Something to Remember You By

by Gene Wilder

  “I would be honored, Bertie.” As they hugged each other Bertie whispered to Tom, “God bless you, young man.”

  “Sit down, Bertie,” Anna said. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you, not right now. I want to hear my orders first.”

  “Well, they’re not exactly orders,” Tom said, “or else I’d have to put you on a salary.”

  Bertie laughed and said, “That’s all right with me.”

  “I think what you chose to wear is perfect, Bertie, and all I want you to do is to get on a bus and behave normally, except that there is a woman—who we’ll point out to you later—and we want you to get on the same bus that she does, and get off when she does. And if she takes another bus, then you get on that bus, too. Maybe it would be good if you read a magazine, just so long as you don’t lose sight of her. Clear so far?”

  “Certainly,” Bertie answered.

  “And when she gets off the bus and starts walking, walk behind her, not too close, but keep reading your magazine without losing sight of her, and tell me where she goes and if she does anything that seems unusual. And Bertie, if you follow her to her home, look up to see if there’s an aerial on her roof that’s sticking out. Is all this too complicated?”

  “Not at all. Just as long as I don’t have to shoot anybody.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  At a few minutes past seven Sally came out of the tunnel and walked to the bus stop. She sat down on a bench, with Bertie, who was reading an Express magazine that had Lauren Bacall on the cover. No one else was waiting for the bus. Bertie looked up to see Tom across the street. He nodded a slow “yes.” A man and woman came rushing up just as the fairly crowded bus arrived. Sally got on, then the man and woman, and then Bertie. And the bus took off.

  Bertie was sitting a few rows behind Sally, and she casually glanced at her every few seconds, before going back to reading her magazine. When the bus reached Trafalgar Square several people got off, including Sally and Bertie. When the next bus came along it had MOUNT STREET printed in large letters above the driver’s head. Sally got on with two young men and Bertie. When the bus reached Mount Street, Sally got off, followed by several well-dressed men who looked like bankers, and then by Bertie.

  Bertie walked several yards behind Sally, stopping every now and then to look at a store window, the way she remembered Tyrone Power doing in the movies. Then Sally turned onto Mount Street’s small but beautiful park with the Church of the Immaculate Conception.

  Bertie had actually been here before, mostly to see the stained-glass windows in the church and the Garden of Remembrance outside, with the little cemetery near it. When she saw Sally go into the church, Bertie sat on a shadowed bench and waited for her to come out.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sally came out wiping a few tears from her eyes, and began walking toward Hyde Park. Bertie didn’t want to walk too closely behind her, but when they reached Park Street, Bertie put on her glasses and saw Sally enter a small town house. Bertie waited a few minutes, then walked past the townhouse, noted the number 117 over the door, and looked up at the roof. There was no aerial sticking out.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Colonel Hartley sat deep in thought as Tom waited in the chair opposite him. “It’s a peculiar situation,” the colonel finally said. “Strange if it should be Sally.”

  “If she hadn’t told me how sorry she was about the death of my French friend I would never have suspected anything,” Tom said.

  “But we don’t know if she’s done anything but go to church and cry. I can’t bring her in for that,” the colonel said. “I’ll tell you what—you follow her tonight, Tom. See for yourself where she goes and what she does. And if and when she goes home, keep looking for an aerial. She may have it in some cockamamy place. I’ll be in my office. If she does start sending messages I’ll have the RDF truck half a street away, waiting to intercept.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if you want to be a detective, get some ordinary hat and keep it on your head. She’d know you by your hair even if you were sitting behind her.”

  FORTY

  As Sally Bedloe came out of the tunnel that evening it began to drizzle. She took her bus to Trafalgar Square and another bus to Mount Street and then walked quickly to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. A man with a slight limp, who was carrying an umbrella and wearing a shabby, ordinary hat, walked into the church a minute after Sally did.

  Sally sat down in the nearest pew. Tom sat two rows behind her and to one side, lowered his head in prayer, but kept looking up at her every few seconds.

  Sally could have been praying, although Tom didn’t see her lowering her head or moving her lips. She just kept staring at the large image of Jesus, as if she were hoping for an immaculate word or two. After a few minutes she turned to look at the three others in church, wiped the tears from her eyes, and walked slowly toward the door.

  It was raining harder now. As she stepped outside, Sally opened her umbrella and held it over her head. It not only kept her from getting soaked, but also prevented her from seeing very much around her as she walked home.

  Tom, with an umbrella over his head and wearing his “ordinary,” shabby hat, limped slowly behind Sally to 117 Park Street, hoping that if she started tapping messages once she was home, Colonel Hartley would have the RDF truck nearby, as he said he would, ready to intercept them. Tom looked up at Sally’s roof from all different positions and angles, but he could see nothing that resembled an aerial.

  Damp and hungry, Tom waited outside in the pouring rain for forty-five minutes. When the rain finally let up, he looked up at the roof one final time—and this time he saw what seemed like a small piece of aerial that was growing taller inch by inch. He finally realized that Sally must be jerry-rigging the aerial through an opening in her attic. He went to the nearest phone booth and called Colonel Hartley.

  “Come to my office now,” the colonel said. “You won’t believe it. Well, yes you probably would. Come right away. You must be hungry. I hope you like tuna salad sandwiches and beer. Hurry up.”

  FORTY-ONE

  At 9:00 p.m. Tom walked into the colonel’s office, soaking wet, and was greeted warmly by the colonel.

  “Sit down, take off those wet things, and help yourself to a sandwich. Do you like beer?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d probably drink anything right now, hot or cold.”

  “Here,” the colonel said as he handed Tom a large glass of Kingfisher beer from India. “Now listen to what your friend Sally wrote, translated from German into English. And don’t choke.”

  130 Lancasters to Berlin,

  90 Halifaxes to Leipzig and Hamburg,

  79 Mosquitos to Wittstock Airfield

  8 Mosquitos to Schleswig Airfield

  All flights from the RAF will leave at nineteen hundred and thirty hours, tonight.

  “How did you get this so fast?” Tom asked.

  “Because she didn’t use Enigma or any of the tricks we might have been looking for. She did what I told you she might try—just plain German. And it worked. I don’t know for how long she would have continued if you hadn’t caught her with that mistake about your French friend.”

  “She must be crazy.”

  “Or something else,” the colonel said. “I’ve got another idea of why she did it, but I’ll tell you later. Right now I think we’ve got to pull her in when she arrives for work tomorrow.”

  “Oh, she’ll love that,” Tom said.

  “I used to be a lawyer in Missouri before this war, so my interrogation of Sally could be fairly easy or else she might be a real ballbuster, but I want you to be here when I question her.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Sally came to work a minute or two before 10:00 a.m. as she always did. Two MPs were waiting nearby. When she opened the door, one of the MPs walked in.

  “Miss Bedloe, you’ll need to come with us to see Colonel Hartley,” he said in a friendly way.

  “Oh, I’m much to busy to
see him now. Please tell the colonel that I’ll drop by at lunchtime.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, ma’am,” the MP said as the other MP stepped closer in case help was needed. “He wants to see you right now.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “Please ask Colonel Hartley that, ma’am. Just come with us right now.”

  Sally’s face turned a cold white, but she didn’t argue anymore. She was ushered out of her office and along the tunnel to Colonel Hartley’s office with an MP on either side of her. When they arrived, Sergeant Morris led them into the colonel’s office. Tom was standing near the colonel. Sally stood still and stared at Colonel Hartley. The MPs were standing a few feet away from her.

  “That’s all right, fellas, you can wait in the outer office,” the colonel said. The MPs saluted and left.

  “Long time no see, Sally,” Colonel Hartley said. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “I’d rather not,” she said.

  “I’d rather you did. Don’t get tough with me, Sally, because I’ll out-tough you. Now sit the hell down!”

  Sally sat down.

  “I believe you know Lieutenant Cole.” Sally didn’t answer or even look at Tom.

  “Let’s skip the usual shit, Sally, and tell me why you did it,” the colonel said with a grim face. “No answer? All right, I’ll tell you the consequences: twenty years in jail if you’re incredibly lucky, but much more likely you’ll be executed for betraying your country in time of war. I’ll speak for you or against you depending on what you’re willing to tell me today.”

  Sally stared at him, her face frozen.

  “You may have cost the lives of thousands of men and women who were fighting this rotten war against Hitler.”

  “You don’t understand Hitler or me.”

  “Well, I do understand why you cry in the Church of the Immaculate Conception,” the colonel said.

  Sally flushed red while her eyes looked to every corner of the office. “How … how could you possibly know that?” she asked.

  “Jesus told me.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, almost screaming.

  “Well he and I are both Jewish, you see, so he let me in on a few things. I can even tell that you’re crying right now and he didn’t say a word to me this time. He also told me that you were desperately in love with Sir Oswald Mosley. That man could sweep an audience off its feet, couldn’t he? After his wife died he married his mistress in secret. In Joseph Goebbels’s home. I believe Adolf Hitler was one of the guests. I admit that Mosley is a very handsome man, it’s just that he is just another British asshole who loves Hitler. Then he left his wife and went to you, but dumped you after your three-year affair and went back to his wife. That must have broken your heart, not being able to make love with the man who fucked every other woman he met and wrote the book Fascism. I feel for you, Sally.”

  As her tears started to pour, she covered her face with her hands. “Do you have any idea why I cried in church?” she finally asked when she could speak clearly.

  “Tell me,” the colonel said.

  “Because I knew that so many people might be killed … I knew that … but I thought I was doing something that would hasten peace.”

  “That’s what Sir Oswald told you?”

  “Yes.That’s what he truly believed.”

  “Sally, I want you to talk to Lieutenant Cole now. He needs to know something that’s extremely important. If you don’t tell him the truth, I swear to God I won’t be helping you when you stand in front of the judge who’s going to decide if it’s jail or execution for you.”

  Tom walked slowly up to Sally. Colonel Hartley sat down and listened.

  “Sally, how did you know that my French friend had died?”

  Sally looked away, then back, then away again. “I’m not going to ask you another time,” Tom said.

  “He didn’t die,” Sally said.

  “… What are you saying?”

  “I was told to tell you that.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Colonel Franz Stangl.”

  “Why?”

  “He was afraid that if you knew your friend was still alive you’d try to contact him.”

  “Of course I would. Where is Gilles? Look at me, Sally—where is he?”

  “He’s in prison.”

  “Where?”

  “In a village called Oberkirch, close to Alsace.”

  “Do you know if he’s being tortured?”

  “I don’t think so. Colonel Stangl said they want your friend to tell them more about other French Resistance fighters … how they communicate with each other, and how many there are in Alsace. They need him alive for now.”

  “Have they done anything to Gilles’s family?”

  “Colonel Stangl never mentioned them.”

  “Where do you send your messages, Sally?”

  “To Freiburg, fifty miles from Alsace, because Freiburg can send them to other locations all over Germany.”

  Tom looked at Colonel Hartley, indicating that he was through with his questioning.

  “All right, Sally, that’s enough for today,” Colonel Hartley said. “If what you’ve told us is true, I’ll take it under consideration. I won’t be the actual judge, you understand, but I might have some influence when the time comes. For now, I want you to ask for the things you need from your home. One of our WAAFs will take your key, and you just tell her where your things are and what you want. You’ll be in a special location. Not luxurious, but not so bad as a prison. It’s a small house and has a decent bed and bathroom.”

  Colonel Hartley pressed the intercom.

  “Morris, ask the MPs to escort Miss Bedloe to the Internment House and please ask someone from WAAF headquarters to meet her there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Morris answered.

  “And ask Captain Pryce to come in here right now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Morris answered.

  Colonel Hartley turned off the intercom and looked at Tom. “I know what the hell you’re thinking, so don’t look at me with that sour puss. That’s why I asked for Captain Pryce.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, Colonel?”

  “I’m talking about getting your friend out of that prison.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Captain Pryce and Tom sat with Colonel Hartley around the little table where the colonel always served tea or coffee.

  “It’s called Death Camp Oberkirch,” Captain Pryce said. “It’s located near a railroad and it’s surrounded by thick trees. It’s run by SS Obersturmführer Franz Stangl, a veteran of the Nazi euthanasia program. In Gilles Piccard’s case I’m sure Miss Bedloe was right—Stangl will want to keep him alive, at least for a while, in order to get more names of French Resistance fighters.”

  “Do we still have agent Brian Lewis in the Alsace neighborhood?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, we do,” Captain Pryce said.

  “And are you still in touch with Claude Breton?” Tom asked.

  “We can be,” Captain Pryce said.

  “I have an idea, Colonel, if you’ll let me go there,” Tom said.

  “Go where?”

  “To Camp Oberkirch.”

  “Stop it now!” the colonel said. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re just here to help us figure out this thing. You’re a cripple, for Christ’s sake!”

  Tom suddenly got up and did a little two-step, soft-shoe dance.

  “All right, all right—excuse me, Mr. Astaire. What brilliant idea have you come up with this time?”

  “Does Brian Lewis speak German?”

  “He was born in Alsace,” Pryce said.

  “If Brian and Claude dressed as Nazi soldiers, and if they brought me into Camp Oberkirch dressed as a Frenchman and then told whoever was in charge at the entrance that they found this French Resistance fighter who was about to blow up something or other … I think I’d get in.”

  “That probably could work,” Captain Pryce
said, looking at the colonel to guage his approval.

  Colonel Hartley stared at Tom. “You want to try your hardest to get into a death camp … while everyone else in the death camp wants to get out. Damn good idea! But tell me, how do you plan on getting you and your friend out of there? What happens if, by some little piece of bad luck, neither one of you ever gets out?”

  “I can’t tell you exactly how, sir, but I think there must be a lot of French Resistance fighters imprisoned in Oberkirch. With ten or eleven men who are still strong enough, maybe we could start another French Revolution. All the other prisoners would then hopefully join us in our fight to get out.”

  Colonel Hartley put his hand over his mouth until his heart slowed down. “Either this man is dead or my watch has stopped.”

  “What does that mean?” Tom asked.

  “It means you should have been in the movie Monkey Business with the Marx Brothers. You’re brave and you’re smart, and you’re a damned good officer, and I don’t want to send you off to your death, do you understand that?”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Anna’s tears were dripping into her glass of wine in the Shepherdess Café.

  “You can’t, you can’t. Please darling, don’t go there, unless you take me with you.… You know how tough I was in Denmark and how good I was in Alsace. I can help you, and I don’t know what I’d do if you were there and I was in London waiting for you to come back to me.”

  “I would take you with me, darling, if they let women into Oberkirch. But it’s one of those stuffy, exclusive kind of men-only places. And all the men would be flirting with you every single day, and I’d be so jealous I’d start to cry and I’d probably write my mother that I wanted to come home.”

  Anna started to giggle while she cried. “That’s not funny,” she said. “And I tell better jokes than you.”

  “Well, let’s hear a few. I could use a good laugh right now.”

  “I don’t feel like telling jokes. You don’t love me anymore.”