The Baker's Secret(33)
“I am tempted.” The Kommandant raised one hand to quiet his headstrong captain. “I am inclined to excuse this incident as a significant error—but a forgivable one. The property of our army must not be harmed by any person, in any way.”
He waved one hand in dismissal. “Jail him for two weeks. And as for the ration cards—”
“But he has a gun.”
The Kommandant turned toward this new interruption. It came from DuFour, that busybody he had installed in town hall to monitor the villagers. “Who dares to speak out of turn now?”
“In his bicycle saddlebag,” the clerk continued. “A pistol.”
“You worm,” Guillaume growled. A few steps away, Marie clung to Fleur and began to weep. Emma pulled at Mémé but she resisted. She wanted to see.
In a moment a private had wheeled the blue bicycle forward, dumping the satchel in the dirt. He squatted to spread the contents wide: the pistol, two knives, a bag of ammunition, and tight rolls of paper.
“Maps,” DuFour yelped. “He has maps as well.”
“You will pay for this, cockroach,” Odette called from her side of the square.
“Silence,” the Kommandant ordered, though nearly all the other villagers were already quiet. He turned to face Thalheim, whose pistol was still drawn, and gave a curt nod.
“No,” Marie cried, a hand to her mouth. “No.”
Afterward there were many versions of what happened next. The villagers in front of Marie crowded together, which they later said was to protect her from a horrible sight. The people behind her also saw the crowding, but from their perspective it was an act of selfishness that prevented them from seeing. Odette observed nothing, because she had gone to help Marguerite, who herself later insisted that Guillaume had not killed a dog at all, but rather a soldier, and no one contradicted this account because the villagers understood her need to absolve herself from responsibility for his punishment. Ultimately there was no definitive history. Each person told the story that each person needed.
On certain things, everyone agreed. They all saw the Goat slinking away through the crowd. They watched villagers close around Guillaume’s wife and daughter as bees surround a queen.
Thalheim raised his arm higher than he was accustomed, till the pistol was inches from the veterinarian’s face. “Contemplate your mortality,” he said.
Guillaume thrust his chin forward. “What took you so long?”
After the firing of a single shot, after the large body collapsing in the dirt, after Marie wailing on her knees, the Monsignor appeared with his hand-pushed jitney for the dead. He pointed at both soldiers who had been holding Guillaume’s arms, and even with their help it was still an effort to load the veterinarian into the wheelbarrow. The priest paused then, head bowed, making a sign of the cross over Guillaume’s body. His hand trembled in the air.
“What is the trouble?” Thalheim said, wiping his pistol with a cloth.
“No trouble,” the Monsignor answered. “It’s only that I baptized this one.”
“You are not nearly old enough,” the captain sneered. “What kind of fool do you think I am?”
“Not at birth,” the priest explained. “On the day before he was married.”
“Well, he’s in the way now.” Thalheim holstered his gun. “Move him along.”
The Monsignor nodded. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance, but this one is too big. I need help.”
“You people.” Shaking his head, the captain pointed at Pierre. “You. Step in and help here.” As the old man waddled over, Thalheim half turned before checking himself. “A little fewer of backtalk from now on, eh? That collar and cross are less protection than you think.”
The priest opened his mouth to speak, but Pierre had bent to grab one of the wheelbarrow handles, so he took the other and lifted it without saying a word, and together they rolled the dead man off to church. As with the others, Guillaume’s funeral would take place in the morning, right after seven thirty Mass, his body at the front and center of St. Agnes by the Sea.
But there was a final impression for those still present as the wheelbarrow creaked out of sight: that was the first moment that anyone could remember seeing the Monsignor move with a limp.
Emma bent and picked up a stone at her feet, wrapping her hand around it and squeezing. She wanted her memory of this day never to escape her mind, to remain as certain as a rock.
The Kommandant ordered a stricter curfew, which brought groans from the remaining crowd. Limited travel at night was less an oppression than an insult. When people have known free passage through their town, at all hours, under every version of moon or stars or weather, curfew announces that the place is no longer theirs.
Odette helped Marguerite down the lane to her café, to wash the wound in hot water. The crowd dispersed, Thalheim ordering people away. A group of women ushered Marie homeward, her body racked with sobbing, her daughter, Fleur, silent and a few steps behind.
All that time, the soldiers who had helped to load Guillaume’s body remained standing by, watching Marie go, giving the new widow a thorough appraisal. One of them whispered to the other, who did not reply, only stood closer and nodded in agreement.
Sometime that night, despite fences and searchlights and guards, someone poisoned all of the occupying army’s dogs. They died howling. Word spread among the villagers like a bad rash. Who had dared?