Page 60 of Resistance
Renazé, France, 2005
Dottie was seated on the wooden bench next to Polo. They observed the scene before them in companionable silence while the bulldozer scraped back the earth, leaving in its wake deep furrows of rubble as it moved back and forth. Dottie thought that watching someone else’s toil and the rhythmic swing of the mechanical arm was mildly therapeutic, and understood why Polo liked to sit here, that and the fact the remaining section of the hotel used to be his childhood home.
Earlier, as they drove towards the village, Maude and Dottie had formulated a plan of action. Before they went to the churchyard, they would check on Polo because in Dottie’s opinion the plight of the living was more urgent than paying a visit to the dead.
When Maude brought it up, Dottie had admitted she was still delaying the inevitable, gathering the courage to face facts. Once she saw his name on the gravestone it would be incontrovertible proof that all those years of silly daydreams and wishful thinking had been just that, a fantasy. Vincent hadn’t somehow survived, that’s why even now, he couldn’t track her down and would never turn up at her door one sunny afternoon, wearing a smart suit with his unruly hair slicked back, a bunch of flowers in his hand. He would remain a ghost that lived only in her memory.
When they arrived, Polo had seemed much brighter and was waiting for them in the lounge but rather than look through the photos Martine had found, he insisted they went straight to the building site, alone. Seeing as Maude had brought along her bag of arty bits and bobs, she’d been quite happy to head off into the village and find a location where she could sketch. Martine was also happy to let Polo go, saying as she waved him and Dottie off that she hadn’t seen him this enthusiastic for a long while.
However, as much as she enjoyed the ambience of the quaint village and people watching was a relaxing pastime, Dottie’s patience wasn’t the best. She was curious as to why Polo was so interested in the renovations and what he’d meant the previous day when he’d said he was waiting for her to make it right, and that he felt shame.
Dottie started with a gentle enquiry. ‘It’s sad isn’t it, the hotel being demolished? Is that why you sit here, because it reminds you of the past?’
Polo continued to stare. ‘Everything reminds me of the past, Yvette, this village has been my life, it holds the memories of everyone I have ever loved. It does not matter how many new houses they build, the new faces I see, for me, Renazé remains the same. That is why I stayed, it gives me comfort.’
Dottie’s neck prickled every time Polo called her Yvette, but she didn’t mind because to him, it’s who she was and, really, part of her always would be.
‘So you think of the old days often, living with your sister in the hotel and the terrible time during the occupation? I missed this place so much after the war, but I trained myself to lock it away, the memories were so vivid, but too painful. It was the only way to get on with life back then.’
Polo nodded.
There was one question that had been burning a hole in her head, but Dottie feared it might cause Polo distress, so she began tentatively. ‘Sometimes I weakened and would spend hours imagining what became of everyone after I fled; who had survived, who betrayed us, what happened to the villagers when the Germans left. I’ve been too scared to ask, but I have to know… what happened to Tante Helene, did they take her?’
Dottie left that thought hanging in the air, hoping it would encourage Polo to talk. She was actually quite desperate for someone to fill in the gaps, describe the scene after she headed north with the evaders and Claude, to understand what happened in the days and weeks that followed.
It seemed strange after all this time to refer to Hugh as Claude, but that’s who they were then, agents, fakes, resistors, living in plain sight or hiding in the shadows of a twilight, make-believe world. Maybe some real hard facts in the cold light of day would bring Dottie peace. So when Polo shook his head, and seemed quite animated, her heart held a shred of hope.
‘No, Helene was lucky. She got Vincent’s message and went to stay with her sister in Tours and came back after the war to sell the farm. We never heard of her again, but I like to think she had a good life elsewhere.’
Dottie sighed. ‘Oh, I’m glad she got away… I did write to her, to let her know I was safe but now I understand why she didn’t reply. Well that’s one mystery solved, isn’t it?’
There was a moment or two of silence and then Polo twisted slowly in his chair and looked straight at Dottie, his eyes penetrating, intense. ‘This is what I need to tell you, Yvette, what happened when you left. I have kept a secret for too long because I did not know who to tell but now, you are here, and you can help me make it right.’
Lowering his voice slightly, he tapped his chest as he spoke. ‘I know who betrayed us.’
Dottie couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Could a little boy have held the key all these years? But from the look on his face, her little Polo was going to tell her.
‘Was it Béatrice?’ Dottie heard the tremble of anger in her own voice.
Polo shook his head, his voice was louder, more agitated. ‘No, Yvette, it was the man with the scary face. Remember I was frightened of him, and he talked funny.’
The second Polo said the words a cold dread ran through Dottie’s bones. Pieces of what could be a nightmare were falling into place. No, it couldn’t be. Her mouth went dry as her mind raced, a torrent of thoughts and memories engulfing her.
The man with the scary face, Konstantin had a scar, and Polo had thought he was a pirate, and his accent to a little boy would sound strange. And Konstantin had disappeared that day… was he really picking flowers or was he trying to make contact with someone, to pass on all the information I’d given him while we sat and chatted in the cave? I confided in him.Did I betray us with my loose lips? I told him about Estelle and Tante Helene and Armand in the café…I asked him what Claude was saying, in the truck, the German words, he said gibberish, but was it?Please God no, don’t let it be Konstantin, he can’t have betrayed us, it will kill me if Polo says his name.
But she had to ask even though the answer was unthinkable.‘Tell me, Polo…’
Gripping on to her hand, Polo said in almost a whisper, ‘It was Claude. He shot Vincent. Claude was the traitor. He betrayed everyone.’
A gasp, followed by relief, then shock.Claude, not Konstantin, thank God, thank God… but Claude?
Dottie covered Polo’s hand with hers. ‘I’m confused, Polo, did you see the ambush? I thought the Gestapo shot Vincent and Claude.’
Polo looked anguished and vigorously shook his head. ‘No, Yvette, it was not the Gestapo who shot Vincent. That is a lie.’
Dottie couldn’t take it in. ‘I don’t understand… Claude was in a bad way when Florian brought him to the rendezvous but managed to tell us what happened. They were ambushed at the barn but managed to escape and were chased by the Gestapo, they were shot at. Vincent was hit and the Gestapo finished him off, Claude took a bullet in the leg. Claude was one of ours, an agent. It was a long time ago, perhaps you are mistaken.’ Dottie was now praying that Polo was wrong, he’d been so young, it was late and dark and…
Again, Polo shook his head, his voice angry in response. ‘No, it was HIM. The man with the spotty face, like holes. He scared me back then and I didn’t like to look at him, and he made a funny sound when he spoke. I listened at the back door of the kitchen at the café that day when you told me to go home. I wanted to see Vincent and I peeped in. Then, when I saw him with the Gestapo I recognised him straight away. I have never forgotten, after all these years I remember everything.’
