“I’ll let him know how grateful you are. Now fuck off.”
Laroche looked as if he wanted to attack me. Then he spun around as we both heard a cough. Frankenstein was standing in the background, his massive figure watching us. How much he had heard or understood I had no idea, but he pointed a finger at Laroche then went and opened the front door of the bank. He stood waiting. Laroche reluctantly went out.
“Sayonara,” the caretaker grunted, then shut the door.
I thanked him, said I’d be leaving, and sent my regards to his wife and the children. He wished me well. It was the second real conversation we’d had in almost three years, both of them in the space of a few hours.
Hugo Kranz’s home in Azabu was still standing. Some houses in the same street had been hit by explosive bombs, others had burned. But in this prestigious district with its more substantial buildings, there was nowhere near the same amount of damage as in central Tokyo or the working class areas.
Alex had no difficulty in finding the keys to the shed where the car was garaged. It was a four-cylinder Datsun, small and rather square in shape, the first successful attempt to manufacture a local car before all factories had been turned to war production. He tried the ignition key; to his relief the engine started. He experimented with the gears until he felt sure he had found reverse, then let out the clutch. The Datsun shot forward and hit a stack of empty oil cans.
“Shit,” he said, and stamped on the brake just in time to prevent any serious damage. He studied the gear lever, then finally wiggled it into what seemed the correct position, eased very carefully on the clutch this time, and smiled with relief as the car went safely backwards out of the shed. He parked it on the road, hurried back to collect the extra can of petrol, lock the building, swiftly check the maps in the glove box to plan his best route, then put the car into first gear to ease it forward.
It promptly stalled.
“Bugger,” he shouted, then realised he had tried to start off in top gear instead of low. Five minutes later, driving carefully but feeling more confident, he passed the Count’s house, glad he would be able to report it was still standing after last night’s raid.
It was not yet noon, and he’d been lucky. Expecting to have a long walk from the Ginza, with no trains running and taxis clearly impossible, he’d found an abandoned bicycle. There were bodies in the vicinity, but no sign of a living owner. Alex had to straighten a buckled front wheel; the bike still wobbled slightly, but he’d heard no shouts of outrage as he’d pedalled away. It was the first piece of good fortune he’d had in an otherwise awful morning. Instead of spending most of the day trudging across the city to pick up the Datsun, he had arrived in less than two hours.
Now, with not much traffic, he would be able to avoid the main roads and the narrow streets of Shinjuku, and cut across north-west Tokyo to pick up the start of the mountain road. With any sort of luck, providing the car gave no trouble, he might even reach Karuizawa before dark.
Four hours later he was no longer optimistic. He had travelled barely 10 kilometres. Every few minutes there had been roadblocks or signs creating diversions; one street after another had been blocked by debris, or else the emergency crews were clearing corpses for disposal. He had so often been ordered to detour that he’d begun to feel he was in a maze. At times he had to stop and consult the street maps, feeling completely lost.
In addition the police were causing even more chaos, stopping every vehicle to interrogate the drivers. What’s your destination? Your reason for the journey? They demanded registration papers and driving licences. Fortunately Carl had left the documents in the Datsun, and Alex blessed this foresight as well as Suzuki’s assistance in providing a licence. Without it, he would probably be under arrest, unable to prove he had not stolen the car.
But the main reason for his slow progress was the crowds of fleeing refugees. All roads that led out of the city were packed with people trying to escape to the countryside. Some pulled handcarts in which their belongings were stored, others pushed wheelbarrows; the rest, the vast majority trudged carrying small bundles of clothing or food, or whatever had survived and was important to them. Those who had bicycles walked beside them, for the pace was too slow and the road too full of people to be able to ride.
There was no possibility of a car getting through this mass exodus. He had tried using the horn, but those ahead had refused to give way, turning and shouting at him, then realising he was a gaijin one had kicked the car, and others spat at the windows. It was only a moment of reaction before they trudged on. Alex was trapped to their walking pace. All he could do was stop and let them all pass, or inch his way forward as he had been doing, uncomfortably aware that to proceed like this would use up the precious tank of petrol more rapidly than at normal speed. The fuel gauge had already dropped to almost half. There was the extra tin in the back, but it contained only a gallon. At this rate he might have insufficient fuel to reach Karuizawa, and there was no easy way to find a black market source where he could buy more. Besides, attempting that in country districts where he knew no-one could be dangerous. If ever I reach the country districts, he thought exhaustedly.
Houses were more widely spaced, but this was still Tokyo. He estimated he had the best part of 90 kilometres ahead of him. If it was a straight, flat road that would be bad enough at this pace, but soon the road would begin to climb and become tortuous. Driving would be difficult. There was no likelihood of reaching Karuizawa until sometime tomorrow, and he was unsure if he could keep driving for much longer. Once darkness fell, he decided it might be best to pull into the side of the road and try to sleep. By morning, perhaps it would be less crowded.
In fact, as it became twilight, the people themselves began to find places beside the road to settle for the night. By the time it was dark, so many had left the road that Alex was able to switch on his headlights and accelerate slightly, although there were still people determinedly pulling carts, and those with bicycles were now taking the opportunity to ride them, so any speed, even if he dared to speed, was out of the question. But even 20 kilometres an hour seemed like a satisfying pace after six hours of frustration. He estimated that all being well, despite the serpentine mountain road, he should arrive by midnight.
Outside the town of Okegawa the headlights picked out a couple in the middle of the road. A man was waving frantically; the woman with him was hugely pregnant and seemed in terrible distress. Alex had no choice; he pulled up.
“Her baby’s coming,” the man said when realising Alex understood him. “Please, can you take us to the hospital?”
“Where is it?”
“At Kumagaya.”
Alex knew the town was about 10 kilometres by train, but on this road was unsure how long it would take them.
“Get in,” he said, and the husband helped his wife into the back seat, while she tried to bow and offer her heartfelt thanks for this assistance. She was in extreme pain; he glimpsed her face contorting with the anguish of a contraction, and wished she would stop being polite and let him find the hospital.
“Whereabouts in Kumagaya?” he asked, driving off. He accelerated only slightly, for he was concerned the rough potholes on the road might cause the woman unnecessary suffering.
The husband — he was a local carpenter — said he didn’t know where. Only that there was a hospital somewhere in the town, and he apologised for the alarm, but they had badly miscalculated.
“What do you mean miscalculated?” Alex asked.
The carpenter said they had thought the baby was due in about two weeks. But it now seemed as if his wife might be giving birth in a few minutes.
Alex decided to hell with the jolting road surface, or any suffering, and he leaned on the accelerator and gave the car as much extra throttle as he dared. For a short time all seemed well. In the back seat the wife was moaning softly, the husband murmuring gently to console her. Too late, he saw the deviation ahead. They spun into a sharp bend. He had to brake sudden
ly, and the car skidded. It slid dangerously across the dirt and gravel out of his control, the headlights illuminating a nightmare drop at the edge of the road, and just when he thought they would plummet into the valley below, he managed to wrench the wheel and they spiralled into another skid that brought them to a stop facing back the way they had come.
The woman screamed. The scream was inches away, behind Alex’s head, and frightened him more than the near accident. He found reverse gear, managed to reverse although clashing the gears as he turned the car in the right direction, and they surged forward again.
“Don’t you worry,” Alex assured them with more confidence than he felt, “tell her not to be afraid. I’ll get you there safely.”
“It’s not your driving that made her scream,” her husband said. “The baby’s head has just appeared.”
It was moments later he saw the dark outline of a farmhouse, and turned off the road. The wife continued screaming. They pulled up and Alex leaned on the horn until a light went on inside the house. A woman rushed out, and yelled at Alex to stop the noise. When he did she heard the screaming from inside the Datsun. She came running to the car, accusingly.
“What’s happened? What have you done?” she shouted at Alex. She was a large, rather ferocious looking woman.
“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “We’re having a baby. In fact, I think we’ve had one.” The wife gave one last piercing scream, and there was no longer any doubt of that. Carl’s Datsun was never going to be quite the same again.
The hospital in Kumagaya was little more than a cottage, and Alex found it soon after 2am. They had to wake a nurse and the carpenter helped his wife and new baby into a large room which was the only ward. Neither mother nor child seemed any the worse for the unconventional birth.
This was principally due to their good fortune from stopping at the farmhouse, where the aggressive woman had turned out to be practical and efficient. She had cut and tied the umbilical cord, ensured the child was breathing properly, then ordered the husband to carry his wife inside. She cleaned her and the baby, insisted she sleep for two hours, handed both men scrubbing brushes and hot water, and gave them orders to scour and clean the back seat of the car. Finally, with the mother comfortably cradling the baby, she had given Alex strict instructions to drive with care, and sent them on their way.
“Big strong woman,” the carpenter said, bidding goodbye to Alex at the hospital with profuse thanks and an exchange of bows.
“Bossy,” Alex said, “but we were lucky we found her.”
“And lucky we find you,” the carpenter said. He was still bowing his gratitude as Alex drove away.
From here on it would be slow going, he imagined, and wished he knew the road better, but he had never come to the mountains other than by train. Perhaps two more hours to Takasaki, and then an hour to Karuizawa. He could be there for breakfast, and decided it was better to continue than try to sleep in the car. He looked again at the fuel gauge. He’d added the gallon of black market petrol to the tank back at the farmhouse while they cleaned out the car, but it had made little difference to the gauge.
Just drive and hope, he thought, and wished he was sitting in the warmth of the train, reading or dozing while the driver and fireman did the hard work. On the other hand, perhaps the trains were not yet running. It seemed doubtful if they’d be able to leave from Tokyo, and he wondered if there had been further raids. He thought of the Frankensteins and hoped the boys were safe.
The gradient of the road became steeper. He changed to second gear as the engine began to labour, and finally reached the crest of a hill. There, the road was now straight as far as he could see. Headlights revealed a pine forest on one side and small farms on the other. There were tiny scattered houses, but no lights in any of them. It was along this stretch — without the slightest warning — that the fuel finally ran out. The engine did not even splutter or cough, it simply stopped turning. The car ran under its own velocity for a short distance, then gradually lost speed and came to a halt.
Alex tried the ignition again, but it was hopeless. The tank was empty. He checked his watch. It was five minutes past three and pitch dark after he switched off the headlights to save the battery. Dawn was at least two-and-a-half hours away, and without the mild heat generated by the engine it was already freezing cold.
23
A HELPING HAND
“Petrol?” the farmer said. “I ride a bike and push a hand plough. I haven’t seen a drop of petrol in more than two years.”
“Would there be anyone else who could help?”
“Not here. Used to be a black marketeer in Fujioka, about five miles away, but they caught him. Shot him, someone said, but I heard they put him in the army, and the enemy shot him.” The farmer was a wiry man with a face full of creases and acquisitive eyes.
It was barely light. Alex, who had been huddled in the car trying to sleep, and when this proved impossible had walked up and down to restore circulation and keep warm, decided he’d get a better welcome at one of the farms if he waited until the occupants were awake. No-one would respond kindly to a knock on the door in the dark. Finally, a glimpse of a lantern had alerted him, and he’d seen this man emerge from one of the houses to milk a tethered goat. Acquainted with the temperament of goats, he’d waited until the milking was completed before approaching.
“That yours, is it?” The farmer indicated the Datsun, looking forlorn on the roadside about 200 metres away.
“No, it belongs to a friend of mine,” Alex said. “I’m taking it to Karuizawa for him.”
“Not without petrol, you can’t.” His gaze at Alex was now openly speculative. “Trying to get to Karuizawa, eh? Can’t say I’ve ever been to it, but I hear rich people have homes up there. Mostly foreigners. You’re foreign.”
“French,” Alex said, hoping it might help. Which it didn’t. The farmer shrugged, his focus on the abandoned vehicle.
“So what’ll you do with the little car?”
“I’ll have to see if I can find someone to tow it.”
“Nobody has a tractor to do that sort of thing. And if they did, they wouldn’t have the petrol to drive it. So, what else can you do?”
“Maybe find a farmer with a barn, who could keep it safe.”
“A barn, eh? I’ve got a barn.”
“Yes, I noticed. It looks big.”
“Biggest barn in these parts,” the farmer said smugly. “How long would you want it kept for?”
“Until my friend can collect it.” He was trying to avoid saying when the war was over, in case he was asked his opinion about that.
“But how long? A few days? A week? A month?”
“A few months, I’d say. Until he can buy some petrol.”
“Black market petrol?” The other man’s eyes were sharp.
“Not worth the risk,” Alex replied hastily.
“Well, there’s no hope of buying any legally,” the farmer said. “But when we win the war, the government promised there’ll be all the gasoline and everything else we want.”
“That’s right,” Alex was anxious to get this resolved. “The car may have to stay until then. But it won’t be much longer now until our certain victory.”
If he thought a pretence of patriotism would help, he was wrong. The farmer struck a hard bargain. He and his neighbours would push the Datsun along the road to his barn. The cost would be 50 yen shared between them. Alex tried to haggle.
“Fifty? I could get it towed by a machine for that.”
“But there’s no machines. You want it left where it is?”
“Definitely not,” Alex said. “How about we settle for 10 yen each neighbour who helps us,” he proposed. “That sounds fair to me.”
“Right,” was the prompt reply. “I’ve got six neighbours who’ll all help, so it’s 60 yen.”
“But hold on a minute …” Alex started to protest.
“Your idea,” the farmer said. “Now about storage charges. Te
n yen each week, until the owner collects it.”
“Five yen a week.”
“Ten, or it stays where it is. After all, I’ve got to make room in the barn. Nobody does anything for nothing, not these days.”
Alex sighed. Of all the locals he had to choose, he’d picked the sharpest and most avaricious. But what could he do but agree? If he left the car unprotected, this man would have the wheels and the battery removed and sold by nightfall. And he was fed up, exhausted, and badly in need of food and sleep.
“It’s a deal,” he said.
“In advance,” the farmer told him. “I was always told, if you deal with any gaijin it’s best to get the money in advance.”
It took the farmer and his neighbours only minutes to put their combined weight behind the car and push it from where it had run out of fuel to the farmer’s barn. They thought it a great joke, to be so well paid for so little time. It then took Alex all the morning and half that afternoon to walk to the railway station at Takasaki. There he bought some food and fell asleep waiting for the local train. A friendly station guard shook him awake when the train arrived, asked where he was going, and told other people in the carriage to make sure they woke him at the transit stop for Karuizawa.
Alex’s last thought before falling peacefully asleep to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, was that he hoped never to see Carl’s Datsun again. Instead, tomorrow, he contemplated the happy prospect of spending the day with Odette — and if miracles were possible — perhaps part of the night as well.
24
THE NEW NAZI
Herr Doktor Wirtz was distinctly Aryan, blonde and tall, and made no secret of the fact that he was a party member. All his family were party members. As Claude Briand said to his friends, the doctor only required a black uniform and a swastika on his arm to be the very model of an SS officer.
When Hans Wirtz met Odette Daubigny, it was not by accident. He had seen her in the town, and admired her figure in a short tennis skirt on the court. He made it his business to find out her identity and after that, it was not difficult to contrive a meeting. He had called on the French Ambassador, a courtesy visit to pay his respects he said, and over coffee and brandy brought up the subject of golf. He’d heard the Ambassador was a fine golfer and he himself loved the game. Perhaps a friendly match could be arranged? He’d already enjoyed a few rounds with young Wilhelm Volkmann. He felt sure the Ambassador knew the Volkmanns, a respected Swiss family? Volkmann senior was a director of the Red Cross in Japan, and the son virtually ran the organisation for him. And if the idea should appeal, Dr Wirtz hoped His Excellency would bring his golfing partner and neighbour, the Head of Chancellery, Monsieur Daubigny.
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