The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  He was determined not to die in Fresnes. He knew he had information they wanted so they would keep him alive for the time being. His only hope was a transfer under escort; that was their window of weakness.

  His mind turned to Evangeline. She was a nice enough girl but she was no more than a pawn. Besides, nice people didn’t get by for long in these times. She was naïve and sooner or later she would make a mistake. Her papers would give her away and that would be it. But there had been no indication that they had picked her up at the café as well. He hoped maybe she had found the package and somehow managed to get to Lyon; now he was clutching at the same vague straws of hope of all the others in that place. But even if she had, what then? He should have told her how to find Cigale, but he hadn’t.

  A key crunched and jangled in the door and then it was pushed open. A guard looked at him and jerked his head in the direction of the landing. ‘Out,’ he grunted, and struck his baton noisily against the metal door. ‘Exercise!’ He stood back to allow Kasha to pass through the doorway. He had to duck down to pass under the lintel. The place had been built a hundred years before; people were smaller then; it was not designed for men of his stature.

  He got his first close look at the prison wing: seventy metres long, an open space under a high vaulted roof; four storeys with landings running the length of each side – iron-railed walkways suspended one above another running the length of the building, connected by checker plate staircases that gave access to each landing from the top down to the bottom of the wing. He looked furtively about him. Other doors were being opened, their prisoners being directed downwards to the floor of the building. Slowly the numbers increased, the file along the landing thickened. Looking down below him he saw more men coming from more cells. The line shuffled silently forward, herded by the guards, weary-looking men prodded along by the short, thick, iron-tipped sticks of the jailers. As his foot landed on the bottom step he smelt the aroma of cooked food and his mouth, which had at first been dry with anticipation of the ordeal he faced, began to salivate. It smelled like barley soup, a dish he would have spat on in better times but had come to savour now that there was nearly nothing to eat in the country except what the Germans disdained to take.

  The men were separated into groups and pushed out into the bitter winter air of open yards. Each yard was segregated by a high brick partition wall topped with military grade wire, its long vicious spikes catching and reflecting the last remnants of the afternoon light. No chance of getting over that was the first note he made in his mind. Besides, what lay beyond the wall? If it could be scaled – and it was ten metres high – it was any man’s guess, probably just another yard.

  ‘No talking!’ One of the guards yelled out to no one in particular; there were three of them patrolling the yard – three to around a hundred prisoners. Overpowering was a possibility, but then what? Breaking back into the wing would do nothing and then guards with guns would fall on them. He looked at the prisoners closest to him and it was clear most of these were broken men, men without hope, men with the cloak of defeat hung around their shoulders. He doubted they could be relied upon to stand together if it came to a fight. He dismissed the thought.

  Everywhere the acrid smell of cheap black tobacco hung in the air – at least they were allowed to smoke, but even this was no more than an instrument of control. Step out of line and the first things they took were your tobacco and your prison lighter.

  The mass of men pent up between the walls rotated like a turgid whirlpool, poked and pushed in one circular motion by the guards around them. It was forbidden to stop, it was forbidden to speak, it was forbidden to sit down on the ground; the only thing permitted was to urinate or defecate in one of the rows of the stinking holes set in open recesses that indented three of the yard walls. Each man had to raise a hand for permission if there was an empty space as he came to a recess. There was no privacy in this most personal of human functions and no paper. Small spouts of running water fell from short pipes into the troughs and a man must wash his backside, scooping up a handful or two when he was done; it was a process without dignity but it was preferable to the night bucket. Nobody squatted for long at the trough; the air was cold and the rich stench rising up from the cesspit below were disincentives, but in the end it was down to the small amount they got to eat; little in at the mouth meant little out of the arse. So men stopped briefly, then joined the flow again, shuffling away the few short days of life that were, in most cases, all that was left to them.

  A man came close to him and whispered, ‘What are you here for?’ Kasha ignored him but the man went on, risking a punishing hit from the guards. ‘Was that you on the jungle drums last night?’

  Kasha shook his head. He knew that prisoners communicated by tapping on the heating pipes; some of them were using a recognised Morse code. ‘There’s no point,’ he finally hissed under his breath. ‘The guards listen in. You are giving yourself away.’

  The other man grinned, ‘Of course, so we make up rubbish messages. It drives them crazy trying to work out what’s going on.’ Inwardly Kasha smiled – even in here a man could keep his sense of humour.

  The swirl around the yard came to an abrupt stop as men marched on the spot waiting to be returned to the wing. Inside, the smell of soup came back to fill the air. Then he saw it – an open door with a bench outside piled with tin bowls and wooden spoons. Each man in his turn picked up a bowl and spoon, then went in through the door entering into a large open room with tables and benches. He filed in and the smell was overwhelming. There were three cauldrons set on a strong wooden table; each had a kitchen man doling out ladles of thin broth. At the end a man handed out lumps of cheap hard bread made with who knew what: acorns, chestnuts, possibly there was some barley in it – though no wheat flour. The Germans had taken the whole harvest from the top of the Occupied Zone to the bottom and shipped it back to Germany; the rich soil of central France now fed the German people.

  The three kitchen men were watched over by guards, preventing favours of extra food in exchange for whatever was in demand, mostly tobacco but not always. When it came to his turn the guard looked at Kasha, then nudged the kitchen man who stirred deep into the bottom of the cauldron, dredging up a ladle of much thicker soup. As it was dished into his bowl Kasha heard the ‘plop’ of something solid and then saw what looked like a small brown turd rise momentarily to the top of the liquid before submerging from sight. He found himself a place, sat down and stirred up the contents of the bowl; at least it smelt good. Another man came and sat next to him. As he settled his backside on the wooden bench he eyed Kasha’s bowl.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ he said under his breath, ‘you got a piece of sausage – real meat. Whose arse have you been licking?’ Then, as an afterthought, added with a grin, ‘your shit’s gonna smell rich.’ Kasha said nothing. He fished out the lump and quickly ate it. As he did the question came up in his mind – why did he get that favour – and what would it cost him?

  Back on the landings the doors slammed one after one and, like the slow hollow beatings on a drum of war, they echoed down the wing. He waited. Nobody gives anything for nothing – not in a prison; somebody would want something. With guards it was usually sexual; he could expect to take it in the anus. He took down his trousers, letting the garment drop to the floor. He spat on his middle finger, then squatting down he pushed it up inside his rectum twisting it around until he found what he was looking for – a thin silk cord. He manipulated the thread around the finger and pulled, at the same time putting pressure on his bowel. A slim metal cylinder slid out into his hand and he quickly hid it under the straw mattress of the bed. He had become quite practised in the process. In the yard he had caught it in his hand, pushed out in front of the faeces as he squatted over the open hole. Then afterwards he pushed it back up again.

  The sound of keys in the cell door told him the moment had arrived. He got down off the top bunk where he had waited, anticipating the encounter to come and
arranging his mind to deal with it. The guard was no one he could remember seeing during his brief incarceration, the face was not familiar; it was not the man who had nodded the sanction for the piece of sausage. The man in the doorway assumed a malicious little smile.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. There was a note of innuendo in his voice. Kasha waited, not quite understanding the command.

  ‘The Chief wants to see you. Get moving.’

  This was not expected; it had not been in the lexicon of ugly scenes he had anticipated. He had no time to question why the Prison Commandant wanted him; he only knew he must not leave the cell without the cylinder. Once out through the door he could not guarantee he would be returned to the same cell. He must not be separated from it or his last card would have been played – and for nothing. The guard looked impatient as he hesitated. Kasha coughed and then coughed some more. He swayed slightly like a man who was not quite stable in his senses, then he coughed more vigorously. The guard moved forward with his stick raised and as he did so Kasha slipped his hand under the mattress and retrieved the little metal cylinder, concealing it in his clenched palm.

  Outside on the landing he faked the cough again, this time putting his hand up to his mouth. He slipped the cylinder into his mouth and swallowed hard. It descended into his gullet but the alien intrusion of the object caused his gut to retch and for a moment he thought he would be unable to contain it. He took a deep breath and tried to control the natural reaction of his body which recognised something going down into his system that should not be there. The cylinder was going down but he could still feel the irritation of the silk thread stuck to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard again but his throat was drying out. By the time they arrived at the office of the prison chief he had finally got it under control. He felt the discomfort subside, it was down too deep to return; it would be safe for the time being as it worked its way through his gut for the next forty-odd hours; then he could retrieve it as it came through the other end. But for the moment the back passage was clear and the man he stood before could exact his pleasure. All he, Kasha, would need to consider was how he blocked his mind off during the performance, how he could shut down all senses and descend into dark oblivion until the business was done.

  The chief sat and surveyed the prisoner. For a few moments he said nothing, then with a slight movement of his head he ordered the guard to leave them. As the door to his office shut the chief scrutinised him, looking him up and down critically; a frown formed over his eyes. He was an urbane looking man and it crossed Kasha’s mind that here was someone who in other, better, times might be nothing other than a polite functionary with no more than a proclivity for anal sex, illegal but quietly tolerated in a permissive French urban society – probably common in the countryside.

  ‘I have instructions,’ the chief said, looking down at a sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘You are to be properly fed,’ he looked up again at Kasha, paused, then added as if querying the sense of his instruction, ‘and not beaten.’ He paused again, his face taking on a forced grimace. ‘Instructions from the Gestapo, which I do not understand.’

  The look on his face changed again, reverting back to urbanity. ‘You will stay here for two more days, then you are to be transferred to Paris for interrogation. You know what that will mean, I imagine. Think on it and be prepared to talk; it will save you unthinkable pain and mental suffering. Spend your two days profitably; prepare your mind. That is all.’

  As Kasha was marched back to his cell his thoughts were already working on the future. A transfer was his best hope of escape. It would be desperate, but better than an interrogation in Paris, which he knew was where it would all end for him. Better to die trying to escape than let them kill him slowly.

  For two days he waited and then the moment arrived. They would come for him that morning and he knew it would be early; that was their way of doing things. It was less than two hours by road to Paris and that narrow slot of time would be his only chance to break free. He knew if he passed through the door of the bureau in Rue Lauriston the game was as good as up. During the previous two nights he had wrung his brain dry, exploring the possible options, the situations that might arise – situations he must try to exploit. Throughout those nights he had also listened to the calls of other prisoners – voices in the dark. Someone had called out, ‘Collaborator!’ Word had got out that he was receiving special treatment, getting extra rations; they supposed he must be collaborating. Another voice suggested he’d gone ‘horizontal,’ letting the guards use him for their sexual pleasures. He ignored it except to explore if collaboration might save him. He tucked the idea up his sleeve like a spare card in a crooked poker game – an ace in the hole when all other doors had closed.

  He heard the keys and in that moment he once more put the cylinder into his mouth and swallowed it. If he was dead before it came back through then it would be buried with him. In a bizarre moment he imagined his bones come upon a hundred years from now and the discoverer finding among them the little metal object with its long obsolete secret. No good to anyone any more except perhaps an historian – certainly not the Americans who now wanted it so badly.

  The door opened and the guard grinned, knowing what lay in store for Kasha once they reached Paris.

  What waited for him as he stepped into the yard was a black Citroen 15 CV – fast and beloved of gangsters and police alike who valued its agility and good acceleration. The guard, who had taken him first to be chained by the wrist and ankle, pushed him towards its open rear door. A man dressed in a dark suit, wearing a narrow-brimmed hat and a heavy overcoat, stood by the car, a machine pistol held casually in one hand. As Kasha got in he felt the barrel of the gun as the man prodded him in the back. Inside, another man with a gun settled across his legs ordered him to put out his arms then, with a movement that spoke of long practice, snapped a handcuff around one wrist and locked the other end of it onto a metal grab handle on the back of the seat in front of him. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey, his big frame bent at an awkward angle, he sized up his captors. The two armed men looked relaxed; he was chained, so why not? The one next to him seemed to have no more than a casual hold on the submachine gun in his lap. A sudden movement of the car, sharp braking or a swerve to miss something might present a brief moment of opportunity, but only if he could get his hand within reach. He shuffled around, pretending to try to get more comfortable, but he was testing his reach. The man next to him stiffened at the movement, a brief reflex reaction that relaxed as quickly as it had occurred. Kasha pulled on the cuff and felt it bite into his wrist, but he also felt the slight creak of the fixings that held the bar to the seat frame; it was screwed in place – that was a mistake. A glimmer of hope lit up inside him. If the bar had been welded to the frame that would have been a different matter, but it wasn’t. It was screwed and screws could be ripped out if he could apply enough force – and if there was the right opportunity. He stored it in his mind and looked for other things.

  It was at that point he noticed the driver, a hulk of a man with hands like ham hocks. There was something not quite right about him, something slightly odd in the way he sat. Then he noticed the nails were varnished. He glanced up and saw two eyes and part of the face leering at him in the rear-view mirror – it was a woman! She looked at him through narrowing eyes then, aware of his gaze, pulled a quick grin. The man in the back, who had noticed the exchange, laughed. ‘You can have him later, Edith,’ he called out. He turned to Kasha. ‘She has such a tender embrace.’ Then he burst into a long cascade of laughter.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ the front passenger ordered. Kasha noted the muscles on the ham hock that reached out and grasped the gear lever. The hand massaged the ball on the end of the lever with a suggestive motion, then gripped it tight; the muscles bulged on the clenched fist. In the mirror the smile was malicious.

  The road towards Paris was straight and lined with tall solid plane trees that flashed by hypnotically, ticking off the
kilometres. Half an hour later the journey had been passed seamlessly without stopping for anything. There was no traffic, nothing but the odd army truck and occasional military staff car. Where the road carved through villages the main thoroughfare was uninterrupted. They passed straight through, stopping for nothing, the woman at the wheel leaning on the horn as they approached, punching up and down on the button with a huge fleshly palm.

  When the villages started to give way to the suburbs he felt the desperation rising. It would not be long before they reached Rue Lauriston. They passed a sign that announced they were entering Bourg-la-Reine, one of the last of the villages before they hit the suburbs proper. The car slowed and then came to a halt on a rough strip at the side of the road. The woman opened her door and got out. As she did so Kasha felt the suspension rise. He watched as she stood up and stretched; she must be at least a hundred and fifty kilos, he thought – probably more. That’s an embrace to stay away from, he told himself. ‘I need to take a piss,’ she shouted casually back to the men as she strode off into the undergrowth and hedges that lined the spot where they had stopped.

  ‘I need one myself,’ the man in the front announced, getting out at the same time, making a crude innuendo about running into Edith with her knickers down.

  The man did not go further than the first bush where he proceeded to relieve himself. This, Kasha realised, was probably the best chance he would have. He looked at the man beside him who was idly gazing out at a parked vehicle way up the road in the distance. This was it. Having carefully braced one foot against the seat back he tensed, then snatched hard on the handcuff. The screws gave up more easily than he’d hoped. As he ripped the bar off the seat back he swung it sideways, smashing into the face of his captor who had responded by grabbing at his gun. Desperately Kasha smashed again at the head of the man, this time gouging out an eye. By the third strike the man was disabled and barely conscious.