He seized the moment of their hesitation, turned abruptly, rushed at the door. Crazy Pierre barred the way. Jean-Paul gave him a body block, tore the rifle from his grasp, and threw it to the street. He rushed into the hallway. One thrust of his powerful right leg knocked a cellar door panel loose. There was sufficient space for the Germans to squeeze through.
“Quick! Quick, for God’s sake, or the building will fall in on us all!”
“Here, Sepp, give me your hand.”
Then he pulled Otto through and young Herberger, frightened and babbling something to him. Someone was beside him now, attacking the door with an axe. It cracked, splintered, burst apart. Another panting German stepped out and another. Last of all came the baron.
Through the smoke in the light of the blaze, the German recognized Varin and threw his arms around him.
“Jean-Paul, believe me! I did not give the order to fire. I did not kill your father.”
He held the younger man tight. Varin in turn clasped him. He nodded. “Oui, je sais, je sais,” he said. I know. I know.
Once outside in the crisp sea air the Germans staggered about, limp and dazed, some trembling. But the dementia of the moment seemed to have passed. That evil atmosphere seemed to have vanished. Villagers were helping the German athletes and the minibus driver, supporting them, leading them away from the fire. A woman brought them water from a bucket.
Now, except for Crazy Pierre and the widow Le Gallec, who was still screaming about the Butcher of Nogent-Plage, everybody was quiet, chastened, frightened as they perceived how narrowly a tragedy had been averted. Inside the Bloch villa the flames hissed and roared, but hoses were now playing into the windows. The danger was past.
Jean-Paul and the baron had appeared on the steps with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Now they stood across the street from the burning building, still with their arms around each other’s shoulders. It was difficult to tell who was supporting whom.
Then quick, explicit, unmistakable came the sound of the shot. The baron’s hand went up, clutching his temple. He spun around and tumbled to the pavement at Varin’s feet.
“Ah...” a collective groan came from them all as Crazy Pierre raced down the Grande Rue, waving his rifle in the air.
There lay the man. Jean-Paul looked at the red puncture on his forehead from which the blood was pouring. He slipped down beside him weeping, beside the dead body of his enemy, his friend.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright 1967 by Lucy R. Tunis
cover design by Milan Bozic
978-1-4532-2114-3
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
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New York, NY 10014
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His Enemy, His Friend Page 12