Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Ken progressed Michel to movements that varied between fast and slow, and required changing hardness and softness of body and stance. Axe had become Ken’s student, too, making for the strangest scene on any farm in all of Belgium.

  They had finished their practice that morning when Godewyn arrived with his horse and buggy. Axe was due to face Elmo and his claim for her land in the Roeselare court. Godewyn had volunteered his transport and the moral support of his presence. Michel was going, too. Even though he did not speak Dutch, it would look strange for Axe’s supposed fiancée not to be there. Godewyn wrapped a bandage around Michel’s head.

  “Perfect. Once more, our French prisoner—or is it patient?—is mute. Now is the time to say what you will, Axe. He cannot answer back!”

  Godewyn laughed. He climbed onto the buggy and took his whip in hand. Axe and Michel climbed aboard. Ken approached. He had been staring at the crater for the last few minutes. His usual smile was gone.

  “I should come too,” said Ken.

  Godewyn looked to Axe.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ken. We want to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible. Michel already stands out, and … there are not many … many of your people in these areas,” said Axe.

  “Chinese–Japanese,” said Ken and folded his arms.

  “Yes.”

  “Coolies,” said Ken.

  “Chinese–Japanese. Or Chinese. Or Japanese. Maybe not any.”

  “No oriental men or women.”

  “Yes. People would wonder. They might ask questions, and the less questions we have to answer, the less lies we have to tell,” said Axe.

  “Ok. But I should not stay here,” said Ken. He glanced at the crater.

  “Why not?” said Axe.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “But why? Monster will keep you company.”

  “I don’t want to,” repeated Ken. He unfolded then refolded his arms with even greater emphasis. He held his head high, as if he was waiting for a sunset.

  Michel and Axe exchanged a glance. Michel shrugged. Axe looked to Godewyn. He winked at her.

  “My lovely wife, Esmee, does hate it so when I run off to the city. You know, Ken, it would be a great favor to me if you would spend the day with Esmee. Keep her company. Maybe help her with some little chores an old man cannot do anymore. I know she would be relieved to have you, and delighted with the conversation. Would you do that for me, Ken?”

  “As a favor?”

  “Yes. A great favor.”

  “Ok. I can help you. I can help Esmee. No problem,” said Ken, and now he smiled, a big cheesy smile that smacked of satisfaction—of saving face and getting what he wanted.

  Godewyn dropped Ken off with Esmee, explaining to his wife with liberal use of winking and nudging that Ken had so very kindly agreed to keep her company because of how lonely she became whenever he had to leave. Esmee understood straight away. Though she rolled her eyes so that only Godewyn could see, she welcomed Ken and took him inside and sat him down for some breakfast.

  When they were down the trail and out of hearing distance, Godewyn said, “And what do you suppose that was about?”

  “Monsters,” said Axe.

  “I see. Which monsters would they be? Not of the three-legged kind, I assume. But plenty of German ones going around at the moment.”

  “Ken thinks there’s a giant catfish monster in the crater near the barn. And Michel made it worse, pretending to see its blinking eye. I think poor Ken believed him,” said Axe.

  “He—” but Michel could not speak properly with the bandage. He slipped it from his jaw. “He knew I was joking!”

  “I’m not so sure he did,” said Axe.

  “A catfish, you say? He’s scared of a catfish?” said Godewyn.

  “Yes, a giant one. I suppose he thinks Michel is his … what was it, Kashima? Ken thinks Michel keeps him safe by scaring away the catfish.”

  “And how does he do that? With his scarred face, I suppose. One look is all it would take.”

  Axe laughed. Michel shook his head.

  “Best be putting that bandage back on, my boy. You’re mute, remember. Just how we like it, isn’t that right, Axe?”

  “Just how we like it,” she said, though the lingering look she gave Michel said something different.

  39

  The road took them through the midst of the destruction. It was the first time Michel had set eyes on Mesen.

  Michel studied the remains of what had been a large building. Though the roof had collapsed, part of each wall stood in defiance of the bombs that had destroyed from within. Those few jagged spires of unconnected wall seemed to sprout from the incoherence of rock and mortar that reached up and tugged at their sides and beckoned them to tumble down with the rest.

  Godewyn followed Michel’s gaze. “It used to be the church. Esmee and I were married there. My parents before me. So too Axe’s. Our friend Elmo married Hettie there, she was a lovely girl, absolutely delightful.”

  Godewyn snorted.

  “Well, I’m just listing everybody from the area. I could go on for days! It was the church. It is where people married. Now, it is not, and I am stating the bleeding obvious.”

  Half the town stood unscathed, while the other half was in ruins. They passed a low building that was used as the German prison, where they heard muffled yelling coming from inside. Axe and Godewyn exchanged a glance. Their kommandanturen was on the war path. Pity whomever the poor Belgian was who had committed some petty crime or transgressed Yetzel’s warped sense of justice.

  The yelling grew louder and more fevered. Godewyn slapped the reins to pick up pace and they were away. Two hours later, they arrived in Roeselare, the closest city to the front not to have been bombed. Horses and carts competed for primacy with men and motor vehicles. Godewyn steered his way through and brought the cart to a stop at the edge of a park.

  “Well, shall we?” he said.

  Ten minutes of walking brought them to the front of a square-set building made from big blocks of red sandstone streaked with white. Godewyn drew his pocket watch.

  “Ah, good, a little early. It is best to always be early to these types of things. Well, in that case …” he said, and glanced about, his gaze settling upon a series of cafés further along the road.

  “Godewyn, you are utterly transparent. If you want some breakfast—or more breakfast I should say, because I am sure Esmee has already fed you—then just say so,” said Axe.

  “Now that you mention it, that’s a splendid idea! Oh, but I had completely forgotten about Michel … he cannot eat anything solid. Not if his jaw is broken. Which it is.”

  Michel put his hand on the small of Godewyn’s back and gently shoved him forward. He and Axe exchanged a look of amused disdain.

  The three went into a café. Godewyn was the only one to eat, for Axe had grown nervous and uneasy, and had no appetite. They spoke about the court case—about what Axe would say. She still had no idea. She would wait to hear what Elmo said.

  Michel’s attention drifted as Axe and Godewyn spoke in Dutch. He stared out the café’s window. It was a busy morning on the streets. Shops were open and business was being transacted. Germans and Belgians walked by as if all was normal in the world.

  To be so close to the enemy and to feel nothing but curiosity was a surreal experience. Michel knew the Germans outside were the same men he might have met on the front, and might still meet once he went back. When the time came, he would try to kill them. They would try to kill him. Yet his heartbeat did not quicken.

  They seemed like ordinary men, and to think about killing them struck him as akin to contemplating murder. He was no murderer. He supposed they were not murderers, either.

  He watched their faces. Some of those who walked by smiled, some scowled, some talked and laughed with comrades, some whispered and conspired. Hands patted down neatly combed hair, stroked clean skin that burned from the morning’s razor, scratched at
a temple in thought.

  Some of the soldiers were young, perhaps just boys like Ken, having lied to secure their place in the war, and some were old, thickset and dignified, so much so that it was hard to imagine them on the battlefield, face contorted into the sort of face that could plunge a bayonet into the belly of another man—another man but the same, no different to the person holding the rifle and bayonet except for a French or British or Belgian name.

  Watching them, Michel felt a perverse desire burbling up inside himself, the way a person sometimes hears a voice telling them to jump—no! don’t jump!—when standing at the precipice of a great fall. He could just walk outside, unwrap his fake bandages, stop a German and say, “Hello, I’m Michel Poincaré. I’d like to get to know you before I head back over and we see each other in the trenches. What’s your name? Where are you from? What’s your favorite food? I like fried foie gras on a crispy baguette. Care to join me?”

  He smiled. It was a lovely thought. Perverse and ridiculous and lovely. And it just so happened that, right then, the head of the man he had been watching turned, as if he had heard Michel’s unasked questions. As the German officer’s eyes passed over Michel’s bandaged face, he seemed to speak, to answer the unasked question, even though the German’s mouth did not move.

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  That face. Michel did remember …

  The German’s gaze returned to the sidewalk and Michel’s eyes followed him till he disappeared from view. Michel sat there, staring blankly out the window.

  Cannot be. Impossible. Some other … some other …

  No. It’s him. I will never forget that man. That face.

  Michel stood and took a step for the door, then remembered why he was there. He looked back at Axe and Godewyn. His sudden movement startled them.

  “Sven?” said Axe pointedly. “Are you all right, Sven?”

  Michel rushed to the table and leant in close. Through gritted teeth he whispered, “Have to go. I’m sorry. Have to.”

  Axe’s hand shot out and gripped Michel’s arm tightly.

  “Sven … what are you talking about?” She spoke German in an exclamatory hush, the voice of couples all around the world who wished to hide their arguments. “We’re due in court soon. For goodness sake, please sit down.”

  “Can’t. Explain later. Good luck.” Michel pulled his arm free from Axe’s grip and he walked away quickly, though not so quickly as to draw excessive attention. He did not glance back.

  40

  Michel wheeled around the door and into the street. He took long strides, weaving between men on the sidewalk. There were many pedestrians ahead, among whom were a spattering of uniformed Germans. Michel thought it would be hard to tell him from behind and fretted he would lose him, that he would be gone forever, but then he remembered.

  If it really was him, it would be easy. He had a slight limp—just look for the limp.

  Michel bumped into a Belgian. “Sorry,” Michel said in German, muffled through his closed mouth. The man looked at him strangely.

  Michel kept moving. He scalded himself.

  Keep your mouth shut, dummy. Broken fucking jaw. Break his fucking jaw …

  He did not invite it, but there was anger and fight in him now. He was not even sure it was who he thought it was, yet his body was sure. It did not deal in ifs and buts and maybes, it was ready for whatever came next and welcomed it.

  And what if it is him? What can I do in a crowded city filled with Germans?

  His body said fight, and to hell with it. Come what may. There was a chance he could take all of them. But his mind knew it was bullshit. Fight and die—that was the truth.

  And there was another truth. He did not want to die. So it was simple.

  And then it was not, for he saw him. The German officer with the slight limp who walked at a purposeful pace.

  Michel increased his own speed and closed the gap. He could smell the man. He wore a cologne that wafted behind, but it did not smell like a cologne. The smell was harsh and chemical.

  It had to be him, yet Michel could not be sure till he put his hand on his shoulder and flung his body around to look square at his face. Then he would know.

  He was almost close enough now, ghosting behind the German like his shadow. He ripped the bandage from his own head and discarded it to the ground. Michel reached his arm out, then a stranger’s hand hit down upon his own. The stranger gripped him by the front of his shirt and there was now a body in front of Michel, stopping him, restraining him.

  “Michel!” hissed Godewyn, speaking in a low voice that was part breathlessness and part fear.

  Michel let himself be restrained, wanted to be restrained, but he kept looking, leaning his body to see past Godewyn’s head. The German walked on. He was twenty yards away. Then thirty yards away.

  “For Christ’s sake, man,” said Godewyn, for Michel was leaning forward like a wild gelding on the verge of breaking from its reins.

  The German stopped. He was forty yards away. He stood still a moment, only his head twisting to the side, as if he was listening.

  “What’s gotten into you, boy? You’ll get us killed!” said Godewyn.

  “That man, I have to know …”

  Godewyn followed Michel’s line of sight to the German who, at that moment, turned and seemed to look right at them. Michel spat a wordless sound. He would never forget that face. Never.

  It was the man Michel had met in the forests of Vitrimont, the escaped prisoner who proved his better with fist, foot and mind, who had given him the most comprehensive thrashing of any fair fight of his life, then let him live. The man who returned Michel’s knife, shook his hand and exchanged pleasantries to humiliate him, before stealing his motorbike.

  The same man Ernie fought, the one who beat the soul out of the big, life-loving Australian, beat him into a smaller man, so sad and lost and forsaken the last time Michel saw him—the last time he saw him … and a vague memory of drinking and fighting came to him, then was gone …

  The same man who killed two French workers in that Oraon warehouse and then two hundred more innocents as the entire town exploded in flames and burned. Michel had watched the glow from ten miles away atop that infernal dam Percy had died protecting.

  That had been the hardest thing—Percy’s death, then delivering the terrible news to his daughter, Maddy. arder than any single event of the war. When he told her that Percy was dead, along with so many of those she had known in Oraon, she had simply told him to go. Not that she blamed him or loathed him or did not want him, just to go—back to his war, where he belonged. She might not have blamed Michel, but Michel certainly blamed himself—and the German.

  Yes, Michel knew that man, the infamous butcher of Oraon, the specter who had snuck into a heavily militarized town and committed an atrocity then disappeared without a trace, without anybody even knowing his name, what he looked like, nothing.

  Except Michel knew.

  He was a colonel in the German Army, and his name was Kranz, Colonel Wolfgang Kranz, and of all the men in the world who had done wrong, he would be the one to pay.

  He had to die.

  Michel thrust forward. Godewyn used all his force to restrain him.

  “Him? Michel, I think I’ve seen him before … yes, with Dudendorff … that’s right, I know that officer! I can tell you whatever you want. But later, Michel. For Christ’s sake, man, come. You’ll get all of us killed. Think of Axe!” said Godewyn.

  Michel saw Kranz’s hand reach for his pocket, and he drew a pair of spectacles. He fiddled with them, untangling the wires. Meanwhile Godewyn’s words battered through Michel’s singular focus to penetrate a part of his mind not concerned with hate and fight.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes! Now come with me before you do something even more stupid,” Godewyn hissed.

  Michel thought of Axe as he let Godewyn turn his body and begin dragging him away. If Godewyn knew of Kranz, he could find him aga
in, find him and he would have his vengeance at the time of his choosing, a time that did not put Axe and Godewyn in such danger. He had no compunctions about risking his own life, but risking the lives of these Belgians who had become inextricably linked to his own fate—it was reckless and it was wrong. What had he been thinking?

  They walked quickly. Michel glanced back. He saw that Kranz had finished unfolding his spectacles and was fitting them across the bridge of his delicate nose and around his ears. Michel kept walking, leading Godewyn now. There must have been fifty yards between them and Kranz when a voice called out: “Halt!”

  Michel remembered the voice, Kranz’s voice.

  “Godewyn, get back to Axe, like nothing has happened. I will take care of this and see you at the farm,” said Michel.

  “You two, stop! Soldier, stop those men!” called Kranz.

  “But, what—” started Godewyn.

  “Just do it, just go,” said Michel, and then he was lunging forward and his fist met the face of the soldier who had heard Kranz’s call. The man’s head slung backwards and though his arms flung up, they did not balance him or stop the back of his skull meeting the stone sidewalk.

  “Keep walking, Godewyn,” said Michel under his breath.

  Godewyn did as told, shuffling forward without looking back or sideways at the pedestrians who were now staring at Michel.

  “Stop him!” yelled Kranz, and Michel could hear Kranz running.

  Godewyn turned down an alley. Michel figured him a wily old fox; he had the right instincts and Michel was confident that if he could just get the Germans focused on him and not on Godewyn then the old man would be all right—and that would mean Axe would be all right. Whatever it took. He owed her that, owed them both that.

  Two German officers heeded Kranz’s call. They were running for Michel. One of them pulled a Luger from a holster. Michel put his hands up and kept walking forward.

  “You there, no closer!” said the German officer.

  Michel glanced back, playacting confusion as to who the German was addressing, while continuing on with a light skip. He bounced low and bobbed up; the German’s arm lifted on his shoulder, the gun’s aim rising into the sky. Michel’s left hand reached and pulled down on the man’s bicep, folding the arm. He fired harmlessly at the clouds as Michel’s forehead shot forth with the full weight of his body and pounded into his nose.