Satisfied that they were all more or less sleeping, Mickey settled back, her eyes on the trail that crisscrossed the one they had just left to make camp. A quarter of a kilometer wasn’t much. She prayed quickly then, afraid to get too involved in supplication for fear she would miss some sound or indication that the patrol was coming closer. She wanted to think of Philippe and Reuben, but she didn’t. Instead, she thought about chocolate cake, meadows filled with daisies, and a bright red wagon that Henri had once fashioned for Philippe when he was Bruno’s age.
Kort had been right: it was snowing lightly now. Mickey crossed her fingers and offered up another prayer for the snow to ease off. But she knew it was an impossible plea, just as this journey was impossible.
They all heard the sounds at the same time. Mickey felt Kort grow rigid and knew Yvette had her knife at his throat. All at once she saw Anna spring to the left and clamp a hand over Marie’s mouth. She could almost feel the girl’s struggles as Anna used one of her legs to pin her in place. Bruno’s hand snaked inside his coat to grasp the little dog’s mouth. Bernard, who was next to him, also reached in and whispered, “Let me hold his mouth, you rub his belly.”
As the German patrol grew closer, Mickey picked up three voices. She held up her fingers in front of Kort, and he nodded. They were cursing the weather, the mountain patrol, the lack of lusty women, and poor food. The anger in their voices was unmistakable. Mickey cringed, her heart pounding. It hadn’t snowed enough to cover their tracks as they’d made their camp. If the patrol used their flashlights or strayed off the trail, they would immediately see her ragtag little group.
Sophie buried her terrified face into her brother’s coat sleeve. If Stephan hadn’t moved his arm just then, the little girl might have been able to stifle her sneeze, but it exploded from her mouth like a gunshot.
Kort’s arms shot out, knocking Yvette’s knife from her hand as she reeled backward. Before either woman could stop him he was shouting to the patrol as he whisked Yvette’s gun into his hand.
Yvette’s eyes were murderous as Mickey prayed, “Please God, have mercy on the little ones’ souls.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Reuben simply stared, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. This couldn’t be London. Half the city was gone, at least the half he was in. All around him were bombed-out buildings, sky-high piles of smoking rubble, and plaster dust. From somewhere to his far left he thought he heard a woman cry. He stopped, his boots crunching on the shattered pavement, trying to ascertain exactly where the cry had come from. It was quiet now; the cry, if that was what he’d really heard, had been snuffed out. He looked down and stumbled into a pile of rubble. All about him were crimson bloodstains, and he thought he saw a finger among the rubble, but he was too angry, too appalled at what he was seeing, to check it out.
“You best move smartly, Yank, this is no time to sightsee,” his guide muttered. “The Frenchie you’re supposed to meet isn’t going to hang around waiting for you. They operate on strict time schedules, otherwise their whole network gets blown to hell. Why the hell you want to go to France is beyond me. You had a soft berth in America, and you’re too old to fight.” This last was said slyly, as though hoping to bait the tall American in his official army clothes into saying something. But he was disappointed. No one talked these days. “Go on now, mate, straight down the alley and around the corner is the Press Club.”
Reuben spoke then, his voice harsh and gruff. “What’s the man’s name? How will I recognize him?”
“He’ll find you, not to worry. Get yerself a pint and he’ll find you,” the man said, turning to pick his way through the rubble to collect the pound of coffee and round of cheese he’d been promised to escort the American to the Press Club.
There was no electricity inside the club, which probably meant there was no running water either, Reuben thought as he made his way to a table at the back of the room. He’d been told he could get food and wine if he wanted it. He did.
Music played softly from the depths of the room, an American tune he’d heard before but couldn’t place now. There was liquor behind the bar—not much, but enough. The stew, when it came, was thin but substantial, particularly when sopped up with several slices of homemade bread. He hardly tasted the sour wine, and he kept his eyes on the doorway as he chewed. Every so often he gazed around the room, surprised that it was still intact. There were chunks missing from the walls, loose plaster on the ceiling, and blackout curtains on all the windows, but an effort had been made to keep things as normal as possible under the circumstances. No matter what, life went on, he thought grimly.
He smoked and waited, waited and smoked. Twice the music stopped, only to start again, a melancholy refrain that worked a kind of magic if you were deliriously happy, which he wasn’t. Grimacing, he did his best to tune out the sad words by drinking more wine as he kept his eyes peeled on the door.
The room was filling up now. Conversation wafted about him, some laughter, but mostly he observed quiet men, some in uniform, their faces intent, their voices just as intense. He was the only man sitting alone, he noticed, and no one was paying any attention to him except the waitress, who kept filling his wineglass. When she approached to fill his glass for the sixth time, he waved her away and lit a cigar.
Half an hour later, Reuben pulled out his pocket watch. His contact was four hours late. The word contact had amused him when he first heard it. It reminded him of a spy novel, with the contact arriving in the rain, a hat pulled low on his forehead, a sloppy coat belted at his waist. In fact, the studio had made a movie with a character like that. Now, however, he was no longer amused, and this wasn’t a movie; this was reality, and he was scared almost shitless.
There wasn’t anyone in the club who was even near his age. The uniforms were all young men whose bodies were lean and hard, soldiers trained to fight. The others looked just as fit and trim, with great reserves of stamina from which to draw. His good life in California just might prove to be his undoing.
By now Reuben was out of sorts, anxiety having given way to suppressed anger. It was the army’s creed—hurry up and wait. He was helpless now, dependent on a faceless, nameless Frenchman who would take him into that beleaguered country.
The backpack he’d slipped out of when he entered was at his feet. He rummaged for his notebook and pencil and started to write. Quite a few pages were filled with his cramped writing, enough to send off to Jane to hold for him. The note that was to go in the envelope had been written while he was still on the plane. It was midnight when he licked the flap of the envelope and handed it to the waitress with instructions to give it to the Times correspondent when he came in. Eventually it would get to the States, along with packets of photographs the photojournalists sent out when mail moved.
His contact was now seven hours late. Reuben ordered more food and wine, then settled in to wait all through the night, getting up every so often to go to the bathroom or stretch his legs. Once he walked outside, but the acrid smell drove him back indoors. Twenty minutes later a man walked into the club, his eyes searching the candlelit room. Immediately he approached Reuben’s table and sat down, speaking rapidly in French, neither explaining nor apologizing for his late arrival. He waved to the waitress for food and wine.
He was young, no more than twenty-five, if that. His eyes were ageless, though, as he stared across at Reuben. It was hard to believe this young man was accepting the responsibility for getting him into France.
His food finished, the man handed Reuben a packet of papers. “They are, how do you say, exquisitely done. Another few days and your beard will be exactly like the one on this,” he said, tapping the false identity card. “From now on we talk only in French. I talk and you listen. It is agreed?” Reuben nodded. “Take this,” he said, indicating a parcel wrapped with string. “Be quick. You will keep your boots…for now, since we have none to give you. This must go, too.” He pointed to Reuben’s backpack. “Use this instead,” he said,
fishing a moth-eaten wool sack from his own pack. “I will see to transferring the contents while you change clothes.”
The young man, code-named Jean Dupré, dumped Reuben’s bag onto the table, sorting through the contents to determine what was safe to carry. The razor and two bars of soap were tossed aside, while socks and underwear stayed on the table. The aspirin were emptied into the bag, the bottle left on the table. Jean was patently surprised to see the brush and comb were French. They went into the bag along with the pencil and pad, but only after he’d scratched off the gilt lettering on the pencil and torn off the top of the pad.
It was September 1 when Jean Dupré led Reuben out of the Press Club. On December 10, three months and ten days later, Reuben was within twenty-five kilometers of Mickey’s château in Marseilles.
There was snow on the ground. It was so blinding, Reuben’s eyes watered constantly; his eyelashes froze and caked with beads of ice. His head pounded constantly, but he hadn’t complained. With only seven aspirin left, he had vowed to endure the pain unless it felt like his head would blow off his neck.
No man with his wits about him would go through what he’d been through the past months, he mused. Sleeping in barns with only rats for company, hiding in garbage Dumpsters that made Jean smell like a flower in comparison. Twice he’d been tempted to kill a rat for food, but he knew that would be madness indeed. He hated everything about France now, and the madman who controlled the country he’d once loved so passionately. Along the way he’d listened to the stories Jean and his compatriots had to tell—horrible stories he wanted to forget. Stories about women and children starving, stories about beaten old men and women, stories about people being carted off in trucks and never seen again. Lines and lines for everything, people, little children freezing in those lines waiting for thin soup or a piece of bread. All he wanted to do now was kill. When he slept, which wasn’t very often, he dreamed of killing whole columns of German soldiers; and when he wasn’t gunning them down, he was slicing out their tongues, ripping off their testicles, and burning their feet to their ankles. And still it wasn’t enough. And when he woke from his nightmares he wrote, quickly, one word running into the next in his frenzy.
After the first month he’d given up the idea of writing his memoirs for the studio. What he was writing now was about truth and feelings and anger. He was obsessed with his writing, his thoughts never still.
He was French now; this was his country, the country that had given him back his sanity after the first war. He spoke in French, his thoughts were in French. He was one of them.
At some point during the second month he became an active member of the Resistance. Willingly he made dynamite charges, helped blow up bridges, knocked out power lines, destroyed water systems, set off homemade bombs that killed Germans. But it was never enough. For every German they killed, three more took his place, but still they continued with their puny efforts, certain the day would come when they would drive the Germans out of France. Reuben became an expert with the garrote, knew the anatomy better than any first-year medical student. He could kill with a blow, with a blade, with his stiffened fingers, and when he walked or crawled away he was glad he’d killed. His network had a saying when they killed a German: This bastard will not father any more bastards. His network’s biggest coup to date had taken place a week earlier when they’d wiped out an entire convoy with the help of two other networks. It had been so organized, so meticulously done, Reuben could only marvel afterward that they’d lost just seven members. The honor of the kill went to his network, and there was much backslapping and camaraderie. They now were mobile with trucks and several tanks, along with several cars. Weapons filled one entire truck. Another held ammunition that would go to their storehouse. He’d rejoiced with the others and refused to think of the reprisals.
Jean was shuffling his feet in the snow, looking everywhere but at Reuben. His voice was low and husky, and he spoke now in English. It was his way of complimenting Reuben for the work he’d done with his network. “We part here, monsieur. You are certain you can find your way to the village alone?” Reuben nodded. “You will recognize old landmarks, eh?” Again Reuben nodded. “When you…you will remember where you are to join up with the Monet network. They are searching for the woman you are trying to locate. Perhaps they will have news for you. Here,” he said harshly, “this is a Christmas present early.” He handed over a small parcel.
Reuben removed the wrapping and withdrew a pair of dark glasses. Jean blushed furiously when he saw the American’s eyes grow moist. “They come from a dead German major. They will not harm your eyes; wear them over your own. They are for the…the…”
“Glare,” Reuben said, nodding.
“Yes, the glare. Good…good luck, my friend.”
“And to you.” Reuben clapped both his hands on Jean’s shoulders. He knew he’d never see Jean again, but his life was richer for having known him even a short while. He wanted to say the right thing, something important and meaningful, to this stalwart Frenchman, but he couldn’t find the words. “Bonne chance, my friend.”
Then he pressed on, for to stand still too long would add frostbite to his other problems. Now that he had the dark glasses he could travel faster, be more alert.
Five days later Reuben walked into the village nearest the château. Half the shops were nothing but rubble now; the steeple had been blown from the church, and its door hung drunkenly from a single hinge. Staring inside, he could see snow on the pews. He’d gone to midnight mass here once with Mickey, Daniel, and Bebe, sitting in the second pew from the back. When he left he tried to close the door, but it was too heavy, the hinge solidly rusted.
There was blackness all around him as he made his way down the lonely road that would take him to the château. It was going to snow again, he thought sadly, remembering the happy times with Mickey in the snow-filled meadows behind the château. His footsteps slowed as memories rushed to the surface. The chestnut trees were bare now, but he remembered when they were in bloom, remembered kissing Mickey under the leafy green umbrella. If she were at the château now, he’d be able to see smoke from the chimney, but she wasn’t there. The entire village and surrounding countryside had been strafed by the Germans.
Reuben dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands folded in prayer. As with Jean, the words he was seeking wouldn’t come. He looked down at the whiteness, wondering what it was he wanted to pray for. “Let it be there,” he said over and over as he trudged down the road and around the bend.
The château stood, majestic and ghostly in the darkness, the ageless trees protecting it. Reuben drank in its beauty like a thirsty man in the desert. An overwhelming sense of peace flooded through him. How well he remembered the last time he’d walked away from this magical place. His heart had been breaking, and his eyes were full of tears when he’d looked back, looked back because he had fallen in love here. He should have run back, he never should have left. So long ago, so many years, so much heartache, and all because of Bebe. No, he wouldn’t allow Bebe to intrude now. Not here.
The moon sailed gracefully from under its cloud cover, and he saw the trees clearly. They’d taken the brunt of the strafing, but still they lived. He tried to wrap his arms around the closest one, but he couldn’t, it was too large. It lived, as did the others, and that was all that mattered.
Slowly Reuben walked through the snow, not sure if he was on the flagstone walkway or not. The front door beckoned him. It wouldn’t be locked; Mickey never locked her doors. Once he’d asked for a key, and she’d told him she didn’t even know where it was, if there was one. Now the door yielded to the pressure of his shoulder. “Are you ready for this?” he asked himself before he set foot over the threshold, back into his memories.
It was cold and dark, with little piles of snow scattered on the floor near the blown-out windows. He could find his way in the dark to the place where the candles were kept. He knew where everything was in this house. When he found the candles
he lighted them with care, his hand cupped around the dancing flame.
Then he began a tour of the house, walking through the rooms one by one, touching an object, staring at another, remembering, always remembering. In the library his eyes widened in horror when he saw that the painting of the Three Musketeers was no longer over the mantle. He held the candle higher, hoping it had been moved to another wall, but bookshelves lined every other wall in the room. Then he saw it, leaning crookedly against the chair Daniel used to sit in. The heavy gilt frame was broken and cracked in several places, but the painting was intact. Angrily, Reuben ripped at the old wood and yanked the painting free. Its border of slatted wood remained intact, so he propped it up on the mantel and then stepped back to absorb its beauty. His heart pounded as he stared at Mickey’s likeness.
“My God, you’re more beautiful than I remember,” he murmured. “I loved you so much. More than life. More than…than Daniel. And you loved me so much, you let me walk away. All those years, the days, the hours. Gone. I was so young, so greedy, so power hungry, and all it did for me was bring me here now. And now you’re gone,” he said brokenly. “You took my son when no one else wanted him, you raised him, and then you sent him to me, your greatest treasure. You thought I would come back, I know you did, but I was young and afraid of what I would see in your eyes, what I see in my son’s eyes now. I failed you, darling Mickey. You had such hope for me, such confidence that I would become rich and famous as well as powerful, and I am those things and they mean nothing. All these years I thought I was doing it for you, but I was doing it for myself, to prove to myself that your faith in me was justified. I lied to myself, I did it all for me. I’m glad you can’t hear me say these things. I am so ashamed. I should have come back; I should have listened to my heart.” Reuben dropped his head into his hands and wept then for his memories and for the man he had become.
Sins of the Flesh Page 31