by Jana Petken
Romek looked at Edzio, who was trying to back out of the room.
“That’s right, blame me, troublemaker Edzio, the man who wanted to be leader but ended up as a flunky,” Edzio said. “I’m always in the wrong according to you, Romek, but not this time. No, I’ll not be held responsible…”
“Hold him,” Romek ordered the two men standing next to Edzio.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Edzio tried again as his arms were pinned behind his back. “I thought he was genuine, and so did Darek.”
Romek waved him away. “Get him out of here. Lock him up. I’ll deal with him later.”
“I knew I’d get blamed – oh, yes, Edzio did it, Edzio’s fault – get off me! I’m as loyal as any man here. It’s you, Romek, you’re the problem. You don’t know how to lead us. You said, bring us good recruits and that’s what I did…”
As Edzio’s voice faded down the corridor, Romek said. “And lock Darek up as well.”
Darek looked appalled. “Don’t be stupid, Romek. Are you really going to accuse me after all we’ve been through together?”
Oscar, who’d been staring at the dead man said, “Look, Darek, the man has a camera in his hand. We’ve been infiltrated, and you had a hand in it whether you knew it or not. You understand the rules as well as I do.”
After Darek and Edzio had been taken away, Sabine, her pretty face stained with tears and red with panic, rushed to Romek’s side. “You could have been killed. Will they find us now, Romek? We can’t stay here; we have to go – now!”
“Don’t be daft,” Oscar hissed at Sabine. “We’re safe here. If Albert had told the Germans about this place, they’d have come to arrest us by now. Anyway, we can’t just walk out of here with nowhere to go. We’ll need to pack up, and find another base of operations…”
Romek raised his hand. “Shut up, all of you.” Then he nodded to two of the fighters near the door. “You two, bury Albert at the back of the building and come straight back. We’ll decide what’s to be done after we’ve questioned Edzio and Darek.”
“It might be too late by then,” said Sabine, clinging to Romek’s arm. “Edzio did this. You know he’s always hated you, Romek.”
“We all know he’s an obnoxious pain in the arse,” Romek said. “But we don’t know if he is a spy.” Romek ground his teeth. He approached the dead man and rifled through his pockets, which were empty apart from a few francs. He then handed the camera to Sabine, saying, “Develop every negative on the roll, and hurry, they might show us what else he’s been taking pictures of.”
“Do we have time for that?” Sabine asked.
Romek watched Albert’s body being carried out. “We’ll make time. We need to know what we’re facing.”
In truth, Romek was no longer worried about what Albert might or might not have done. He was more concerned about whether the Germans had been watching the comings and goings of the group for weeks, even months maybe. “If either Edzio or Darek is a German spy, the Boche could have gathered untold intelligence by now,” he mused.
“We have men on missions right now,” Oscar reminded him. “They might be walking into traps.”
“Then we’d better hope to God that Albert was the only infiltrator, and not Darek or Edzio who have been with us for over a year.”
“If that’s so, why haven’t they arrested us?” Oscar asked.
Romek sighed, “Why arrest six people when you can wait until a group reaches strength and then capture thirty?”
The thought of being watched and spied on for months by a double agent made Romek’s skin crawl. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the Germans would allow Resistance missions to go ahead until they decided it was worth striking and closing the entire Resistance group down in one fell swoop.
“I’d be happy to beat the living daylights out of Darek and Edzio to get answers, but we might not have enough time…” Romek’s words were left hanging in the air when his eyes caught a burnt-out, black patch on one of the radios. He picked it up and threw it against the wall, then looking at Oscar, he snapped, “Tell the men to start packing.”
When he was alone, Romek punched the wall, groaning with pain as his knuckles connected. He shouldn’t have killed Albert before getting information out of him about who he’d been working with. And in the process, he’d hit and destroyed one of the radios. Edzio was right, he wasn’t fit to lead, yet now he must. He looked at the only functioning radio, sat down and began to transmit the simplest and most basic of Morse codes. S.O.S.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The next morning, Romek and Oscar noticed a wanted poster taped to a shop window. Romek halted, not surprised to see the faces and names of two of his men plastered on the paper, for he already knew about their capture. Jacques Boyer and Henri Rousseau wanted for treason and murder. God, not Henri who’d been with him from the beginning. What a joke, he thought. Treason, why? They were fighting for France not against her.
“This is nothing but a sham, a simple display of power,” Romek whispered to Oscar. “And why are they lying? The Germans already have them in custody.”
Before the Albert debacle at the toy factory the previous day, Max had transmitted a coded message ordering an attack on German telegraph systems by cutting lines and severing their communications. Romek, however, had considered it too risky an operation, for the men involved had to sabotage high-value targets in not one but various locations in central Paris to cause a blackout, and in all cases those places were heavily guarded.
He stared again at the poster with Jacques’ and Henri’s photographs on it. He could kick himself for allowing the operation to go ahead. “I shouldn’t have listened to Mirror. What does he know about the dangers in the field when he sits in a London office across the channel?”
Oscar, nervously pulling at his collar, whispered back, “That’s enough, Romek, it’s too late to blame yourself.”
A crowd of people had gathered in front of the shop window, trying to get a closer look at the unfortunate men the Boche were after. Romek’s shoulders slumped; he was wracked by guilt. Losing Jacques and Henri was a terrible blow not only to himself, but for the whole Resistance group. It took time to choose and train good men, time he didn’t have, especially now when they were in upheaval, possibly infiltrated by traitors. He nodded and turned away from the poster. “How about a coffee?” he said cheerfully, and they ambled in the sunshine towards the Arc de Triomphe.
“I know what you’re thinking, Romek, but you mustn’t feel responsible. We all know the risks of being captured, including you,” said Oscar.
“I’m the person who gives the orders, not you,” Romek snapped. “Henri has three small children, and we both know what the Nazis do to Resistance fighters’ families when they’ve been caught.”
“We all have families who are at risk because of what we do,” Oscar said equally as sharply. “You need to toughen up. You’re our leader and guilt doesn’t suit you.”
Despite their disagreement, Romek and Oscar walked on in companionable silence until they reached the Champs Élysées. Both men carried briefcases and wore smart suits, shirts, ties and fedoras. To the world, they were respectable businessmen with identity papers to back up the claim, and only once since the invasion had the Germans stopped them in the street to question them.
When they reached the busy café on the corner of the Champs Élysées, they sat at the only unoccupied table. Le Petit Croissant was packed as usual with German soldiers and well-dressed women sporting fancy hats and slinky, figure-hugging summer dresses. Romek frowned his disapproval before fixing a smile on his face. He saw them, the French and refugee whores looking for patronage from some well-to-do Nazi officers; he’d like to teach them a lesson they wouldn’t forget.
Romek had drummed into his Resistance group that if they could listen in on German conversations, so could the Germans eavesdrop into those being held by Frenchmen, so for a while the two men chatted about the weather, their imaginar
y printing business, their wives and any other false and inconsequential chit-chat they could think of.
Towards lunchtime the café began to empty as people hurried to the bustling restaurants. Paris was alive and well and the Germans were enjoying life to the full. Romek and Oscar, however, were worried, ordering one coffee after another while they waited for Darek, who had been due to arrive twenty minutes earlier.
The previous night, after questioning Darek and finding him innocent, Romek had sent the Pole to a Communist Resistance cell, to warn its leader not to contact Romek at the toy factory. It had been compromised, he was to say specifically. At dawn that morning, Romek had ordered the remaining fighters to destroy all evidence of their year-long occupation, and then to evacuate.
Sabine, and one another fighter, had been instructed to take Edzio, tied and gagged, to Sabine’s home. His face had been riddled with guilt the previous night, and Romek wanted to continue his interrogation before deciding whether to shoot the disruptive Pole or cut him loose.
Romek looked at his watch again. His fighters should have abandoned the factory by now. His heart plummeted. It was all over, everything he had fought so very hard to achieve had been crushed because of a camera and his gut feeling that he’d been betrayed. But what hurt the most was that for a while, at least, he wouldn’t see the men and women who had become like family. He’d ordered them to lay low and wait for orders to re-join him, which would be issued once the Resistance group had been reorganised.
He groaned as the noise of beating side drums interrupted his thoughts. “Another German parade.” He rolled his eyes at Oscar. Every day, the German army marched in formation on the Champs Élysées in a dazzling display of supremacy. Every bloody day at twenty past one in the afternoon they demanded the population’s full attention – as if les Parisiens could ever ignore the Nazi presence.
“The other day I saw hundreds of German soldiers arriving at the Gare du Nord. They believe they’ve won the war,” Romek said to Oscar.
Oscar scoffed. “I know. I was in this café yesterday morning, and I heard someone remark that Paris is being used as a recreational destination for German soldiers. They think they’ve invented mass tourism.”
“The poor, hard done by bastards need to relax by drinking the French wine vats dry and having sex with French women, is that it?” Romek grunted and then watched a woman with a flower in her hair walk past their table. “I know what I’d like to do with the French whores who collaborate with the Boche. I’d string them up in the Champs Élysées – and I’d poison the wine vats as well. What about you, Oscar? What would you like to do to them?”
“I’m not for doing either of those things.” Oscar looked askance. “All we French have left is our wits and our wine. I’d like to have a good go at mowing the damn tourists down as they get off the trains; that would make me feel better.” Oscar chuckled and then paused as though measuring his next words. “Not all French women are whores, Romek. Most of them are protesting along with the men, at least they are here in Paris, last time I looked.”
“What sort of protest is that?”
“We call it the walk of the ignorant. When we pass Germans on the street, we show them our backs. Last week in Saint Germain, a pretty young woman got a couple of SS officers’ attention by pressing her newspaper to her face when they walked towards her. You should have seen her courage. She stood like a statue on the pavement, covering her face until the Germans had passed, then she tossed her head in the air and walked on. That took nerve. I swear, Romek, if looks could kill, the German’s would be falling like bloody flies in the streets of Paris, so I’ll not have you saying the French are all collaborators and whores.” Oscar leant in closer. “Those that are will get what’s coming to them after we run the Nazis out.”
With their voices mostly drowned out by German boots and drums, Romek put his mouth to Oscar’s ear, “Are Jacques and Henri still alive?”
“Yes, according to our man, Jules, both men are being held on the sixth floor of number 84 Avenue Foch. The building has become the Gestapo’s main headquarters. They’ve been taking in boxes of files and registries and have set up a command centre. Jules said the sixth floor has been converted to torture rooms and cells. Apparently, the neighbours hear the screams from the victims of Gestapo torture. It’s not a street you want to visit, Romek. It’s a bloody place of horrors.”
“Where is the Abwehr.
“They’ve moved into the Hotel Lutetia.”
Romek digested the news; his two men were being tortured, and French neighbours were listening to their screams. He shuddered. “Is Jules safe in Avenue Foch?”
Oscar nodded. “He’s cleaning, mopping floors, taking food to the cells on the sixth floor, but like the other French civilians working there, he’s supervised by a soldier whenever he goes near a restricted area. They want the French to work for them, to clean their lavatories, but they don’t trust them. This will be hard to hear, Romek, but according to Jules, Henri and Jacques will probably be dead before nightfall. The SS have already shot seven people in the garden behind the building in the past week.”
Romek scratched his nose. “If we could just get in there…”
“Don’t even suggest it. Just hope our men don’t break under torture and give us up before they die.”
His mind wandering, Romek now asked, “Who did the SS execute? Anyone we know?”
“No, but Jules saw a woman being taken out to the back of the building. A soldier pushed her against the garden wall, blindfolded her and then he and the other soldiers shot her – strange…”
“What is?”
“Well, from what I heard, she’d been in the building a few times, seemed cosy with one of the officers according to Jules.”
“She wasn’t with us. We’ve had no women in there,” An image of Klara swept into Romek’s mind. He was desperate to know that she was all right, but with her safety in mind, he’d determined not to go near the photographic shop in case he was being followed.
“What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve destroyed our Resistance cell for no good reason at all?” Romek asked Oscar.
Oscar tapped his spoon on the table, deep in thought. “You were right to kill Albert and right to abandon the factory. You know that, Romek. There’s no point second guessing yourself. What’s done is done.”
“That’s easy for you to say, you didn’t put the bullets in him, I did. What if he was practising to be a spy with the camera, the stupid bugger?”
Oscar sniggered. “Listen to yourself. You don’t believe that any more than I do. No, Romek, better to kill him than risk a unit of Germans blowing up our operations. He was a spy. I’d bet my shirt on it – and as for Edzio, guilty or innocent, he’s not to be trusted – you should shoot him as well.”
Romek looked at his pocket watch. An icy shiver crept up his body. “Darek is thirty-five minutes late, and he’s never late. Something’s wrong.” Romek drained the last drop of coffee from his cup. “C’mon, let’s go, we’ve got a toy factory to blow up.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
On their return to the base, Romek got out of the car and cast his eyes around the area. The last remaining vehicle had gone, and it was so very quiet he heard a great spotted woodpecker drumming at a tree trunk in the woods in front of the building. He acknowledged the broken windows then flicked his eyes to the door, ajar as it was supposed to be.
Once inside, he pulled his gun from his sock. The building was eerily quiet, just as it should be, but his nerves were tingling, and nothing felt right. He put his finger to his lips and motioned to Oscar that they head down to the basement.
At the bottom, Romek whirled suddenly when a bird, caught in the area upstairs, flapped its wings in panic. Like the bird’s, his heartbeat thrummed in his chest, as they tiptoed into the basement.
Several disarmed safety catches shattered the silence.
Romek was blinded by torches shining in his eyes and instinctively he raised his gun.
“Drop it!” a voice called out.
Oscar raised his hands above his head.
German soldiers rushed Romek whose eyes flicked from a civilian-clothed Gestapo to SS storm troopers. “Don’t shoot! I’m putting my gun down,” he shouted. He laid the weapon on the floor, then clasped both hands behind his head.
An SS Hauptsurmführer joined the black-clad Gestapo officer. Both men studied Romek’s face, cocking their heads from side to side in comical unison. “At last, we meet in person.”
Romek glanced at Oscar and caught his breath as his friend got to his feet and dusted himself down. “Oscar, what are you doing? Do as they say. Stay down.”
“I’m sorry Romek,” Oscar hung his head. “They have my family … my children.”
Romek gawked in disbelief as Oscar walked to the Hauptsturmführer’s side. The sensation of a knife twisting in his gut was so real, he gasped in pain. “You, Oscar? You’re the traitor? You’ll go to hell for this!” He screeched, as a rifle butt thumped the back of his head. Pushed onto his knees, he continued to stare at the man he’d trusted with his life. He’d shared every secret with him, had given him more secrets than any other fighter in the group.
Oscar seemed unable or unwilling to look at Romek. The Hauptsurmführer prodded Oscar in the back with his pistol, his eyes riveted on Romek’s fury. “You can go, Oscar. Go back to Paris. I’ll let you know when I need you again.”
“My family?”
“I’ll send them home – go on, get out of here.”
“Bastard, traitor, backstabbing Nazi lover!” Romek panted with rage and despite being told not to move, he rose to attack Oscar. “I’ll find you, Oscar. I’ll rip your guts out!”
“Calm down, Romek. It wasn’t him we wanted, it was you,” said the Gestapo officer.
Romek swayed, feeling blood trickle into his eyes. He’d failed everyone. He had killed Albert, unsure of his loyalty, yet the man he’d called his second in command had been turned by the Germans possibly weeks or months earlier and was walking to freedom. He raised his head and spat in Oscar’s direction as the latter hurried up the stairs.