by J. R. Lonie
He went to the canteen to gather his thoughts over some food. The place was crowded, legacy of the day’s events; they still had the murderess to find. Not that Bauer observed any urgency. So far, luck had offered him meagre pickings in this case, just a couple of boys who had disturbed Pohl from his rathole. He wasn’t one to go in for fickle superstitions. That was for crims, who always believed the lady was their companion, until she wasn’t. That’s why they were caught, they believed; nothing to do with police work. Preparation finally meets opportunity, as Seneca says of luck, the sort you make yourself.
Now, as Bauer made himself eat despite having no appetite and despite his right hand hurting like hell, preparation finally did meet opportunity through a voice that came to him above all the others in the room. His mind trimmed away the extraneous words, guided as if by instinct to fillet the man’s story down to ‘beautiful auburn hair’ and ‘older woman’ and ‘a real beauty’ and ‘steaming row’, but best of all, ‘they were speaking English’ and ‘sounded like Americans’.
‘We thought she was going to smack him in the mouth,’ said the only voice in the room Bauer was listening to, ‘but he grabbed her and kissed her. You should’ve seen it, hot, hot, hot. First up, Maurice here reckoned they were mother and son, but if that was his ma, we should’ve arrested them both, eh?’
The group laughed. Bauer couldn’t hear any more above the jumble of ribbings and wisecracks.
Where, dear God? When? As he was about to ask, two men stood up from the group. They were about to start their night’s work.
‘Heading for St Mary’s to try your luck, are you, lads?’ quipped a voice from one of the stayers.
‘Sure she wasn’t a nun?’ said another.
Bauer had already set aside his knife and fork. Was she still there? He stood and left the room, unnoticed amid the ribaldry. He took out another Pervitin tablet and slipped it into his mouth to keep him going.
He called for his driver. He wasn’t going to share this information with St Jean or the French. She was his. Shot while trying to escape. He wouldn’t enjoy it, but the outcome would be entirely satisfying and appropriate. He’d be able to look his boys in the eye.
HOUSE OF RETREAT, CATHÉDRALE SAINTE-MARIE, OLORON
Just before 6pm, Monday, 15th December 1941
Eleanor was ready. Her rucksack was tight with her remaining cigarettes and what clothes she could fit in. With neither cleansers nor face crème for her face, she had to make do with freezing water and what passed for soap. At least she had her bottle of Lancôme. If and when Henk or Hugo discovered her other cosmetics in the breast pockets of Claude’s coat, Henk, the Marxist fool, she thought, would probably throw them away as capitalist frippery, ignorant of their worth as bargaining chips.
She took the scent from her pocket, where she’d tucked it safely away, and sprayed herself liberally. If she was going to freeze to death or be shot by a German patrol, she wanted to smell as nice as she could. Given the clothes she was wearing, this was a tall order. She had ripped the shoulder epaulettes off her Wehrmacht greatcoat, although that would hardly make any difference to the silhouette she might present. The only thing that could be said was that it might give the Boches pause before they shot at her. Underneath she had on the fox, whose reek was another reason for her liberal application of scent, and three chemises she’d rummaged out of the lost-and-found cellar. Around her neck was a thick woollen scarf and over that the crucifix given her by Mrs Teixeira. If only Madeleine or Sylvia could see her now.
Like some incarcerated felon, she started to pace her cell. If her journey didn’t start soon, she would go crazy. She looked at her watch. She lit a cigarette to calm her nerves. Moments later, the door was pushed open – no knocking – and there was Sister Perpetua. Like some schoolgirl caught red-handed by the principal, Eleanor hid the cigarette behind her back.
‘Madame,’ Perpetua tut-tutted.
Shamefaced, Eleanor stubbed out the offending cigarette. As Perpetua hurried her out, she let it drop inadvertently, a terrible waste. Too late.
*
The retreat’s front door was open. No one sat at the reception desk. Bauer just walked in. He’d left his car some distance away, told the driver he would make his own way back. In his old coat and battered hat, he looked like any of the countless elderly refugees or pilgrims of the Way who passed through the doors. He shuffled along the corridor, passing the tiny rooms, some open, some closed, all occupied. No one stopped him. No one noticed him. But this was no way to find the American.
‘Excuse me, youngsters,’ he said in French to the children skylarking up and down the stairs. ‘I’m looking for the lady with the lovely red hair, the American lady.’
His question drew silence and suspicion.
‘Don’t tell him,’ warned the Artful Dodger in Viennese slang to his gang.
‘I’m sorry, my boy, what was that?’ Bauer replied. Viennese it might be, a dialect he found ugly and often incomprehensible, but this was simple enough.
‘Who are you?’ demanded the Dodger’s offsider in French, as tough a little girl as Bauer had seen. A good question, Bauer thought. He hadn’t prepared an answer. ‘A friend’ seemed inadequate.
‘What did you do to your hand?’ the voice of a younger child asked.
‘I caught it in a door,’ said Bauer absently. ‘The lady is my wife,’ he added, more to his immediate point.
‘Why’d you do that?’ the little voice kept on but Bauer’s ears were tuned to the Dodger’s.
‘He don’t sound like a Yank,’ the kid said in Viennese to his offsider.
Bauer smiled. ‘We’ve been travelling separately from Paris,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to escape to America. My wife, you see, she is American.’
‘You ain’t American,’ the Artful Dodger threw back at him in French.
‘But of course not,’ Bauer agreed, amiably. ‘I am French. My wife is from New York. They told me she’s here but I’m terrible with directions. I thought they said she was along here. Have you seen an American lady here?’ He wasn’t sure if his sad tone would affect this lot of hard-hearts, even if his acting skills seemed to be holding up.
‘What’ll you give us?’ the Artful Dodger demanded.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Bauer replied, ‘you deserve something.’ He dug out notes from his pocket, where he kept enough French money for all immediate circumstances, and peeled off 50 francs in small denominations. He first handed 25 francs to the Dodger. It seemed a reasonable amount for a man to pay for the whereabouts of his wife. Eager hands took the rest of the money, and soon Bauer was down the stairs to the basement and outside a door.
‘That’s her room,’ said the Dodger.
Bauer didn’t need them to tell him what the Lancôme confirmed. He knocked.
‘She’s left you, mister,’ said the Artful Dodger’s offsider at the lack of a reply. ‘She’s got a boyfriend.’
‘Yeah,’ said another, with a spite that Bauer in a different setting would have enjoyed. ‘They run off together.’
He smiled his thanks to get rid of them and pushed open the door, but they were too curious to leave. He shone his pocket torch around – not a good sign to the Artful Dodger, who cautioned the others to back off. In the air was her signature, the Lancôme, and on the floor was a cigarette, barely smoked. Bauer picked it up. Chesterfield. The blackened tip was still warm. He’d just missed her.
‘You finish it, son,’ he said, handing the cigarette to the Dodger, who slipped it behind his ear.
With the Lancôme as his compass, Bauer hurried back up the stairs and along the corridor, away from the entrance and eventually out a door at the far end of the building and across to the cathedral, where vespers would soon start.
CATHÉDRALE SAINTE-MARIE, OLORON
Around 6pm, Monday, 15th December 1941
Candles sparked on the altar and from the sconces along the walls of the nave. Some parishioners huddled in the front pews, elderly widows a
nd spinsters who rarely missed a Mass, no matter the weather or time of day or night. The organ burst into life, heralding the approach of the clergy. Perpetua led Eleanor to the Mary chapel. Eleanor was glad she had resisted temptation. To wait under the gaze of the Virgin Mary covered in American dollars while her pockets were stuffed with the Virgin’s francs was a test she was relieved she didn’t have to undergo.
‘Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina,’ chanted the priests as they processed down the nave with the Monsignor – O God, come to my assistance. O Lord, make haste to help me. An unseen choir of women’s voices sang the antiphonal.
As the last of the procession passed, one of the monks peeled off and entered the Mary chapel. Perpetua smiled.
‘Vidal,’ she whispered to Eleanor. The monk removed the hood of the cowl he had worn to enter. He disrobed quickly and handed the cowl to Perpetua.
Eleanor was astonished. Perpetua was fifty-plus if she was a day. Vidal was young. Thirty? No more. This cheered Eleanor. He was sturdy, with big farmer’s hands and arms, tall, a big man with a bashful smile on a round face, which was all the handsomer for three days or so of whiskers.
‘You think we look alike?’ Perpetua said whimsically. ‘My baby brother. I can’t believe he’s got so big.’ She took his arm fondly.
‘Vidal, madame,’ said the young man shyly and shook her hand.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you in francs,’ Eleanor said immediately. ‘I only have American dollars.’
Vidal frowned and he sighed. ‘What to do?’ he said. ‘Didn’t my sister tell you?’
‘Yes, I tried,’ Eleanor pleaded, ‘but there is no one to change them.’
‘I gotta pay off cops, I gotta pay for the horses,’ he replied, annoyed. ‘You reckon they’ll take your dollars?’
Eleanor knew that, didn’t she? Her escape looked to be over before it was beginning. Too late to regret her idiotic moral scruples. The statue of the Virgin Mary with its precious francs was barely feet away.
‘Give them to me,’ Perpetua said to Eleanor. ‘I’ll get the francs for you,’ she told her brother.
‘Where are you going to get that sort of cash from?’ he demanded. ‘Rob a bank?’
‘That’s my business,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you trust your own sister?’
‘Course I do,’ he said gruffly. ‘But when?’
‘Now,’ said Perpetua blithely. Whereupon she took Eleanor’s dollars and proceeded to strip the statue of the Virgin Mary of all its francs. ‘I’ve lost count, but I’m sure it’s enough,’ she said, returning. Eleanor knew exactly but wisely kept her mouth shut and her amusement hidden.
Vidal could never have believed his sister capable of such an act, and as for a bride of Christ? ‘You’ll go to hell,’ he said.
‘Look who’s talking!’ she retorted sharply. ‘If Our Holy Mother doesn’t worry, why should you? Cash is cash. Now go.’
Eleanor embraced Perpetua. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘You know why,’ Perpetua replied. ‘Our Holy Mother knows why.’
As she hurried after Vidal, Eleanor told herself that one day she’d return and confess to her little saviour.
They would have to go upriver first to avoid the roadblock on the Aspe Valley road out of town, Vidal explained. Beyond that, they would ride on his motorbike to his farm, where she would stay with him and his wife until the weather was clear. Either he or one of the shepherds would take her up through the pass to the Spanish border.
Eleanor happily agreed. She kissed Perpetua again, who gave her a blessing and a St Christopher medal.
‘He will look after you,’ she said.
With vespers continuing, Eleanor and Vidal departed through a door in the transept. The sky was moonless and thinly clouded, shading the starlight. The dark night swallowed them up.
BANKS OF THE RIVER ASPE, OLORON
Towards 7pm, Monday, 15th December 1941
Eleanor followed close on Vidal, who led her along a back laneway that paralleled the road, heading towards the river away from the cathedral. Soon, they crossed the main road and went down a rough track by some old houses to the bank of the Aspe, where the air was icy cold. At least she would not have to wade through it or cross it on stones. That terrible night she would never forget.
To avoid the roadblocks into and out of Oloron, Vidal had travelled down in a sturdy wooden canoe, which he’d hauled up onto the bank and left in the shadows. The flow of the river here was gentle and made little sound. They would have to paddle upstream, past the bridge. There, the rapids would muffle the little outboard motor they’d need to get them further upriver, to where he’d secreted his motorbike. Eleanor insisted she could paddle too, and he said he was glad because otherwise they wouldn’t make it.
‘Stop!’ It was in perfect French and cut through the air like a shot from a gun but Eleanor didn’t at first comprehend.
‘Your hands up now.’
This Eleanor understood, all too clearly. Vidal had already raised his hands. She bolted like lightning behind the trunk of an old oak.
‘Stop,’ Bauer called as he revealed himself, his pistol raised. ‘Stop or I shoot this man. You understand?’
At long last he had her. He was sure of it. Even in the dark, her auburn hair was shining. But hadn’t he seen that face before? Yes, on the footpath outside the parfumerie in Pau. So damn close. This was vindication. She would pay for Pohl’s murders and she would pay for the one she had committed herself. Justice at work. He pressed his advantage, even though his right hand, holding his pistol, was killing him.
‘Do you not understand?’ Bauer said, his voice tense, his anger rising. ‘Come out, hands up, or I shoot your guide.’
Eleanor shook with fear. She was terrified. How brave one could be until one actually faced death.
‘Our patrol killed your boyfriend and his wife last night,’ Bauer called out.
‘What did you say?’ she spat as she burst out in fury from her shelter. Here was Eleanor’s dander at work; her famously short fuse, with its own foolhardy will, rescuing her from possible disgrace. It was the sort of mind-snap that rewards some soldiers under fire with the highest medals of honour, if they survive.
‘You foolish woman, you wasted your love and money on a Jew pervert,’ Bauer sneered in triumph. ‘I am glad this is the last thing you know before you die.’
‘How dare you,’ she retorted. She saw him warn Vidal to back away, then point his pistol at her.
Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, the sound ricocheting as one against the few houses that backed onto the river.
Eleanor felt the shot whizz past her. But it was Bauer who fell sideways to the ground, blood gushing from the wound in his neck.
‘You devil,’ she growled down at him, the Mauser she’d shot him with in her hand.
He didn’t understand.
‘Georg?’ he asked, puzzled.
But it wasn’t Georg he saw, it was his other boy, Karl, standing over him. He was in his Afrika Korps khakis, but they were covered in blood and part of his face was shot away.
‘Papa?’ the boy said in surprise.
‘Karl?’ Bauer cried out but then the boy was gone. His left hand scrabbled for his wallet inside his coat and he managed to pull it out, but he needed both hands to open it.
Eleanor was already bending down to do it for him.
‘Photographs?’ she asked, matter-of-fact. She wasn’t ready to offer compassion; that would come much later. Bauer grunted.
She found pictures of two young men, soldiers in uniform. She held them close so he could see. He grabbed the one of Karl and gazed at it and then at her, trying to tell her something. In the next moment, his eyes glazed over. He was dead.
Vidal was trembling. He pulled urgently at Eleanor’s arm. The boat was ready. If they didn’t go now, they’d be done for. With the calm resolution of an Al Capone, Eleanor carefully wiped the fingerprints from the pistol she’d used, prise
d Bauer’s pistol, another Mauser, from his right hand, pocketed it, and wrapped his fingers around the pistol she had used and which she dropped a short distance from his body. If the police didn’t look too closely, they might reasonably assume the man had shot himself. One of his photographs lay on the ground, the other on his spread-eagled coat. His little bottle of Pervitin tablets had also fallen from his pocket. Ignoring Vidal’s further plea to hurry up, she rifled through Bauer’s pockets, where she found his thick cache of francs. How much, she did not know, and now wasn’t the time to count it. She pocketed all of it.
Numb, her anger spent, she stumbled over to the boat and Vidal helped her in. He pushed them away from the shore, downstream at first. Then, after gaining enough momentum, he turned them back against the current.
‘Paddle,’ he urged. ‘Hard.’
They had only a few hundred yards to paddle up to the rapids past a stone bridge, but the way was slow and arduous, the more so as they came against the faster flow.
‘You saved my life,’ said Vidal as they passed the body of their pursuer on the bank.
Yes, she thought, but she didn’t deserve his thanks. The instant she’d heard the demand to stop, to put up her hands, she’d fled in panic, nothing heroic about it. She’d left Vidal, her saviour, to face the German alone. At heart, she believed, she was a coward. As she’d quaked behind the tree, at least she’d had the presence of mind to take the pistol from her pocket and release the safety catch. Though they were both alive as a result, she shot this man not to save Vidal’s life nor really to save her own. Yes, she’d felt his shot miss her in the split second before she fired at him but she meant to kill him in revenge for Henk, and be hanged what St Paul said about vengeance being the Lord’s. She would defend herself when her time came.
Suddenly, she stopped paddling. The full force of what the German had spat at her, signing his death warrant, now hit her. Those words, ‘his wife’ and ‘Jew pervert’. If he knew the truth about Henk, he had to know he was dead.