The Cyclist Read Online Free PDF Page A

her arms around his neck and said, ‘You are a fool. Nothing you can do will make a difference. Don’t you see?’
    ‘I must go. I will be late as it is and I have those papers to organise.’
    Their kiss was tender but brief. Auguste had to focus now on another day and there was much to do.
     
     

2
    The night-rain left deep brown puddles straddling the road. The Citroën chugged its way through them, splashing showers onto the cobbled pavements in the Bergerac streets. The grey, uniform cloud above did nothing for Auguste’s mood as he drove along the embankment towards the market square. He reflected there would be a market tomorrow and he needed to be early or the short food supplies would be gone. Of course, in the country, people often caught game and reared their own food but it did not stop the German garrisons plundering and taking anything they wanted, from wine and brandy to food or women. No wonder there were shortages.
    He parked his car at the south end of the market square without thinking why, but he felt he wanted to walk despite the grey weather. Movement, any motion at all, meant he had less time to think, less time to understand what his life was becoming. His daily existence was now a mire from which escape seemed impossible or at least, dangerous.
    His mind in turmoil, he turned to his beliefs as the only solid foundation he possessed, but he could not help but question where his Jesus was now, in this miserable world where he found himself. Where was his all-forgiving Lord in this travesty of human life? If the Nazis truly believed in God how could they consider killing Jews, any more than they would consider genocide aimed at Frenchmen? Odette was right, but what could he do about it? Nothing. He had to mark time, wait for an opportunity to escape. First, he had to ensure Pierre and his family would be safe.
    He trudged toward the tall oak doors of the Prefecture. He was toiling to get there to begin another day of obedience. Another day chipping away at his soul, his beliefs and his will.
    Still he could not reconcile his religious perspectives. Where was the Sacred Heart? Was his work really about death and assisting evil? The schism of his belief and his work puzzled him still. It was his job to believe in the things he could prove. Despite that, he still believed in Christ, in the Holy Trinity and an all-forgiving Father in heaven. These two facets of his life seemed such a contradiction, though he recognised it as the true meaning of faith. He bit his lip as his boots snapped and clicked on the flat paving stones but it brought no relief from the torture enveloping him.
    Reality came soon enough. A black Mercedes crouched outside the Prefecture. Black was the colour of doom and death. He knew who had sent it. He knew too, it would be a summons. SD had no rules of etiquette or consideration. The swastika flags on the wings of the car told all. He even realised who they had come for. They had come for him.
    He paused to look into the dead bakery window. The shop was closed, barren and desolate. Auguste stared at the empty shelves. No flour was available of course. Flour was an import and seemed a sad disappearing promise of a distant past − a time when apple tarts and croissants were available, cheap, pleasant and satisfying. Auguste felt a tightening in the throat and noticed his eyes were moist. Moist like a young girl’s. Moist like a river, a river he realised now, soon would flow with Jewish blood.
    He strolled now resigned. Level with the Prefecture, he waited outside long enough for a man to emerge from the black car.
    The idiot who emerged began with a salute.
    ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, raising his straight right arm.
    He was a young man by SD standards. Auguste knew the uniform, it was SS. The SD used them and took them in and gave them new green uniforms, but they were all the same. A wisp of blond hair escaped in an errant journey from beneath the flat, black cap and the thin,