“Well Jack. We are very pleased to meet you. Very pleased indeed. Now we go…”
“But – how come you are all here?”
“I know – you will have many questions… and we have questions for you… but we must move or the Nazis will come…”
Jean-Yves started to move from the platform to a very narrow spiral staircase. Ours and Patrice helped Angus, who was unsteady on his feet.
“Is this how we get down?”
“Yes Jack – a long way down. The lifts are not working…”
“Why not?”
Jean-Yves flashed him a smile. “We sabotaged them, mon ami. Hitler may have conquered France, but he will not conquer the Eiffel Tower. If he wants to get to the top, he will have to walk…”
“Is that why you’re up here – to break the lifts?”
“Not only…”
Jack remembered the strange sight of the Nazi Swastika flag falling to the ground. “You have been to the top and taken down the German flag?”
Jean-Yves stopped on the staircase and looked back at Jack. He smiled. “You have a lot of questions, eh?” he shrugged. “But of course you are right. We took a chance while the weather was bad.”
“So you are French, er, resistance?”
Jean-Yves gave a shrug. “Whatever you like to call us, Jack.”
“And climbers?”
“Sometimes climbing, sometimes other things. We like, er, les jeux abnormales – running, climbing, tricks – the Eiffel Tower – it is a good place for it…”
“Like free running…?”
“I do not know what that is Jack… c’est l’art du deplacement. We call it Parkour…”
And with that, Jean-Yves jumped over the barrier of the spiral staircase with the grace of a leopard and landed feet first, a good three metres below, on a very narrow steel platform and looked back up with a broad grin.
“Voilá.”
The manoeuvre would have crippled a normal man, but for Jean-Yves it appeared effortless. It looked like Jack and Angus’s new friends might prove useful – very useful indeed.
“Chaud devant!”
Bonaparte’s was like Gino’s but French. Very French. Three waiters in wine-coloured aprons criss-crossed the floor between booth and table, table and bar in an endless choreography of service.
“Chaud devant!” One of them shouted again, warning others to make way as he burst through the swing doors from the kitchen, a silver tray held high over his head. Many people had left Paris, but it seemed Bonaparte’s would always pulse with life. It was midmorning and all the window booths were already taken. Housewives in headscarves sipped coffee, a watchful eye on their baskets; some youths played a noisy game of cards, their table littered with crumbs and empty glasses and six students squeezed around a table for four, poring over a book.
At the zinc-topped bar, that ran almost the entire breadth of the room, a worker in blue overalls regaled his comrades with a story, one foot propped against the brass foot rail, his eyes squinting against the smoke that rose from the cigarette glued to his bottom lip. Behind the bar, with its gleaming beer pumps, stood the coffee machine, a dangerous-looking contraption of valves, taps and pipes that whistled and hissed and spat, releasing gouts of steam and a thin stream of fragrant black liquid into china cups that were instantly whisked away by the waiters.
Surveying the scene, like a general surveys the field of battle, Antoine, the proprietor, stood with his large, aproned stomach wedged against the bar as he rhythmically polished a glass – not because it was dirty, but because it was clean. As the proprietor of his own café, just like the famous Emperor that gave the place its name, frankly, he could do what he wanted.
As they entered, Jack saw Antoine give Jean-Yves the scarcest of knowing looks, followed by a barely perceptible nod of the head. Seconds later they had gone through to the back of the café, down through a hatch in the floor of the kitchen and into the cellar. Along one side stood rack upon rack of wine bottles. On the other side there were barrels of beer. Jack felt refreshed after a long night’s sleep at Patrice’s small flat, but he was still disorientated and his head, neck and shoulders still hurt. His body had taken a real pounding over the last twenty-four hours and he didn’t think it could take much more. But Angus was in a worse state. He had taken the brunt in the crash, and although they had carefully dressed and redressed his wounds, he was still in some pain and winced when he moved.
Jean-Yves sipped his coffee. “You must eat, mes amis,” he gestured to the breakfast laid out on a crude wooden table. “As much as you can.” He shook his head. “You were very lucky… I still cannot believe it.”
“You saved our lives, Jean-Yves,” Jack said. “Thank you.”
The words hung in the air for a moment.
“We were happy to help. It was an amazing escape. An incredible story. Look – Sophie took this – she could not resist adding it to our collection.”
The Eiffel Tower – collision in the clouds
Jean-Yves fished something out of his pocket and handed it to Jack. “She took it yesterday after the crash and then developed it at the flat. It’s quite good.”
It was a photograph of the Eiffel Tower taken from some distance. The top of the tower was in low cloud. Then Jack spotted it – the tail fin of an aeroplane sticking out of the tower just below the cloud line. He nearly jumped out of his skin. The photo was exactly the same as the one that Angus’s dad had shown them at Rachan. He looked up at Jean-Yves, who grinned back.
“The plane dropped out of the tower soon afterwards, just before the Nazis arrived. They must be very confused about what happened to the pilot.”
“Hopefully they’ll never find out.”
Jack stared at the photo again, mesmerised.
“Is this place, this café, a hiding place?” Angus asked, waving a knife in one hand.
“A meeting point,” Jean-Yves corrected. “We are slowly building a resistance force. We call it the ‘Network’. But it is dangerous. Since the defeat, people are confused – scared. Many have left Paris, they are still trying to understand what the surrender means. But they know if they don’t do what the Nazis say, they risk their lives.” Jean-Yves took another sip of coffee. “But we can help…”
Jack’s brow furrowed, “How?”
“We have many friends…” he smiled. “My wife, Marianne, she works in the government… She has good contacts. It will help us fight back.”
As he spoke, images from the Second World War that Jack had seen in books and films flashed through his head. He knew that they were only at the start of the war and it would go on for another five years. More than fifty million people would die, and France, like all occupied territories, would suffer horribly.
Jack looked down at his empty plate and murmured under his breath, “You have no idea how bad it will be…”
But Jean-Yves did not hear him. He looked at his watch. “Marianne should be here soon,” he smiled at Jack. “She was very excited to hear about you. Two pilots – you can help us, for sure.”
At that moment the hatch to the cellar opened. They heard muffled chattering from the café upstairs. A slim, dark-haired woman stepped down the steep staircase into the cellar. As she reached the floor of the cellar she stopped and stared at Jack and Angus. She was excited but also anxious.
“These are the pilots?” she asked. “You seem very young…”
“They survived – it is incredible.”
“Two of you? In one plane? How?”
“Er, it’s a long story,” Angus said.
“We must plan to get you back to England. Pilots are valuable,” Marianne continued. “The Network will help. But it may take some time… and we are busy with other activities. Maybe you can help us?”
Jack did not have any time ask what ‘activities’ Marianne referred to because, just at that moment, the hatch opened and her daughter appeared.
“Sophie – you shouldn’t be here…” Jean-Yves said.
<
br /> Sophie ignored her father, “Well I am…”
Jean-Yves could free-climb up the Eiffel Tower and probably the north face of the Eiger for all Jack knew, but he had clearly learned that resisting his daughter’s will was fruitless.
Sophie continued, “I came down to warn you… Gottschalk has been spotted in the street. He is heading this way. I think we need to leave…”
They re-emerged from the cellar and slipped back into the café. Then they stopped in their tracks. A few minutes before Bonaparte’s had been alive with noise and chatter. Now you could hear a pin drop. Everyone in the café was looking towards three men who stood at the bar. They wore grey uniforms and black boots and they were armed. But it was the man in the middle who caught Jack’s attention. His uniform was trim and smartly tailored with two breast pockets and broad, upturned cuffs. At his throat he wore a black iron cross and on his right collar there was an emblem of two identical zigzags side by side, like lightning bolts. He wore braided shoulder boards and above the cuff on his left arm Jack could make out a black band with silver lettering which read ‘Deutschland’. Above his left breast pocket there was a ribbon of red, blue and gold – like Jack had seen soldiers wear in place of medals. He wore a black belt, from which hung a holster for a side arm and a sheath for holding a dagger. The man was probably around forty and had a thin, pale face and penetrating green eyes. He was tall and his height was accentuated by a high-peaked cap. At the top of the cap Jack saw the stylised figure of an outstretched eagle. Beneath this, there was a final detail which confirmed the identity of the man before them. At the centre of his cap there was an unusual silver emblem. It leered out at them with grinning teeth – a skull and cross bones. It was called the Totenkopf – the Death’s Head – and it was a symbol that personified pure evil. The man before them was an officer in the Nazi Schutzstaffel.
The SS had popped into Bonaparte’s for a lunchtime drink.
Angus and Jack had missed the first exchange between the tall SS officer and Antoine, the proprietor of Bonaparte’s, but clearly it had not gone well. Antoine’s puffy face had turned bright red and his large double chin wobbled. Beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead. Jack was only a few metres away and he desperately wanted to slide back into the kitchen and down into the cellar. But there was an edgy silence in the café and he quickly realised that any movement would draw instant and unwelcome attention.
The SS officer spoke again. He had a calm, polite voice, “Perhaps we will try again, Monsieur?” he smiled. “My friends and I would like three glasses of brandy.”
The words hung in the air. Antoine’s face flushed an even deeper shade of purple. He was being asked to serve Nazis in front of his friends and clientele. For Antoine it would be an act of humiliation and treachery. He was being put in an impossible position.
Antoine’s voice cracked, “I cannot serve you…”
The SS officer did not react. He looked down at the end of his boot for a moment. He twisted his foot first one way and then another, as if inspecting the boot for any residual scuffs or dirt. He continued with this performance for a full ten seconds as if distracted or embarrassed by Antoine’s brave words of defiance. Then he raised his head again and levelled his eyes at Antoine. Very slowly, the officer undid the holster at his belt and removed a black Luger. There were gasps from the onlookers and he saw one woman put a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. The officer raised the ugly weapon so it was pointing directly at Antoine’s head. Antoine started to shake and his chin wobbled even more. Slowly, the officer moved the barrel towards Antoine’s forehead, wrapping a pendulous index finger around the trigger as he did so. Jack stared on, horrified. Then, the officer did something strange. Instead of pointing the gun at Antoine’s forehead, he shifted its direction slightly and slowly moved it towards Antoine’s left eye socket. Antoine gave a little gasp of fear. He closed his eyes tightly, but the officer eased the muzzle of the gun into the eye socket and rested it there. The idea of a bullet through the eye rather than through the head made the threat even more frightening, cruel and sadistic. Antoine started to sob. Jack wanted to leap to his rescue, but he knew to do so would mean instant death.
Suddenly, Marianne broke ranks from their little group at the kitchen door and marched forward. The SS officer and his two friends were taken aback by the sudden movement to their side and they wheeled round to train their weapons on her as she approached. For a moment it appeared as if she, instead of the hapless Antoine, would be gunned down in front of them. But Marianne flashed her most winning, radiant smile. She put up her hand and with an outstretched palm, gently waved the officer’s Luger to one side, put a slender arm around his shoulder and manoeuvred him back to face Antoine and the bar.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” she said breezily. “Have you not heard? The war is over and France and Germany are at peace. We might as well all accept it and get on with our lives…” she flashed a knowing look at Antoine, still standing defiantly behind the bar. “Please make that four brandies… and I shall pay,” she turned round to the astonished people in the café and lifted her arms in a gesture of reassurance. “Nothing more to see here!” she shouted, as Antoine dutifully poured the drinks and placed them on a tray.
It was as if someone had pricked a giant balloon. The tension from the room evaporated; people turned back to their drinks, food and chatter.
As Marianne escorted the soldiers towards a booth the students quickly evacuated. She put the tray, with four filled glasses, down on the table. She raised her glass, downed the rich dark liquid and banged it on the table. She glanced flirtatiously at the officer and his comrades, who, not to be outdone, downed their drinks. Marianne clicked her fingers over her head and a waiter came scurrying to the side of the table.
She smiled. “You might as well bring the whole bottle…”
And for the first time the SS officer smiled too.
From across the other side of the café, Jean-Yves whispered to Jack and Angus, “My wife’s a brave woman – one of these days she is going to get herself killed.”
“Who is that officer?” Jack asked.
“Axel Gottschalk,” Jean-Yves whispered back to him. “A rising member of the SS. He knows Adolf Hitler personally. He is based in Villiers-sur-Oise, to the north, but he is often in Paris. He is an important target for us. I am not surprised to see him – particularly given what is happening over the next few days.”
“Nasty piece of work…” Angus said.
“Yes,” Jean-Yves replied, “he has something of a reputation. We must leave, before anything else happens.”
But as they approached the main entrance of the café, the big glass door swung open and a man walked in. He was slim and wore a light suit and a dark tie. He was well groomed and his short, light brown hair was brushed back to show that it was starting to thin at each temple. He had a confident, authoritative air about him and he scanned the restaurant impatiently until his eyes came to rest on Gottschalk sitting with the two soldiers and Marianne in the window booth. He walked briskly over to their table. Gottschalk clearly recognised the civilian and invited him to sit down next to them. There was something oddly deferential about the way Gottschalk acted in front of the new arrival. It was particularly strange as one was an officer in a victorious army and the other seemed to be no more than a non-descript civilian. In contrast, Jack felt there was a self-consciousness about the civilian, a reluctance to be seen with these bullies from the SS. Marianne was now being introduced to the civilian and they shook hands. Soon she was in animated conversation with the four men and her eyes sparkled as she smiled and gossiped. They were putty in her hands.
“And who is that man?” Jack whispered.
“Albrecht Altenberg. He is a German scientist. A physicist, I think. Quite famous. He is seen with Gottschalk frequently here in Paris but also in Villiers. I think they are friends,” Jean-Yves replied. “We must go. Marianne can handle it. Come on. Our place is not too far.
”
Jean-Yves continued walking to the door of the café followed by Sophie, Angus and Jack. Jack wanted to ignore Gottschalk, but somehow he just couldn’t. He glanced over to their booth as he made for the door, trying hard not to walk too fast. Gottschalk spotted the movement from the corner of his eye and looked up. It was as if Jack had been caught in the cross hairs of an assassin’s rifle. A shiver ran down his spine… he wanted to look away, but he found himself staring back. As Gottschalk looked at him, his expression changed. Initially, he seemed a little bemused at the sight of Jack, but then Gottschalk’s brow furrowed. Finally, Jack turned. The door to the café was now only two metres away and he quickened his step, but his legs started to wobble and his stomach churned. He felt naked. It was as if not only Gottschalk was staring at him, but everyone else in the café as well. The big glass door was now only a step away – he reached out for the handle. Beyond it, he could see Jean-Yves, Angus and Sophie already melting away into the street.
“Arretez!”
Jack froze. He did not dare look round. For a second time in ten minutes the café was silenced. Approaching from behind, Jack could hear the heavy boots approaching slowly across the tiled floor. He could feel Gottschalk’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The footsteps stopped.
“Tournez-vous.”
Jack could feel Gottschalk’s breath on his neck – inches behind him. Slowly he turned round. Gottschalk looked at him.
“Name?”
Jack knew that one word from him and the game was up, but he was too terrified even to try and speak.
Gottschalk’s eyes narrowed as he stared intently at Jack, “I asked you kindly to give me your name.”
Jack felt his face burning red.
“Now, officer, please don’t tell me we have another problem…?”
It was Marianne, approaching Gottschalk from behind.
Day of Vengeance Page 8