Hitler salute headed off, the other following in his wake. ‘I apologise for the men,’ he said to Kafka. ‘After a month of fighting, they’re a little twitchy. Are you OK?’

  Kafka puffed out his cheeks. ‘A month of killing Frenchmen, eh? My heart bleeds for them.’

  Pierre could see the major’s goodwill rapidly draining away. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Kafka; I told you.’

  ‘Your real name?’

  Kafka stretched, as if trying to rid his stomach of the pain.

  ‘I asked you what is your name?’

  ‘Foucault, Albert Foucault.’

  ‘But they call you Kafka?’

  ‘Looks like it. Can we go now?’

  The major stared at him for a few moments. Then with a quick bow to Pierre’s mother, turned to leave. They watched him head briskly back towards the town square.

  ‘Oh, Kafka,’ said Lucienne. ‘When will you learn?’

  ‘Thanks for all your help, Georges.’

  ‘I – I wanted to but...’

  ‘But what?’

  Lucienne, still agitated, fanned herself with her hat. ‘I think we should go now. Come, Pierre.’

  But Kafka, rubbing his stomach, wasn’t finished. ‘Still a little smitten with the German race, eh, Georges? Still in awe of their biological superiority after all these years?’

  Lucienne took Georges’s hand. ‘Let’s get you home, dear,’ she said, dragging him away, trying to save her husband from further embarrassment. ‘And you, Kafka. Go home and have a bath, even in this heat. Hot water will do your stomach some good. Help ease the pain.’

  Georges huffed. ‘Take a few days off, Kafka. Go to your island on the lake, have a rest.’

  ‘I might well do that. And thank you for your concern, Lucienne; I’ll do exactly as you say, a hot bath, even in this weather.’ He was smiling now, a smile without affection. ‘I’ll see you soon, Georges; and Pierre...’

  ‘Yes?’ said Pierre nervously.

  ‘You know, you don’t always have to grab your mother’s hand at the first sign of trouble.’

  Chapter 2

  While Lucienne waited for the kettle to boil on their large, black stove, she washed her hands thoroughly, still determined, she’d said, to wash away the dirt of the previous day. Pierre was familiar with this habit of hers – this obsessive washing of hands whenever she felt under a strain. He remembered exactly when it had started.

  Eventually, with the tea made, they sat and sipped in silence, Lucienne smelling of carbolic soap. His parents sat on the bench at the kitchen table, the table with its rose-patterned oilcloth, while Pierre sat back in the kitchen armchair. His eyelids felt heavy. His eyes scanned the familiar items on the chest – the crucifix at its top, the china cups hanging on hooks, the ones rarely used; the saucers on display with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on a white background, the Tower, adorned with a smiling face, leaning to one side as if exercising. There was one missing – Pierre had broken it years back; he must’ve been about eight or nine. It was the only time he ever recalled his mother spanking him. He cried, naturally, but not from the pain – there wasn’t any, but from the fact he’d so upset his mother. On the wall opposite the chest, two framed photographs – one of a man on a tightrope and the other of a young boy aged about five wearing a flat cap too big for him and baggy trousers, the definition of a cheeky but sweet boy.

  While his mother had made tea, he had sat there with his father. Neither spoke a word yet he’d wanted so much to ask. But his father seemed so diminished it didn’t seem right to bring it out in the open. Kafka knew something that Georges would rather forget. Perhaps, at some point, thought Pierre, he would broach the subject with his mother. And then of course there was the little matter of his own abject humiliation. He tried to persuade himself that he had taken his mother’s hand to protect her. But Kafka knew the truth. And so did he.

  Finally, Pierre’s mother broke the silence. ‘What about your gun, Georges?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You have to hand it in.’

  ‘Why? Because they said so?’ asked Georges, stirring his tea although he had almost finished it.

  ‘Of course. We can’t keep it, especially with a
German staying in the house. If they find it...’

  ‘There’d be serious consequences,’ finished Pierre.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Pierre,’ said his father. ‘For God’s sake, it’s only an old shotgun. I use it for the rabbits and crows. That’s it.’ Pierre didn’t like to say that, despite numerous attempts, he’d never seen his father kill anything. ‘And I’ve had it for years. It’s virtually an antique.’

  ‘Yes but they don’t know that, Georges. You have to hand it in. Think of us, all of us.’

  Georges finished his tea. ‘I’m not handing it in,’ he said, placing his mug on the table.

  Lucienne rose from her seat and went outside. ‘She’s gone to get it,’ said Georges to Pierre. ‘You wait.’

  Sure enough, moments later, Lucienne returned carrying the shotgun at arm’s length as if it was emitting a terrible smell. ‘It is safe, isn’t it, Georges? You haven’t left it loaded or anything?’

  ‘No, of course not. Bloody hell.’

  She looked up worriedly at the crucifix. ‘Please, Georges, don’t use profanities.’

  Gingerly, she placed the gun on the table. They looked at it. Pierre had never really considered it before. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, he decided. Elegant, sleek yet solid. He knew nothing about guns but could see that this thing could cause some damage. He realised that his father knew he had to hand it in but couldn’t face another indignity. ‘I’ll take it if you want.’ The idea of walking through the town with this in his hand was thrilling.

  His parents looked at each other and silently reached the same conclusion. ‘Good idea,’ said Lucienne. ‘Yes, you take it. But do it now – in case this Major H turns up early.’

  Pierre picked it up. He weighed it up and down. It was heavier than he expected. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘Just take it, Pierre,’ said Lucienne.

  Pierre pointed to his father’s wartime helmet that hung from the back of the kitchen door. It’d been there for as long as he could remember. ‘Can I wear your helmet, Papa?’

  ‘No, you cannot. Is there not a bag of some sort he could put it in?’ asked Georges.

  But Pierre was already out of the door. As he closed it behind him he heard his father shout, ‘Get a receipt for it.’

  *

  Pierre couldn’t resist it. He called in on Xavier to show him the shotgun. His friend was suitably impressed. ‘So what are you doing with it?’

  ‘I’m off to shoot a few Germans. Do you want to come?’

  ‘Right we are.’

  ‘For every German we take out, there’s one less to worry about.’

  ‘Yep – simple. Let’s go.’

  It was strange walking down the street with a huge gun. People couldn’t help but notice and many backed away. Monsieur Tautou, the carpenter, saw them. ‘That’s the spirit, boys.’

  They took turns with the gun, carrying it as a soldier would on parade. The walk from Xavier’s house to the town hall was but a few minutes but the boys took several detours so that soon hardly a street in the whole town had not been visited by the two boys and their heavy shotgun. ‘Hey, Pierre, let’s take it into the woods and see if we can kill something. Or we can sneak into the back of the mayor’s house and kill his rabbits.’

  ‘Xavier – it’s not loaded.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You think my dad would let me walk down the street with a loaded gun? Anyway, imagine firing this thing; it’d dislocate your shoulder.’

  ‘Let’s go to the library – go see the lovely Claire,’ he said in a sing-song voice. ‘I’m sure she’d be impressed with something that size.’

  ‘It’s closed now.’

  ‘Barriers, barriers. That’s all you do; create barriers to everything I say.’

  Pierre laughed. ‘It’s not my bloody fault that the gun’s not loaded and the library is closed.’

  Wrapped up in their banter, they hadn’t noticed the pair of German soldiers approach them. ‘What are you doing with that gun?’ said one in German, his rifle trained on them.

  The boys looked up. ‘Oh, shit,’ uttered Pierre, recognising the soldier with the flattened nose. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Put that gun down,’ said the first German.

  ‘Don’t you understand German?’ shouted the second.

  ‘I think he wants you to put the gun down, Xavier.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Carefully, he placed it on the road.

  Pierre pointed in the direction of the town hall. ‘We hand it in to the mayor.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked the first German to his comrade.

  ‘I think he says they’re going to shoot the mayor.’

  On hearing this, the first one leapt into action, lifting his rifle to eye-level and, advancing, aiming it straight at Pierre’s head. ‘Get down, you frog, on your knees now.’

  ‘Whoa,’ cried Pierre putting his hands up.

  ‘Get down.’

  The boys understood and went down on their knees, then, after furthering gesturing, lay on the road on their fronts.

  ‘I think they’re going to kill us,’ said Pierre.

  ‘But I haven’t had my dinner yet.’

  ‘You could ask him to come back later.’

  ‘Stop talking,’ yelled the first as the second German began frisking Xavier.

  ‘We’ve got an audience,’ whispered Pierre. Sure enough, a small gathering of people had emerged, forming a circle around the spectacle. Someone shouted, ‘Leave them alone.’ Someone else added, ‘They’re only kids.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said Pierre.

  The second soldier had begun frisking Pierre, kicking his legs apart, and running his hands down his trousers, into his pockets, and down his socks. Craning his neck, Pierre saw a light green skirt. Fantastic, he thought; Claire couldn’t help but be impressed. Here he was, only two days in, and he was already a resistance fighter. If only she’d step a little closer with that swirling skirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked the soldiers in German.

  ‘Are they friends of yours?’

  ‘I know them.’

  ‘We caught them on their way to kill your mayor. They confessed.’

  ‘Really?’ She laughed. ‘Hello, Pierre, Xavier. So, you were off to assassinate the mayor, were you?’

  ‘Erm, yes,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Xavier. ‘Of course we weren’t. Tell her, you idiot.’

  Pierre told her the truth as the soldier frisked his shirt. People in the crowd sniggered as they turned to leave. Claire, in turn, told the soldiers.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said the first. ‘They look suspicious to me.’

  ‘Do you really think–’

  ‘Nonetheless, we’d better escort them,’ said the second. ‘Just to make sure. Get up!’ he yelled at the boys.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Pierre.

  ‘He said, “prepare to die, you filthy sons of dogs”,’ returned Xavier.

  ‘He said all that in just two syllables?’

  ‘Boys, you can get up now,’ said Claire. ‘These kind soldiers are going to escort you to the mayor’s office.’

  ‘What – Fritz One and Fritz Two? That’s awfully decent of them,’ said Xavier, brushing away fragments of tarmac.

  ‘They don’t have to; we know the way.’

  Claire shook her head and smiled.

  *

  Pierre felt rather excited, walking to the town hall with two German soldiers behind them, pointing their rifles. One carried his father’s shotgun. He hoped everyone in the town would get to see them. Indeed, they received many admiring glances and shocked ones too. It was turning out not to be such a bad day after all. Outside the town hall, the Germans had already erected a notice: Whoever commits acts of sabotage against members or property of the German armed forces, or found to be in possession of arms of any type, will be shot. Xavier caught Pierre’s eye, raising his ey
ebrows.

  Inside the town hall, the reception area was brimming. With its high ceiling and marbled floor, voices echoed. Men in German uniforms marched in and out; well-dressed women carrying envelopes or pads of paper busied themselves; telephones rang; a deliveryman appeared pushing a large cardboard box on a trolley.

  The two German soldiers deposited the boys at the main desk, handing the shotgun over to the receptionist. She took it, leaning it against the desk beside her as they briefed her. On the wall behind the desk, a large portrait of Marshal Pétain wearing his peaked hat decorated with gold braids, his grey moustache almost white, his eyes fixed resolutely on the viewer, his chin defiantly prominent. The boys looked at each other. Subtly, Pierre shook his head, warning Xavier not to say anything. As the soldiers left, the first one slapped Xavier on the back and said, ‘There we are; wasn’t too bad, after all.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Xavier.

  ‘He said next time you’re dead.’

  ‘Severe.’

  It took Pierre a whole five minutes to fill out the necessary paperwork and receive, in return, a receipt. As they turned to leave, his mother suddenly appeared, throwing open the double doors of the town hall and standing there, catching her breath while trying to find her son. ‘Pierre, thank God,’ she said upon seeing him. ‘I heard you’d been arrested.’ She threw her arms round him.

  ‘Maman, please.’

  ‘Were you arrested? I heard all sorts of tales of you being led away at gunpoint. What happened?’

  As they left and Pierre began recounting the tale, Xavier told them to look behind. They stood and looked up at the flagpole above the town hall. The French flag that had been there as long as anyone could remember had gone. In its place, flapping gently in the breeze, was the swastika.

  ‘It’s no joke, is it?’ said Xavier.

  ‘No,’ said Pierre.

  *

  Having said their goodbyes to Xavier, Pierre and his mother slowly walked the rest of the way home.

  ‘Maman, what did Kafka mean by saying Papa was still in awe of the Germans?’

  Lucienne stopped. She sighed. ‘I don’t know. Your father fought in the war. You know that, he’s got the medals. And that helmet on the back of the door. They were in the same unit. But, like a lot of men, your father never talks about the war. I only met him in 1920. We married a year later, so I didn’t know him as a soldier. But something happened; I don’t know what but something between Kafka and your father. Whatever it was, your father has always seemed as if he is still in debt to Kafka. He says Kafka is his friend – but friends don’t blackmail each other.’