Single to Paris

by Single to Paris (retail) (epub)

  ‘Up with you! Up!’

  It, wielding torch and truncheon. Should have been some kind of hate-crazed animal at It’s throat by now, thumbs gouging into its eyes – with its head back then as it would have been, throat exposed: and for want of a knife, teeth… Couldn’t have slept more than a minute: couldn’t. On the other hand, since It had come several hours early and accompanied, she – would-be wild-cat Rosie – hadn’t blown anything, had only been pre-empted.

  Wouldn’t it have been Pinhead’s turn anyway? Mind and memory had to be off their bloody hinges!

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Come for you, bitch, is what!’ Pointing with the truncheon: ‘Want your wrists, don’t he! Come, English slut – wrists!’

  She was telling her companions in German then what she’d just said. Smirking, proud of it – choice of abusive terms, linguistic skill. Rosie had been sitting up, one of them had jerked her to her feet while another slammed the handcuffs on, squeezed them tight. Helmet-jerk and a snapped order – ‘Raus!’ Meaning ‘Out!’, one of the very few words in German that she recognised. Torch-beams not only on her but wandering around poking at this and that – floor, walls, that shelf, the useless overhead bulb; illuminating also machine-pistols, shiny boots, SS uniforms. Three of them, plus It. Torches centring on her again as she moved towards the open door and they backed out of the cell ahead of her, unpleasant faces showing distaste – as if they thought she’d created the atmosphere down here. It was already out there, waiting to precede them to the barred door which led into the urine-stinking cellar. Lucky to have eyes now in that pudding face – would never know what it had missed. Wednesday, Rosie reminded herself, wishing the handcuffs weren’t so tight: Wednesday August the 23rd. Comeuppance day, the day she’d go to where Ben thought she was already. In not much of a state to make that transition, either: whether angels with harps or devils with red-hot tridents, they’d be holding their noses when she floated in, she guessed. Not all that amusing, in fact pretty weak, but one had to think of something other than what was actually happening here and now and before long would be culminating somewhere else. All right, so think of Ben, talk to him, maybe he’ll hear you in his dreams the way you thought you heard him the other night. For one’s own sake anyway, the escape of talking to him. Ben, my darling, this is where it finishes, really has to, nothing I can do about it. Had a crazy plan in mind, would have been very satisfying if it had come off – I’d have loved to have told you about it one day, in some London pub maybe or better still in bed – but the sods forestalled me, I never got to try it. Had this coming, dare say, had a good run for my money and I suppose taken a lot of amazingly good luck for granted. It’s all right, anyway, nothing’s hurting yet and maybe won’t, there’ll be no torture because there’s nothing they want to know that I haven’t told them. Well, not much. What that smarmy bastard Clausen didn’t have the nous to ask me I wouldn’t have told him anyway – so maybe it’s as well he didn’t. Oh, Ben, what a bloody waste of all the lovely years we thought we had ahead of us; hey, damn it – the Boche behind her had poked her in the back with the barrel of his Schmeisser: she was climbing the spiral of stone stairs up which she’d envisaged herself creeping like a tiger or leopard leaving its kill – with that truncheon in her hand ready for re-use. It unconscious and maybe blinded, maybe dead or bleeding to death in the locked cell back there – instead of heaving her squat bulk up step by step with the jerky motion of a semi-cripple, truncheon swinging on a thong from the thick wrist of a stubby arm with which she was steadying herself against the right-hand wall as she climbed, torch in the other hand lighting the stairs ahead. Rosie with her arms in front of her of course, wrists linked close together; meek and mild and dirty, not thinking about escape now, knowing she didn’t have a chance: deflated, depressed and frightened – which as always was the one thing absolutely not to show. Across the short landing where in some earlier age they’d had a Gestapo guard posted; climbing again now, wondering whether Clausen would put in an appearance at the execution – which she supposed would take place at one of the forts or at the Vincennes castle. At dawn, perhaps? She doubted if he’d show his face, though. For one thing, he never had anything to do with such nastiness, he’d maintained – only consigned his victims to it – and for another, if he didn’t have to get up early, why should he? He’d be tucked up with Jacqui in their flat, making the most of his remaining days and/or nights with her, and probably not saying a word about how he’d settled Jeanne-Marie’s hash for her. Jeanne-Marie would simply have failed to get in touch with them as she’d said she would: then he’d be taking off, and as for Jacqui – who gave a damn?

  Actually, she did. Rather liked her. Wouldn’t have left her on the loose around Ben for long, but otherwise – yes, did. Tart, for sure, but… weren’t there worse things?

  Clausen might have some regrets at leaving her to face the music. Might: one still had one’s doubts on that score. While as for Léonie – Yvette – and Derek—

  Haven’t done them much good.

  There was another SS trooper at the top, leaning there with a Schmeisser in his hands. Exchanges in German now between him and the one behind her. Then they were off the stairs and through the arch-topped doorway into the vestibule where you turned right to get to the front – this end of it anyway, it was a very large building and there were probably several entrances – or left to reach the stairs, that staircase. Turning right now, of course, the one behind having grabbed her arm and swung her that way, given her a shove. He might be the one who’d brought her to Clausen on Monday night, or might not: they looked so much alike, and emitted precisely the same sounds when communicating with each other; she couldn’t see any of them as individuals, barely in fact as humans. Could see them as Clausen’s close associates though – SD being the security service of the SS, there wasn’t much of a dividing line. SS of course ran the extermination camps, herded Jews to gas-ovens, fired the volleys that sent men, women and children tumbling into pits.

  Jacqui know anything about such things, she wondered?

  She thought there was a chance they wouldn’t send her to Ravensbrück now, road and rail movements being as difficult as they must be by this time. In that respect, she thought, maybe my luck’s still in. Looking round for wood to touch – but that one had grasped her arm again, was leading her out into cool night air and she was gulping it, happily surprised, even exhilarated by it – and ignoring the way the gravel hurt her feet. She’d left the slippers down there: the one she’d used to cushion her grip on that nut had been in tatters anyway. So, barefoot, what the hell, it wouldn’t be for long anyway; unless her destination should be Ravensbrück. Meanwhile – breathing clean air, looking up at cloudy sky; there was a light breeze from – oh, south, south-west. Moon very low, wasn’t much of it anyway. Behind her, one of them was thanking It for its kind assistance – some such courtesy. Rosie still looking up at the sky and taking deep breaths when her escort halted her at the rear end of another of those small trucks, the kind in which they’d brought her here, and another of them climbed up into it and then hauled her up, dumped her at the forward end of the left-hand bench and parked himself beside her. The rest embarking then: one facing her, another pulling up the tailgate and securing it, the fourth getting in up front. Rosie leaning forward, manacled forearms on her knees, so as to face the open rear: the night air still a blessing, despite wafts of cigarette smoke as all three of them lit up.

  Question was – as the truck’s engine fired and it started across the forecourt – taking her where?

  Not that it made all that much difference. Only please God might it not be Gare de l’Est.

  Chapter 19

  Out of Rue des Saussaies south-westward: it was an encouraging indication but not conclusive. Although prospects were further improved then by turning from there into Avenue de Marigny, which was not the way you’d send anyone who wanted to get to the Gare de l’Est. Unless this driver wanted to keep to cert
ain major thoroughfares – like turning left at the bottom into the Champs-Elysées, then up Rue Royale and so on. Could be simply a route he preferred or knew best. The hell with it anyway, with it and with them too. She leaned back, shut her eyes. Being surrounded by them and at their mercy as well as foul and very hungry reminded her of how she’d felt for poor old Gulliver when he’d been in the land of the creatures who’d pelted him with their excrement. She didn’t remember what they were called, and these didn’t go that far – or hadn’t yet – but they were as far removed from one’s own concepts of humanity and normality as those had been from Gulliver’s. Yahoos, they were called, she remembered. She’d opened her eyes in thinking of them, was looking at as much as was visible to her of the one en face, whose knee-caps were only a few inches from her own. His face was too small, under the width of his helmet: thin and pointed like a rat’s. Long, thin nose very rodent-like: if it had quivered, you’d hardly have been surprised. He was looking back at her now, she realised: she could make out the gleam of rat’s eyes. With her own only partly open and her head tilted back against the canvas, she’d thought he wouldn’t know he was under observation, but in that moment he’d winked at her: she’d seen it because at the same time he’d been drawing hard at the last inch of his cigarette – illuminating amongst other features the tip of the ratty nose.

  She’d shut her eyes. Thinking Don’t believe it…

  In the state she was in? Like something recently dragged out of a sewer? Pale, sweaty, dirty, stinking?

  One sewer rat’s greeting to another, maybe?

  Or even – serious consideration of this now – an expression of sympathy, a wordless Never mind, stick it out?

  Even some Yahoos might have sensibilities?

  The truck swung right: into the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. Heading west now. She’d reopened her eyes and was leaning forward to see out past the man on her right; and that was where they were. A mile or so astern in a haze of moonlight – indistinguishable, you knew what was contained in that haze, was all – was the Place de la Concorde and the monumental gateway to the Tuileries; while the way this truck was going – if it held on the same way – well, half a kilometre say to the Rondpoint, then another one and a half to the Etoile.

  Rue de la Pompe, then? Rue Lauriston?

  Rat-face had dropped his cigarette-stub on the floor of the truck and put his heel on it. The movement had caused her to glance at him, but with no moonlight getting in he was only a toadstool-like shape hunched in the darkness and smelling of cigarettes. Probably had not winked, she thought. How would one have seen it, in the momentarily brightened glow of a cigarette-stub? Trick of one spark of light, plus somewhat dopey imagination – not a vestige of rapport of any kind. One thing you could be damn sure of was that they weren’t going to let one escape. It would be why they’d put her on the inside with rat’s eyes on her at point-blank range and the other two between her and the tailgate. If one did take a loony chance on it – sudden dash, dive over the tailboard – well, sounded loony, but with no street lighting and so little moon – if one made it that far alive and without limbs broken—

  They had torches, for God’s sake, and Schmeissers.

  Not going to try it, Ben, old darling. Would have had a chance with that Gestapo woman in the cell, I think, but here there’d be none at all.

  She leaned back again, shut her eyes: All right, I’m dead already, aren’t I? For all you know, I am. And as it’s turned out – well, what’s the difference? If a chance did come up, mind you…

  You’d only have to hide out for a few days. The Allies weren’t going to leave Paris to rot and starve for ever. Leblanc was out there somewhere in any case. And in the present chaotic state of things…

  She wondered whether Leblanc and/or Fernagut and company had been successful in their raid on the armoury, and whether if they had they’d go for the Rue de la Pompe this next night.

  Rondpoint: trundling round it. Avenue Matignan slanting away north-eastward. Victor Emanuel a dark slot leading due north. As well to keep oneself orientated as far as possible, through rearward glimpses of where one had been. Brief view then in something like close-up of one of those Boche troop-carrying vehicles with helmeted soldiery in it – on it – machine-guns on swivel mountings at each end. Some kind of searchlight or floodlight that you were in for a moment and then out of and still dazzled. So much for ideas of escape, for heaven’s sake. Out of the Rondpoint now anyway, and still heading west. From here to the Etoile – yes, about one and a half. A year ago she’d done most of this stretch on foot, she remembered. Carrying a suitcase and her radio, at that. She’d come up out of the Métro at Concorde and walked from there, on her way to call on Pierre Cazalet in Rue de la Boétie. Had thought doing it à pied might be safer, having suspected she might have a tail. Had forgotten just how far it was – could have stayed in the Métro another couple of stages, and very soon wished she had.

  Doing it in style now, she teased herself. Personal transport, and armed escort. Not to the Rue Boétie, admittedly.

  Where, though?

  ‘Want to smoke?’

  Guttural French – from the one on her right, who’d turned her way slightly to make the offer: switching a torch on to show her a packet of German cigarettes, the kind Clausen smoked.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Having to move both hands, of course, but he pushed them away, put a cigarette between her lips, and the man opposite – Rat-face – leaned forward with a match flaring between cupped hands. Rosie inclined herself that way, and when it was lit brought her hands up again so she could take it out of her mouth long enough to thank them both. She was both surprised and genuinely grateful: leaning back, inhaling greedily, realising how much she’d needed this and telling them after a moment – whether or not they’d understand her – ‘It’s very, very good. Thank you.’

  ‘English?’

  The one beside her had asked it. Someone must have told him – told them. She nodded: ‘Half English, half French.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Mama English, Papa French.’

  Grunts of comprehension; and conversational efforts seemingly concluded. It was a good smoke, though. And why bother with giving up the habit if you didn’t have such a great stretch of life ahead of you in any case? About a kilometre to go, she guessed, to the Etoile. Wondering whether to ask them where were they taking her. Whether they’d understand the question, or resent it, or even know the answer. And whether she needed to know, whether the rest of the trip mightn’t be less uncomfortable without knowing. Since the answer might well be Rue Lauriston or Rue de la Pompe. Clausen did have dealings with Lafont, he’d admitted it, and that might include handing prisoners over to him when he’d finished with them.

  But what for?

  Well – disposal. Clearing the decks, prior to evacuation. If they couldn’t ship one east, didn’t have anywhere to lock one up, didn’t in any case want to leave evidence lying around?

  She thought the truck might be doing about 40 kph. One kilometre in a minute and a half, say. But having no watch – not having thought to ask that Gestapo thing to give it back to her. Fat chance anyway, she’d as like as not have responded with her truncheon. The truck was slowing, she realised: doubtless the Etoile coming up. Might learn something – for better or for worse – from which way one branched off now. Circling the great arch with its currently not visible swastika banner hanging from it – an insult and provocation to the entire French nation; continuing straight on would mean following the Avenue de la Grande Armée – to God only knew where – well, Neuilly, of course – and the one after that would be Avenue Foch, off which after a certain distance a left fork would take one into Rue de la Pompe. Or, carrying on round past Foch, Avenue Victor Hugo, and then – before Kleber – Rue Lauriston.

  Turning off now, though. Avenue Foch was her guess. Destination therefore Rue de la Pompe? Accepting it as probable, although the prospect chilled her. If she was right
, the turn into it would come in a bit less than a kilometre. She’d come on this route but in the opposite direction – out of Pompe into Foch and thence to the Etoile – with Nico on Monday. Straining her memory – there was another broad avenue intersecting with Foch at right angles: not as wide or as grand as Foch but still a big one. Poincaré? She thought so. This was Avenue Foch – no doubt of it, from the rear view she had now: and the left fork into Rue de la Pompe led out of that Poincaré intersection. Truck still picking up speed, having slowed so much in getting round l’Etoile. Allow one minute, she told herself, and you’ll either fork left or you won’t.

  Please, let’s not?

  Eyes shut, counting seconds. Remembering Lafont and his unpleasantly high voice and what Clausen had said about him at lunch on Sunday. But would the boss of the Lauriston Gestapo be up and about at whatever time it was now – 3 am, say, something of that sort?

  Maybe. These weren’t normal times.

  Should be at the intersection by now. Getting ready for it: telling herself, If that’s what it’s to be, too bad. Not a thing you can do about it. Only grit your teeth and – oh, pray to God it’s over quickly. And if it isn’t, if they make you wait for it, lose yourself in thoughts of Ben, and the lovely times with him…

  Ben as refuge. The best she knew, had ever known.

  She was surprised they hadn’t made the turn by now. Counting too fast – or miscalculated the distance, maybe. It surely did have to be Rue de la Pompe. Having come this far and straight as a die, so to speak, and being the worst prospect of all, therefore the one you had to accept as the most likely…

  It did make unpleasant sense, transfer from SD to Bonny-Lafont for the purpose of being got rid of. Ravensbrück no-go on account of transport problems, the SD complex on Avenue Foch having shut down, Rue des Saussaies the same now – and Fresnes emptied of all its prisoners, hadn’t Georges told her? Disposal of prisoners would be a major problem. ‘Disposal of’ being a phrase that had cropped up recently in some conversation, she thought, not just in her own thinking as it was doing again now. One was, admittedly, to some extent confused – frightened as well as empty-feeling, nowhere near the pink of condition either mentally or physically. Best to keep that in mind, perhaps, allow for it, discount at least some of this sense of – inevitability… Drawing on the last of her cigarette, deciding it might be safe by now to assume that her destination was not the Rue de la Pompe house…