The Cyclist Read Free Page A

comrade. I will ask the Mayor to erect a statue to him. It may comfort his family to know he is still remembered for his efforts by the loyal French here.’
    ‘A very good idea. I’m sure it will be well-received,’ Auguste lied. The thought of a statue to a German SD officer adorning the market square amused him. It was ironic. He had a vague feeling it was funny. He wondered if he was becoming hysterical.
    ‘Tomorrow then?’
    Auguste said, ‘Yes, perhaps we will have more news then.’
    The telephone clicked off and he replaced the receiver. He stood looking at the shiny black resin machine and cursed to himself. He wondered who Brunner would choose now to run errands for him. He had never like Meyer, the man picked on people and as happens to all bullies, someone must have borne a grudge. Not surprising in a world where reprisals for one German could mean twenty innocent farmers and villagers shot.
    He tapped the desk with his fingers. He slowed his breathing. He had something to do now and although he recognised it was his duty, a trace of reluctance delayed him. He felt tired and as he left the office, he sighed. It seemed to him as if he trudged up a hill and each time he reached the summit another appeared before him. There was no end to this cycle of killings, reprisals and grief. Worse still, it dragged him and his men deeper and deeper into a mire of complicity with the Germans. He had to cooperate with them but he was finding it more difficult by the minute.
     
     

3
    The rain came in sheets as Auguste left the Prefecture. He nodded to the desk sergeant as he closed the tall oak door behind him. The grey, stone steps echoed to the clack of his black boots as he descended and drops of rain pattered on his flat-topped hat. He crossed the square to his battered Citroën. Squatting, he checked under the vehicle.
    Finding nothing attached beneath, he got in but did not start up. He sat a moment looking straight ahead. All registered Jews. It meant hundreds of people from Bergerac alone, a mammoth task. He knew he possessed the manpower. They were never short of recruits these days, since Vichy had come to power. President Pétain ensured funding for the police continued to escalate despite the German plundering.
    Twenty francs to the deutsche-mark he was thinking. It was like downgrading everything in the land. You might as well give exports away, not that there was any food to export these days. Even if food was available, the food tickets limited the quantity to a mouthful.
    He pressed the starter. Nothing happened. He swore. On the fourth attempt, the Citroën coughed then began chugging. It screeched as he put it into gear. He set off, double de-clutched into second, and turned left towards the bridge. Crossing above the swirling brown waters of the Dordogne, he turned left again and hit the main Sarlat road out of town. The windscreen wipers squeaked in the rain and he could only see a short distance ahead. He knew the way well enough: he had cycled here hundreds of times in his youth.
    Passing through a gateway, he drew up outside a white-rendered farmhouse. It was a large building, wooden steps leading up to the porch, a pine rocking chair soaking in the rain on the left and a pile of logs on the right of the heavy wooden door. Raindrops dripped from a mature clematis plant, growing at the end of the porch and a dog barked somewhere inside. He knocked.
    Presently, a man his own age opened the door. It creaked as it came ajar.
    ‘Huh, it’s you,’ Pierre said.
    ‘Can I come in?’
    ‘Being discreet? You wouldn’t want anyone to see you visiting a Jew would you?’
    ‘No secret. My car is here. Everyone knows my Citroën even in the dark.’
    ‘Yes, you’re the only one who can afford gasoline.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Come in then.’
    Auguste entered a large room, the floorboards creaking underfoot. An intricately designed Turkish rug quietened his footfall as he approached the middle of the room.