The Pool - a short story
The following extract is the opening of a novella, 'The Summer of Liberation', begun in 2005, completed after a research trip to Rennes in 2011 and subsequently abandoned. To mark the anniversary of the liberation of Rennes on 4 August 1944 I am considering reworking it into the short story format I originally envisaged:
He steadied his bicycle at the brow of the hill as he prepared to launch himself down the steep slope with his usual reckless abandon. This hazardous ride had become a Sunday morning ritual over the past couple of years since the death of his mother, replacing attendance at Mass. Unlike the dreary church service it always induced in him a heady sense of liberation, a precious commodity in these troubled times.
The heavy old bike had brakes in name only and, after long and sometimes painful experience, he had learned to apply a wooden-soled galoche to the rough surface of the lane at strategic points on his descent in order to avoid collision with the field gate on the tight bend at the bottom. On more than one occasion he had failed in his efforts and been pitched headlong into the meadow. So far the injuries had been restricted to his pride, somewhat palliated by not being observed, and to the bike, which was so battered that a little more damage hardly mattered. The personal risk he accepted as part of the thrill; as for the bike, a sturdy old Motobécane, the frame or a wheel could always be straightened out at work later.
The ride down, though brief, was unfailingly exhilarating, inducing in him a dizzying sense of release from the daily drudgery and privations of his life. To experience that, even momentarily, was well worth the risk of serious injury he reckoned. Before embarking on it, though, he took a moment, as he customarily did, to survey the scene from the ridge overlooking the surrounding countryside, the panorama of rolling woods and small hedge-bound fields spread out before him like an intricately patterned carpet.
The longéres, those long, low farmhouses and outbuildings so characteristic of the region, lay scattered across the verdant landscape, above which the piping skylarks soared high in the clear sky. The sprawling rural departement of the Breton capital, Rennes, extended far to the west and neighbouring Morbihan. It was here, in the Ille-et-Vilaine, in a remote and isolated farming community, that he had been born sixteen years earlier and where he had lived his entire life.
For him, the seemingly timeless and unchanging view he was taking in encompassed his world – in fact his whole universe. It spoke at a subconscious, almost atavistic, level of an immemorial paysan bond with the land that had shaped his family’s fortunes for untold generations. But the serenity of the scene belied the turmoil into which the area had been plunged in recent weeks.
The impositions of Nazi Occupation, which had catastrophically changed France in May 1940, had become a grudgingly-accepted fact of life by most. Now, however, despite the exciting developments of early-June, he felt things could hardly be worse for himself or France. He cherished the fervent hope that the Allies would continue their steady, though hard-fought, advance inland from the Normandy coast. But, after years under brutal German subjugation he could scarcely allow himself to hope that they would succeed in liberating his homeland.
There had been so many setbacks and humiliations for France and this moment, so long-awaited, was potentially its most perilous. If the Allies failed to liberate France a terrible price would be mercilessly exacted from the French people by the Nazis in vengeance. On the other hand, Nazi defeat was likely to be attritional – it was impossible to imagine them simply slinking away from the fight - so either way the result was bound to be more pain and suffering. But, young as he was, he knew a sudden chaotic end to the Occupation could also result in a cataclysm of revenge and score-settling amongst the liberated French themselves. One way or another a bleak future seemed inevitable.
Even as he stood absorbed in thought on his vantage point, with the consolingly familiar view before him, a sudden warm easterly breeze picked up, ruffling his thick black hair, carrying with it a muffled rumble of thunder. But this, he knew, was the thunder of war not of summer storms; the sound of far-distant gunfire carrying from the shifting battle fronts around Rennes as the Allies advanced deeper into Brittany. The ominous reverberations when the wind blew from that direction were a sombre reminder of the struggle to free France of the hated occupier.
As Armel Dubé squinted in the dazzling summer sunlight his vivid blue eyes focused suddenly on an internal reverie inspired not only by the sights, sounds and smells so familiar and dear to him but by these new developments and all they portended. Why, he fretted, had he been so unlucky as to be born into this time of upheaval? Why should it be his generation that, having endured the ignominy of foreign domination for so long, now had to face the uncertainties of gaining freedom from it? It was a bitter injustice that rankled with him, even though he knew his parents' generation had suffered similar hardship in the Great War. It was as if France were cursed to be perpetually dominated by Germany.
Impelled by a sudden surge of furious resentment he prepared to set off down the hill, pausing just long enough to catch one last glimpse of his beloved Breton countryside. Then, in a cold rage, he ran with his bike and swung his leg over the crossbar, his pent-up emotions suddenly released in a full-throated howl of anger, which turned into a whoop of exultation as he gained momentum on his madcap ride.
In this fleeting moment he had control over his life; his destiny lay entirely in his own hands, his survival in his skill in negotiating a safe passage to the foot of the hill. As he approached the sharp bend, probably faster than ever before, he struggled to stabilise the bike with his boot and, in a spray of pebbles, missed the fatal gate and stayed on track. The bike careered from one side of the lane to the other, handlebars vibrating wildly, until he reached the point at the bottom where the lane crossed the road down to the village. This was the moment when his ride usually took on an added frisson as he sped across without looking left or right, confident in the knowledge that there was precious little traffic on the road nowadays.
On this occasion, however, he only just managed to slew to a halt in a flurry of gravel as a German convoy roared round the corner, narrowly missing him. He had neither seen nor heard its approach and the shock of its sudden thunderous appearance, seemingly out of nowhere, shook him back into harsh reality. His narrow escape from death or serious injury jolted his nerves. Physically shaking from the brutal reminder of how much daily life had changed in recent years he realised that, while France might be on the verge of liberation, most of it was still occupied by hostile forces whose ubiquitous presence was unavoidable. Even in these normally deserted country lanes and by-ways the enemy presence remained insidious and all-pervasive. Even as the Allies closed in the Germans showed no sign of relinquishing control without a final show of defiance.
As the choking dust-cloud whipped up by the speeding line of military vehicles enveloped him the anger and frustration his ride had briefly alleviated hit him again with full force. It was bad enough that these bastard Boche (his father's phrase) had invaded his country but that they had managed to intrude even into his rare private moments of freedom and joy was intolerable. The small refuge he had been able to take for a few brief moments in the innocence of his rapidly-receding boyhood was shattered.
After what seemed an eternity in a maelstrom of dust, noise and exhaust fumes the thundering convoy was lost to sight behind high hedgerows and trees. Peace descended at last but for young Armel it was an utterly illusory one, a parody of quietude, mirroring that state of uncertainty in which the French had lived for so long under the Occupation. Defiled by the tumult that had gone before, it came as a salutary lesson in just how fragile the ci-devant calm of rural life had become.
The surface tranquility of the phoney peace under the Occupation had masked some of its harsher underlying realities. Most had managed, albeit with a struggle, to adapt to its privations and, with ingenuity and not a little courage, had often found small ways to circumvent them. But now that this faux normality was under sustained pressure from the Allies; the illusion had been shattered and things would never be the same again. Though, at long last, there was a glimmer of hope that a better world lay ahead but, young as he was, he was not so naïve as to believe that the dishonour of collaboration would not haunt French life for years to come.
Shocked and disheartened by his unexpected and near-fatal brush with the enemy Armel pushed his bike over the road and down the lane on the opposite side. As he did so, though, his dejected mood lifted. He was young and, having survived a near-death encounter with the enemy, had all the more reason to make the most of this glorious summer day while he could. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made him defiant and his gloomy mood evaporated as he remounted the bicycle to continue his journey home. At least, he thought, the Boche, in their haste to get back to the château, hadn’t noticed him. He was mistaken.
As the convoy sped round the corner a young Wehrmacht officer in the lead vehicle had spotted the young boy on the lane and followed his progress through his field glasses in the few tantalising seconds before the foliage obscured him from view. Since being billeted at the château, requisitioned from the local landowners for the express purpose of safeguarding this section of the route from Rennes westwards to Vannes and Lorient on the Atlantic coast, Hauptmann Heinz Friedrich had watched the French youth’s movements around the village. There was something about the boy with the violet-blue eyes that intrigued and entranced him, his apparent lack of self-awareness – shyness even – being a large part of the attraction.
His interest had been sufficiently aroused to observe the boy closely, though discreetly – or as discreetly as was possible for a uniformed German officer amongst a fearful, surly and suspicious population – for some weeks now. Perhaps unsurprisingly he had discovered little of interest about him. As a mere boy, living under the severely circumscribed regime of the Occupation, he supposed there could be little of interest in his life but his French was fluent enough to have allowed him to glean at least a few snippets of information about him.
By listening to villagers’ more unguarded conversations he had discovered the boy’s name, where he lived and where he worked. He had also noted the black-clad widows’ opinions – almost a collective sigh of affection and solicitude – as the boy passed by. It seemed they were of the opinion that the boy's father, Gaston Dubé, had been deficient, indeed neglectful, as a father following the death of his wife and that the good-natured lad was much put-upon. Knowing what he already knew of Dubé père he found that easy enough to believe.
Of the boy's life beyond the quotidian he knew little but was determined to discover more, even if it was very likely to be banal in nature. He was, after all, a country lad, sixteen years of age, really little more than a kid, lucky to have escaped the conscripted labour of the Service Obligatoire du Travail or STO by working as a mechanic in his father's garage. Friedrich knew that boys of Armel's age, encouraged by the success of the Allies, were increasingly engaging in anti-German resistance activities but no intelligence had led him to believe Armel was involved in that.
No, his interest in Armel was purely personal - and deeply perplexing. It puzzled him that he should have any curiosity at all about a boy who, while admittedly strikingly handsome, was just a young country mechanic carrying out low-level maintenance tasks on vehicles sent down from the château by his unit's increasingly overstretched team. Had it been a similarly demure young French girl Friedrich would have understood the attraction. But this was a boy, and one whose allure was extremely unsettling. It was also a challenge, and Friedrich resolved to confront it directly.