by Jana Petken
The Kriminalobersekretär held out his lighter, and when Romek had lit his cigarette, he said, “To be honest, Romek, my superiors don’t approve of my recruitment methods, and so, in a show of good faith I take steps to ensure my agents’ loyalty by holding their family members as hostages; in your case, your mother, sister, and a cousin in Poland.” He puffed on his cigarette, the small smile still in place.
Romek’s mouth dropped open. He clenched a fist under the table, picturing it smashing into the sinister, smiling face of the Lieutenant who had all the bloody answers. “Are they in prison?” he asked.
“No, not at all. Let’s just say they’re in German hands.” Hoch pushed a pen and a document towards Romek. “When you sign this, you will guarantee your loyalty to us, and we will abide by our bargain. But, if you double cross us we will execute your loved ones and every member of your group now in custody. Do you understand me, Romek Gabula?”
Romek glared at Hoch, furious that he held the fate of his family in his stinking Nazi fist. He puffed on his cigarette a few times, then pulled the document towards him. He scanned it, saw his family’s names in bold black letters and signed at the bottom.
“What do I do after I have escaped custody,” he asked throwing the pen onto the table.
“Find the Resistance…”
“You’re off your head if you think I’m going to lead you to another Resistance group.”
“You have my word we won’t follow you. It would hardly serve our purpose if you were to be known as a German collaborator, now would it, Romek?”
“I suppose not,” Romek shrugged.
“Good. When you reach the Resistance you must convince them to get you into Spain. We will contact you in Madrid through our Consulate.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes … no, one last thing. Where is your wife, Klara Gabula?”
“She left me over a year ago for another man. I don’t know where the whore is.” He jabbed his heel into his cigarette stub on the floor.
“Sorry to hear that – ach, never mind about her. Trust me, Romek, this will be good for you. You won’t regret working for the Fatherland.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Klara Gabula
Paris, September 1941
Florent Duguay, the leader of the Paris Communist Partisan group, looked like a hardened criminal. His mousy-brown hair had either been shaved and was growing back, or he’d just had it razored to what Klara would describe as a full head of hedgehog bristles. He was intimidating. His large, cold eyes didn’t look at people, they swept over them as if they were barely there. But as much as she wanted to look away, she was beguiled by his features: a bashed in boxer’s nose, a strong square jaw with the shadow of a beard, and two horizontal scars stretching across his throat as though someone had tried to garrotte him, twice. He exuded power, his shoulders broad, a tapered waist, and powerfully muscled arms and legs. He certainly was a compelling figure. God help anyone who got on his wrong side, Klara thought, as she waited for him to speak to her.
“Well, well, you are Romek’s wife?” said Duguay, finally giving Klara his attention.
“I’m his estranged wife. We haven’t been together for almost a year.” How easily she had said those words, and what little emotional effect they’d had on her. “But I’m desperately worried about him, of course.”
“Of course, you are, Marine.”
His eyes travelled the length of her body and Klara allowed the invasive gaze, feeling strangely empowered now instead of afraid. “Has Darek told you about my situation, and that I can help you?” she asked.
“Yes, and I’m sure you can, but we’ll get to that in a minute. First, I have news of your husband.”
Klara’s face fell. “Is he dead?”
“No, on the contrary. He was being transferred from Fresnes prison two days ago. He was supposed to go to Paris for interrogation, but he managed to escape en route.”
Klara drew in a sharp breath. “How do you know that? Are you certain? Could he have got away?”
“I’m certain he got away. Come with me.”
The hideout was ideally positioned in a village, fifteen kilometres from the capital. The detached house stood well back from the road and boasted a garden and vegetable patches at the rear as well as an unused stable, and no other property in the area overlooked it.
Klara followed Duguay to the kitchen door. He opened it and then lead her through the garden to the dilapidated barn. She was desperate to hear more about Romek and the other prisoners who’d been incarcerated with him but kept her mouth shut; she deduced that one didn’t demand anything from Duguay, especially information.
When Klara entered the barn, three men were standing with their backs to her. One of them turned around, and she let out an almighty sob. “Thank God, Romek – thank God you’re safe – tell me everything?”
Duguay’s expression relaxed, as though he’d needed absolute proof that Klara was who she said she was, and now he had it. “Everyone out,” he said. Then he spoke to Romek. “We’ll get you as far as the French-Spanish border, but we need to leave in an hour and drive through the night. I’ll let you say goodbye to Marine, or whatever her real name is.”
“Thank you, Florent,” said Romek, his hungry eyes on Klara.
“I love you, Klara,” Romek blurted out as soon as they were alone. “I’ve always loved you and I always will. The woman I told you about … Sabine … she was just someone I used, to try and make you jealous…”
Klara was appalled. “Stop it, Romek. Whoever she was to you, she doesn’t deserve your scorn.”
Romek’s eyes, full of suspicion, looked her over as Duguay had done earlier. “I don’t know why our marriage ended; God help me, I don’t. Make me understand, Klara. If this is the last time I’m going to see you, tell me why I failed you as a husband.”
“Romek…”
“Do you have a lover?”
Klara blushed under his urgent gaze. “I love you, Romek and I always will, but not as a wife should love her husband.” She couldn’t bear to see him shaking like a lost puppy. She had betrayed him, and for the first time, she wanted to tell him everything.
Romek’s hands shook as he placed them on her shoulders. “I can see you don’t even want to look at me, so we should get this meeting over with.”
Klara straightened her back, saddened that he had called their reunion a meeting, as though they were merely associates. “What are your plans? What will you do when you cross the border into Spain? Where will I find you when the war ends?”
Romek snorted. “Ends? It’ll never end, and even if it does, the world will never be the same. We’ll be under the Nazi yoke, every person in Europe and Russia and Britain. The Germans are winning, and I was a fool to think we could stop them.”
Romek looked angry as he sat on the ground. “Sit. I need to talk to you about a few things – oh, for God’s sake, Klara, sit down. It’s not about you and me. I’m not going to touch you”
Once Klara had settled next to him, Romek described the prison he’d escaped from. “They kept me in solitary confinement, and I don’t know what happened to the other members of our group after I left. It’s possible that some if not all have been interrogated, but your cover is secure. You should carry on your work at the shop.”
“What’s the point? You won’t be here. Who do I pass the information to?”
“I asked Duguay to bring you here for good reason. If you agree to work for him, he will train you. It means you’ll have to stay here for a week or two, but you’ll be much better equipped to do your job when you eventually return to Chirac’s.”
Klara liked the idea but not the part about staying there with Duguay and his people. “I can’t leave the shop for two weeks. I have German customers. Besides, you haven’t told me what Duguay wants from me in return.”
“He wants to kill high-ranking Wehrmacht officers, and you can find the targets, photograph them, discover their movements and li
sten to their drunken conversations. You’re one of the few people in Paris who’s permitted to break the night-time curfew. You get escorted into buildings Duguay and his men can’t get into.”
She hesitated. She was afraid to commit herself for she believed Duguay to be a cold-blooded killer who wouldn’t hesitate to murder one of his own men should they betray him. She looked around the barn and shook her head as the seriousness of her situation struck her. She was in Duguay’s hideout and knew about his setup. “I don’t suppose I have a choice. He’s not going to let me walk out of here alive if I turn him down.”
Romek, she saw, did not deny it, instead he took it as a sign of her agreement. “It’ll be hard, Klara, but you have nothing to lose. Max has let us down, and so have the people he works for…”
“No. That’s not true. Max wouldn’t abandon me!” Klara gasped at her folly and her cheeks burnt red. She averted her eyes, only to feel Romek’s fingers on her chin, jerking her face around so she had no choice but to return his gaze. He nodded and then whispered. “It’s him … my God, it’s Max, isn’t it … isn’t it, Klara?”
Klara shoved his hand away and got to her feet. “Don’t be stupid. I would never…”
Her denial hung in the air as Romek also rose and strode out of the barn without another word or a backward glance. She called his name, but he got into the passenger seat of a waiting truck and rolled the window up. Seconds later, the driver climbed in and drove Romek away.
Klara made her way back to the house, drying her tears and pushing her fingers through her hair. She needed to look calm, in control. In an upstairs room shouts of, “Traitor!” echoed down the corridor. She held onto the bannister at the bottom of the stairs, listening to a man whining like a cat, and felt goosebumps rise on the back of her neck.
The alleged traitor, whoever he was, let out another desperate howl of pain, making Klara take to the stairs, but before she’d got halfway, Duguay appeared on the top landing.
“You, get up here,” he said, pointing at her like a teacher about to give her the belt.
A sturdy rope was coiled around the man’s waist, his torso flopping forwards, his downturned head bobbing up and down as he tried to keep it erect. His shirt was drenched in blood.
Klara’s hand flew to her mouth but when the shock of seeing Oscar’s swollen and bloodied face abated, her surprise turned to anger. “Why are you torturing him? I’ve seen him with Romek.” She took a step towards Oscar, but a heavy hand on her shoulder jerked her back.
“Don’t go near him. He’s not your friend. He’s the reason your husband’s whole group was captured.” Duguay’s face was puce with exertion, his knuckles raw from punching Oscar. “Had Romek not escaped, this man would have brought you down, and us with you. He’s a filthy traitor, Marine, the man who gave up his fellow Frenchmen to the Nazis.”
Klara glared at Oscar who was spitting blood and teeth and refusing to meet her eyes. “He doesn’t know me. Romek never said anything just now … I had no idea. I didn’t suspect … not among his own fighters.” In her mind’s eye she saw the betrayed men and women who had worked and fought hard, diligently, faithfully, being shot. Enraged, she rushed forwards, and this time Duguay didn’t stop her. When she reached Oscar she slapped his already beaten face, twice, three times, she lost count, and howled, “Why? Why?”
Oscar finally looked up at her. His right eye was swollen closed, his top and bottom lip were split, as though a knife had cut them, and his broken jaw was bloated like a squirrel’s nut-filled mouth. Klara tore her eyes away and faced Duguay. “Has he given you what you need?”
“He’s said enough. He was supposed to report to his German handler later today. The SS planned to use him to infiltrate another group.”
Klara’s eyes widened. “Could he have been followed here?”
“Do I look stupid?” Duguay retorted.
Klara straightened her shoulders, wiped her face, and looked again at Oscar. “God forgive you because I never will,” she hissed. Then she spoke to Duguay. “Kill him.”
The pistol sat snugly in Duguay’s enormous hand. Unhurriedly, he attached the silencer, screwed it onto the barrel and then held the gun out to Klara. “That’s just what Romek said, but as I pointed out to him, he’s not my man. You do it.” Then he left the room.
When Klara was alone with Oscar, she listened to him mumbling through his half-parted lips. She was glad he couldn’t speak, beg for his life, or mention the wife and children Romek had told her about. “Oscar, Romek talked about you a lot when we first came to Paris. He said he trusted you. Look how you betrayed him.” She knelt in front of him and lifted his chin. “I don’t want to do this, but you know that if I don’t, the men downstairs will.”
Oscar nodded. Tears rolled down his cheeks leaving clean stripes in the blood. He sniffed, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and straightened himself as Klara got to her feet. Unable to hold the gun still, she took a step forward, pressed the barrel against Oscar’s forehead, shut her eyes and pulled the trigger.
Blood and brains splattered the wall behind Oscar’s chair. Klara dropped the gun to the floor and rushed from the room. She was an adulteress, and now, also a murderess. How had she changed from a language teacher to this … this thing she had become?
Chapter Sixty-Six
Max Vogel
Max opened his eyes to bright sunlight streaming into the room through an open window. He squinted at the sparsely furnished room, the polish on the wooden nightstand shining in the sunlight. A small chest of drawers, a chair and wash basin were the only other articles of furniture apart from the bed in which he lay. Through the window he saw the tops of trees, suggesting that the house was on a hill, but it was unclear whose house he was in, for he couldn’t remember the journey here, or being lifted off the damned rock he’d landed on.
He tried to sit up but fell back as soon as he lifted his head off the pillow. He couldn’t even raise his legs an inch off the mattress or turn his hips, but despite the pain sending daggers through his lower body, he was eager to speak to the leader of the local Resistance group about how to proceed with the mission without him.
In another room, the Frenchmen were discussing him. He couldn’t catch every word they were saying, but the word Mirror, his code name, was being mentioned repeatedly.
“Hello. Is anyone there?” he shouted at the closed door. “Hello!” he tried again.
The door swung inwards admitting Pasqual, and behind him two Frenchmen with quintessential black berets on their heads.
“You’re awake, sir,” Pasqual beamed. “This is the local doctor. You probably don’t remember, but he’s been in to examine you a couple of times and to inject the morphine – it’s not dreadful news, thank God, but I’ll let him tell you, shall I?”
“Pasqual, wait,” Max croaked. “What’s our situation?”
Pasqual pulled a chair over to the bed. “We’re in Marcel’s farmhouse, and we recovered the crates of weapons without any problems. Don’t you worry about a thing,” he answered, making way for the doctor.
Max, desperate to know, asked, “Am I paralysed?”
“No. I don’t believe you are,” the white-haired doctor said. “I would have preferred to examine you in the local hospital to get a more precise picture, but of course, that was out of the question.”
“Will I be able to walk again?”
The doctor looked surprised at the question. “Mais, oui. Your lack of motor function is only temporary, mostly bruising. I had a look at your injury using a portable X-ray machine. Our friend, Marcel, here, stole it from a derailed train. It’s a marvellous invention…”
“Doctor, you were saying?” Max interrupted.
“Ah, oui, bien sur. You have contusions and bruising to your gluteal muscles, your buttocks. And of course, some deep shock to your spine, to be exact.”
Max gasped with relief but then asked, “Are you telling me I can’t move because of bruising?”
�
��Yes, but it’s more complicated than that. As I said, you’ve suffered severe trauma to the muscles and jarred your spine. In some cases, it can take days or even weeks for people with this injury to get back to normal, although I’m not sure what normal activities are for soldiers like you these days.”
Max blinked and exhaled a deep sigh. Only now did he realise how scared he’d been of a much more serious diagnosis. He was sure he would be on his feet long before the doctor’s prognosis even if he had to fight through the pain. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m grateful for your help.” Max then asked Pasqual, “How long have I been here?”
“This is the third morning…”
“What? You let me sleep for three bloody days?”
“Non, Monsieur. He did not. I did,” said the doctor. “Keeping you under sedation with morphine was the only way to stop you howling when we moved you. I don’t suppose you remember the state you were in when Marcel and his men brought you here?”
“No, not a thing –forgive my bad manners, Doctor. Three days is a long time to be out of commission.”
“Yes, well, I don’t suppose the Germans are in any hurry to leave,” the doctor muttered, reaching into his black bag for a syringe, hypodermic needles and three vials of morphine. “This will be the last time I inject you,” he said. “Marcel or Pasqual will boil the syringe and hypodermic and administer the other two doses. After that, you must suffer the pain, I’m afraid. We can’t have you addicted to the stuff. I’ve seen what it can do to a man’s mind.”
Marcel nodded. “He can’t come back. This is a small village, full of busy-bodies. The Germans often drive through here, and they’ve been known to use the bar in the main street where they stuff their ugly faces and drink our wine. People might see the doctor walking backwards and forwards up the hill, and everyone knows this is the only house up here. I don’t want anyone asking questions about the doctor’s visits, vous comprenez?”