Laura rotated the earthenware cup in her hands, studying the paste of leaves at the bottom. Just a week earlier she had received another urgent letter from her father, enclosing passage money and begging her to come home. But she couldn’t leave France now. It was unthinkable.
She got up and ran her empty cup under the flow from the pump, glancing at her watch. It was time to go to the school. The children would be assembling, looking to their teachers to make sense out of the current confusion. She had to get things back on an even keel, show them that their education would continue even in the event of a vanquished and occupied France.
She left by the rear door, taking care to avoid the dispersing band of soldiers on the road.
* * *
Becker stood in the main lobby of the Hôpital Sacre Coeur in Bar-le-Duc and watched as his men hung the Nazi flag. The black swastika, encircled by a white field on a background of red, draped from the overhanging balcony to fall free almost to the first floor. The thing was gigantic, a powerful message to anyone entering the building concerning who was now in charge. He stared at it gravely for several seconds, then turned as his aide Hesse approached him and saluted smartly.
“Everything is in order, Oberst,” the boy said.
“You’ve told the chief of staff that I will require the resident’s wing to house my men?” Becker asked.
“Yes, sir. And he’ll be cleaning out his office for you shortly. That’s it over there.” Hesse pointed to a door labeled Directeur.
“How long before all the workers return to their positions here and the hospital is running efficiently again?”
“They’re coming back now, sir,” Hesse replied in a low tone, turning so their conversation could not be overheard. “Word is getting around and the chief will be holding a meeting this afternoon to give them your instructions.”
“Very good,” Becker nodded, looking away. Hesse was very efficient; he would oversee everything and come to his superior only with those problems he could not solve himself. “I’ll be inside there if you need me.”
“Will you be requiring any lunch, Colonel?”
Becker looked at him, at the silvery blond hair and wide blue eyes, and almost smiled. The kid treated him like a powerful but absent minded uncle who had to be reminded to eat.
“Nothing, Hesse. Coffee, if you can find any in this place. I believe the kitchen help took off with the rest of the staff,” he concluded dryly, “but someone may be back there now.”
“I’ll try, sir,” Hesse said, and saluted again, turning on his heel. Becker watched the activity of his men a little longer after his aide had left, and then went into the medical director’s office.
It was a large, cluttered room, still stacked with the doctor’s files and papers, but it would serve the purpose once it was cleaned out and organized. Becker took off his cap, smoothing his thick black hair, lightly frosted at the temples. He gazed out the broad leaded window at the open field that backed the hospital. He sighed, wondering what his dead father would have said to find his son in this ignoble, humiliating situation.
Becker turned from the window and removed his coat, thinking inexplicably of his wife. He sat on the edge of the desk and tried to pinpoint in his mind when it had all started to go bad: his marriage, his career, his life. Hard to say, exactly. But the final result was this unenviable posting to the outback of France, overseeing a factory conversion and acting as a babysitter to a beaten people.
Becker rose and loosened his collar, listening to the faint babble of French and German voices audible through the door. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and came up with his wallet instead. He opened it and removed the picture of his two sons, examining the pale hair and pale eyes they shared, their inheritance from Elise. Then he stuffed the picture back into its compartment and tossed the wallet on the desk, his expression distant. He found his packet of cigarettes and lit one of them, inhaling deeply.
There was a knock on the door.
“What is it?” Becker called, crushing his cigarette absently in the director’s ashtray.
“Hesse, sir.”
“Come in.”
Hesse entered the room, bearing a tray.
“Coffee, sir,” he announced, placing his burden on the desk.
“Hesse, you are a marvel,” Becker said.
“I do my best, sir.”
Becker poured the coffee and sipped gratefully, then grimaced at its bitterness. He had forgotten that the French always boiled it.
“Well, Kurt, here we are,” he said to his aide conversationally.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not exactly in line with your boyhood dreams of glorious combat, is it?” Becker commented dryly. “I’m sure this isn’t what you were thinking about when you enlisted. No noble foe to be conquered here, eh?”
The young man glanced at him nervously and was silent, unsure how to reply.
Becker sighed and waved him away dismissively. “Go on, boy, don’t pay any attention to me. I’m sure you have something to do. Send the director to me as soon as he finishes with his meeting.”
Hesse watched him uncertainly.
“Go on,” Becker repeated. “I’m fine.”
Reassured, Hesse removed the rest of the tray’s contents and took the empty with him when he departed.
Becker finished his coffee and lit another cigarette, noticing that Hesse had left a wrapped sandwich on the desk. He picked it up and sniffed it. Pâté. Impressed with the boy’s diligence, he pulled off the paper and took a bite. He might as well finish it. There was no doubt it would be a very long day.
* * *
The following morning, Laura accompanied Henri to the hospital for his interview with the German commandant. They walked up the steps to the main entrance, and Laura stopped short when she caught sight of the flag dominating the lobby.
The first floor was a flurry of activity. The Germans were nothing if not productive; almost overnight the place had been transformed into a barracks cum infirmary that combined both functions with Teutonic thoroughness. The sight of the gray uniforms and the sound of the harsh language, so different from the mellifluous French of the natives, assaulted Laura’s senses. Her throat closed abruptly and she had to look away. It was finally, really true. La belle France had tumbled into the ungentle hands of these grim, competent barbarians, and the fate of her adopted country was at their mercy.
Henri started as a soldier approached them, and Laura recognized the blond corporal who had given Becker the bullhorn the day the Germans arrived.
“Henri Duclos?” he said, looking at the older man.
Henri nodded, swallowing. The soldier, who appeared to be in his early twenties, turned to Laura.
“Who are you?” he said in German.
“I am Laura Duclos, his daughter-in-law,” Laura responded in the same language. On the last word a door to their left opened and another uniformed man emerged, nodding to the corporal that they could go inside.
The boy looked concerned. He had not expected Henri to have company. But he evidently decided to let his commander handle the matter and said briskly, “Colonel Becker will see you now.” He walked ahead of them to the director’s office and knocked. The door already bore a metal plaque with Becker’s name on it.
“Enter,” came from within.
The corporal ushered them inside, bowing slightly as he gestured with one hand and said, “Colonel, Mayor Duclos to see you.”
Becker looked up from his papers, and Laura studied him, noticing the contrast between the two Germans. The boy was the perfect Aryan prototype, muscular and solidly built, with fair skin and eyes the color of an alpine spring. Becker was his opposite, dark, with an olive complexion and brown eyes with a slight Mongolian slant. In him she could see the brooding aspect of the Vandals and Goths who overran the Rhine basin during the middle ages. Tall and imperially slim, he probably derived his heritage from the Black Forest region, but she was sure he was no less a true son of the
fatherland than the golden god at her side.
“Thank you, Hesse, that will be all,” the colonel said.
The corporal saluted and left the room. Becker’s eyes moved over the old man and fixed on the girl. He was surprised to see her; he remembered the attractive redhead he’d noticed in the crowd on his way into Fains. He also remembered the volatile teenager who’d been with her, not in evidence today.
“You are?” he said to the woman.
“Laura Duclos, Henri’s daughter-in-law,” she recited again, getting tired of identifying herself.
“I did not request your presence. Why are you here?”
Laura took a calming breath. Bluntness seemed to be a specialty with these people; the French regard for politesse, which Laura had come to take for granted during her years in Fains, was entirely missing. “My father-in-law’s German is poor,” Laura answered. “I thought I could help translating if there were a communications problem.”
“My French should be adequate to the task. You will be notified if your assistance is required in that regard,” Becker stated flatly. Then, “You are a linguistics expert?”
“I have a degree from the University of Nancy in European Languages,” Laura replied patiently, wondering wildly if this suspicious autocrat would require her to produce it.
“Your accent is not French,” he observed curtly, alert to every nuance.
Laura stepped forward and placed on his desk the papers she’d been holding. “Ich bin Amerikanerin,” she said proudly, her eyes never leaving his. “I am American.”
Becker picked up her passport and identity papers thoughtfully, accepting this for the challenge it was. This woman was not a French national but an American citizen. Considering the tenuous relationship between their two countries, it would be wise for him to treat her carefully; the American consulate was still in full operation. The girl had come, not to assist the old man, but to protect him. Her American citizenship was the only armor she possessed to shield herself and the Duclos family.
Becker arranged the papers on his blotter and folded his hands on top of them, eyeing the girl steadily. She gazed back at him, her green gaze unruffled, very cool. He kept his tone neutral as he said, nodding at Henri, “You are married to his son?”
“I was. My husband is dead. He was killed during the fighting last autumn while trying to aid a fallen comrade.”
Henri shot Laura a terrified glance, silently begging her not to antagonize this steely automaton. But Becker merely leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, commenting, “Very commendable. He died a hero, then.”
“A lot of heroes died that day.”
Henri closed his eyes.
Becker exhaled deliberately.
“On both sides I presume you mean, Madame Duclos,” he said evenly. He held Laura’s gaze, his dark eyes direct and cold.
Laura bit her tongue to stifle a tart reply, and Henri relaxed visibly. Becker waited a few beats to drive home his victory, and then said, “I have drawn up a list of regulations regarding curfew, the curtailment of social gatherings, and other concerns of that nature. I will read them to you now, so that I am assured of your cooperation. I advise you to pay close attention and avoid confusion. Ask for an explanation if anything is unclear. Failure to comply with these rules will be severely punished. Copies of this list are to be posted on all street corners and in all public places. It will be your duty, Duclos, to see that this is done.”
When both Henri and Laura remained silent, Becker put out his cigarette and proceeded to read the list. It decreed that all citizens must be indoors by 10:00 p.m., that any gathering of five or more townspeople would be presumed anti-Reich and the participants arrested, and so on. He talked for several minutes in his precise, Leipzig University French. He then glanced up at Laura, who was regarding him impassively, and at Henri, who was staring at the floor.
“V’standen?” he said to Henri, lapsing into his native German.
“Comprenes-tu, Papa?” Laura asked softly.
Henri raised his head and nodded.
“Good,” Becker said briskly. “My aide Hesse will provide you with the copies to be distributed. You will have until sundown Sunday to complete this assignment. I will summon you if I have further need of you in the future. Are there any questions?”
Henri looked at Laura, then shook his head.
“I believe these are yours, Madame Duclos,” Becker said, handing Laura her papers. “Why is it that you don’t return home?” he asked her as she took them. “Surely it would be safer for you there.”
Laura studied the commandant’s expression, trying to determine if there was a veiled threat implicit in the remark. But his even features remained purposefully bland.
“France is my home now, Colonel,” she finally said simply.
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then added, “You may go.”
His glance returned to his correspondence as they left, but when the door closed behind them he looked up, his expression thoughtful.
Very interesting. He would be willing to bet that the dead hero was nothing like his timid father. He could well imagine what sort of firebrand had married the self- contained redhead with the unwavering gaze. Banked fires smoldered in that little widow, no question about it. And an American too, he thought. Just what he needed. A province full of hate crazed Frenchmen, and a quietly defiant Yankee in their midst, fomenting discord, inciting them to-what? Bake apple pies? Play baseball? He looked at the ceiling wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This assignment got more baroque by the minute.
Then he shrugged, picked up his pen, and went back to work.
* * *
After leaving Becker’s office Henri returned to Fains, while Laura crossed the street to walk to the Ecole Ste. Pierre where she worked. The German martial presence was everywhere in Bar-le-Duc. Outside the headquarters staff cars came and went, soldiers stood around in groups, watching the locals with stolid, impassive faces, and the general atmosphere of bustle and directed activity indicated that the invaders had plans to stay. Laura aroused some curiosity as she passed a trio of infantrymen huddled on the corner; although she could hear them trading comments among themselves, they did not call to her or indicate their interest overtly. Discipline in their army was rigorous and they had strict orders not to bother the local women. It was a directive that had all the earmarks of breaking down over time, but at the moment it was being observed.
She walked into the turn-of-the century whitewashed building where Lysette Remy greeted her at the door. Lysette was the librarian, and over the last six months she and Laura had been in charge of the school. With only three weeks left in the academic year they were both trying to finish the term without incident.
“Did you see him?” Lysette asked worriedly, handing Laura a bowl of a chocolate flavored breakfast drink. From down the hall came the soft, singsong chant of a class reciting the times tables.
“Yes, I saw him,” Laura sighed, accepting the drink gratefully.
“How did he seem?”
“He’s a machine, like all of them,” Laura replied contemptuously. “He had a list of regulations all prepared for Henri to post in the town. Everyone is under house arrest now.”
“We got word this morning that we can go on as usual,” Lysette whispered, looking around her. “‘Customary procedures will not be disturbed’, that’s what the message said.”
Laura snorted. “That sounds like Becker. I guess the flunky who was here yesterday gave him a good report.”
“I’ll bet there will be some changes by the time we reopen in the fall. Right now they have too much on their minds to be concerned about the elementary school.”
“Becker will get to it,” Laura said dismally. “I have an idea there isn’t much that escapes his notice.”
“I’ve been told that I can keep the library open for the summer,” Lysette said, pushing back strands of her fine, dark blonde hair. “Becker is supposed to come and see it,” s
he added worriedly, clearly appalled at the prospect.
Laura smiled slyly. “He’ll be disappointed. He probably thinks that because it serves the whole town it’s some kind of cultural center. Wait until he finds out that the latest books were acquired in 1915.”
The women exchanged rueful glances. A bell rang, signaling the end of the first session, and both of them moved on to their respective duties.
* * *
Over the next several weeks the whole tenor of life in northern France changed. The invaders hovered constantly on the periphery of French existence, restrained but forbidding, never taking action unless they felt it was needed but leaving no doubt that any form of resistance would be met with swift and fatal retribution.
The children in Laura’s school were forbidden to sing their beloved Marseillaise, the national anthem, to begin the day, and at the conclusion of the term Laura received a new curriculum to be initiated in the fall, with an emphasis on German culture and history. The pubs were closed at six PM on orders of the new government, and the best hotels and restaurants in Bar-le-Duc and Vitry le Francois, another local town, were reserved for German use. Patrol cars with armed guards moved through the streets at regular intervals, lest any of the inhabitants forget that they were living under perpetual military control. And the citizens of the Meuse, overwhelmed, maintained a frightened, angry silence, too patriotic to accept the new order but too intimidated to protest it.
Henri was frequently summoned to Becker’s office for rules and procedures to be implemented. And as time passed his attitude toward the unwelcome visitors altered materially. While he was still afraid of the Germans, and especially Becker, who treated him with an exquisite deference bordering on contempt, he grew to see the advantages of their association. Henri began to socialize with some of the lower ranking officers, enjoying the benefits their status conveyed: dining in restaurants, access to fresh fruit and confiscated wine, transportation in military cars. Never a man of compelling moral convictions, always an opportunist, he should have been allowed to live out his days as the paper bureaucrat in an insignificant town. Totally unequipped to deal with the tricky situation fate dealt him, he quickly decided that the Allies could not win and the current regime would continue indefinitely. In fairly short order he became a collaborator.
Clash by Night Page 2