‘Did you, what dreams?’
‘Never mind, because you’re getting ahead of yourself again, and without going into gory details, about good or bad things, I need to set the scene and explain how I remember it methodically, or in the bursts of memories as they pop up.’
Maude took a bowl of crisps from the table. ‘Okey-dokey, well I’ll sit here and listen quietly while you take me back in time, excuse the crunching noises.’
Dottie tutted and refilled her glass, and went back to a dark and eerie railway siding on the outskirts of the very town they were staying in. Suddenly the enormity of that moment shook her; the sense of two dimensions colliding. The same woman who crouched in the undergrowth, the worrying stench of fox shit close by, too terrified to move, about to commit a deadly sin, had no clue that many years later she would be back, seated across from her granddaughter, drinking wine, eating crisps and telling the tale.
17
The Deadliest of Sins
Châteaubriant, 1943
Yvette thought the blood pulsing through her heart was going to explode then shoot out of her ears up and her throat, or was she going to be sick? Yes, that was probably what it was. Never, even when the night monsters came to her bedroom as a child or when she jumped out of the plane into the abyss, had she been so utterly frozen and consumed by fear as she was now.
They had set off on foot earlier that day, lying low and trekking for hours along the outskirts of Châteaubriant until they reached their target; the bridge that spanned the railway line, running along the edge of the remote goods yard. The day had dragged, they were all tired and hungry, waiting for it to get dark before their work could begin. The explosives were to be laid under the track below the road bridge overhead. The following morning, a goods train was scheduled to leave the station at Châteaubriant, carrying supplies destined for the enemy. The moment it entered the short tunnel, passing over the trigger, the explosion would hopefully derail the train, damage its contents and the bridge. Their aim was to cause maximum destruction to the transport link that was used to ferry troops north, towards the Atlantic Wall along the heavily fortified section of the coast.
Yvette’s eyes scanned the darkness, watching for a signal from the other side of the yard that the wires had been cut and access gained onto the track. The banking on each side of the bridge were inaccessible and intelligence said that the yard was disused.
Their comrades, Florian and Xavier, had gone first and once they saw the flashlight, she and Vincent would join them. Benoit, who was a few metres behind her, would remain as lookout. Yvette’s role was to set the explosives that were in the sack by Vincent’s side. When she heard a noise, a creaking, Yvette instantly knew it wasn’t Xavier or Florian and to her horror this was confirmed when the door of one of the buildings in the sidings opened and a German soldier stepped out. They’d been told the place was deserted.
Three sets of eyes watched from the undergrowth. After the guard turned and spoke to someone inside, laughing before he made his way across the yard directly towards them, the Maquisards crouched lower. Yvette prayed and imagined Vincent and Benoit doing the same. The distance between their hiding place and the door was no more than five metres, so when the soldier, his rifle flicked onto his back, pulled down his zip, the stench of fox mingled with that of urine and Yvette gagged.
In the seconds that followed she saw it all play out in slow motion even though her brain recorded it in real time, allowing her to react instinctively.
While the soldier peed with his back to the fence, Yvette saw the three flashes of Florian’s torch and she knew that when the soldier turned to go inside, he would see the next two, and they would be finished. Their information was flawed, and they had no clue how many more guards were inside the building – perhaps there were just two, perhaps a whole division. She had to act. Vincent had a gun, too noisy, but she had a knife.
The zip went up. The soldier turned.
The torch flashed twice.
The soldier saw, stalled for a second, reached for his rifle.
Yvette leapt forward, took out her knife, and throwing her left arm around his neck, yanked his chin backwards and sliced with her right hand.
There was a thud and the sound of whistling in her ears as she looked down at the staring eyes of the soldier as he bled out. Then the sound of a voice: Vincent.
‘Yvette, YVETTE!’
Startled, she responded, speechlessly holding out the knife that was covered in blood like her hands.
‘Go to Florian now, hurry, here take the bag. I will check inside. If there are many we abandon, if not, wait until I arrive at the fence then we will proceed. Benoit, move the body, quickly. Take the gun and use it if necessary.’
Benoit emerged from the shadows as Vincent, his voice harsh and clear, urged Yvette on. ‘Go now, hurry.’
Her mouth was dry and she knew her eyes stared, not blinking as they followed three more flashes from the torch, her legs moving with a will of their own. When she reached Florian and Xavier she collapsed in a heap onto her knees, dropping the knife and frantically wiping her hands on the grass, not caring which animal had left its waste there, it was better than the blood. She managed to mumble to the others what had happened and relate Vincent’s orders, so they waited in silence for what felt like hours, listening for the sound of a hundred Nazi boots.
Two gunshots echoed through the darkness, then nothing, no German voices raising the alarm, and when they did hear boots running in their direction they belonged to a single figure: Vincent. ‘There were two more. Playing cards, drunk, incompetent. Now hurry, let’s get this finished then we can go. Xavier, stay here. Florian, keep watch further down the bank, Benoit is over there in the trees. Yvette and I will do the rest.’
Standing, Yvette sucked in air and as Florian moved to hold back the wire, she caught Vincent’s eye. Holding out her knife, clean of blood, he nodded, then inclined his head for her to go, and taking the knife and shoving it back into her pocket, she obeyed. She tried not to think about the scene at the sidings. Even though her hands were clean, she knew in her heart that they would always be stained, and on her mind, the unseeing eyes of the soldier she had killed would be imprinted forever.
Yvette didn’t go back to Tante Helene’s that night. The moonlit trek home during curfew hours was as treacherous as it was exhausting and when the group split up, saying wearyau revoirs, Yvette was too tired to argue when Vincent took her hand and told her that she should stay with him in the woods. His cabin was sparse and made from scraps of timber but provided shelter from the wind and rain. Nestled within the elms it was camouflaged by leaves and branches. It was still dark, and they followed the stream, the numbing kiss of fatigue teasing the brain.
He guided her to the bed of straw and hemp sacking then when she lay down, more or less collapsing on top of it, he lay by her side and covered them with blankets, and held her in his arms. When she woke the next morning, Yvette couldn’t even remember going to sleep and for a few disorientated moments, had no idea where she was. Then it came back, she’d been lying next to Vincent, who was now gone.
Kneeling by the stream with cupped hands, Yvette thirstily slurped the ice-cold water that trickled by. Then to her horror she noticed the remnants of her sin on her hands and clothes, so she discarded her coat and began frantically scrubbing at her fingernails, eradicating the dried blood and dirt that clung to them. After washing her face she still felt dirty so slipped off her clothes and splashed water on her body, shivering but at the same time welcoming the cleansing of her skin, even though her soul remained sullied.
Yvette was about to dress when she became aware of movement, the crunching of twigs and the rustling of leaves as someone approached. Standing as she tried to cover herself, Yvette looked up and saw Vincent.
