The White Venus by Rupert Colley

Author:Rupert Colley [Colley, Rupert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction world war, historical fiction, historical novels ww2, historical fiction ww2, historical fiction france
Publisher: PublishDrive
Published: 2017-04-19T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

‘The thing is people are getting soft.’ Pierre had been instructed to have a walk with Kafka. They walked briskly through the woods, Kafka in front, a large bag round his shoulder, following a narrow path. The sun slanted through the branches, and the ground, after weeks without rain, was hard. The birds were in full song. ‘People seem to have accepted this invasion as if it was a good thing.’

‘People say the Germans will deal with the communists. And the Jews.’ Pierre regretted his afterthought.

‘We can deal with them ourselves. We don’t need foreigners coming in sorting out our affairs. People see the Germans as a sort of deliverance; they forget they invaded our country and for what? On the whim of a madman. Take your houseguest, for example. The villagers like him; he’s a cultured man, he holds the door open for the ladies. Your mother seems to have grown used to his presence. I know all this; I keep my eyes and ears open. They forget, he’s not here as our friend; he’s here as an invader, a bloody invader.’ They jumped over a stream. ‘It’s up to people like you and me to keep the flame of resistance alive. How will history remember us? You have to ask yourself that. In years to come will your children thank you for having been a collaborator?’

They walked in silence for a while. Pierre picked up a stick and beat at the long grass bordering the path.

‘Keep up,’ said Kafka over his shoulder. ‘So, your trip went well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yeah, Claire told me all about it. You did well. Victor prints newspapers. The Krauts have got him printing their rubbish but by night he supplies the whole region with flyers and “subversive literature”, as our German friends call it. He’s rich; he can afford to do it for free. He’s got quite a network already.’

They’d been walking for over half an hour when Kafka declared, ‘Here we are.’

At first, Pierre couldn’t see what Kafka was referring to – but there, under the shade of a large cedar tree, was a small wooden hut. Its walls were made up of huge logs, it had a window covered in tarpaulin. Kafka undid the padlock and beckoned Pierre in. Inside, daylight permeated the gaps between the logs and through the roof. There was a bed covered in a brown blanket, a table and chair, a shelf half full of food tins, and, on the wall, a large framed portrait of Marshal Pétain peppered with holes. ‘Welcome to my second home,’ said Kafka. Reaching into his bag, he placed more tins on the shelf. ‘Emergency supplies.’

Pierre watched, wide-eyed, as Kafka produced a rifle from under his bed. ‘Yeah, I know, I didn’t hand it in. I’d be shot for having this around. It’s an old M16 carbine. Old but still effective. I stole it from the army in eighteen. I used to be a sniper, you know. In my day, I could hit a centime from seventy metres.

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