The man nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. He will wait for you. Here is the money I was instructed to give you.”
He handed Laura an envelope full of American currency, worth one hundred francs to the dollar on the black market.
“I can’t take that,” Laura replied, stepping back from him, stunned.
“You must, you must; those are my orders,” Fornier insisted, obviously upset.
Laura realized that he wouldn’t know what to do if she refused him.
“All right,” she said, to calm him. She folded the envelope in half and put it in her skirt pocket, still dazed by his sudden arrival.
“Use the money for your passage,” Fornier concluded quickly. “Or keep it for Vipère if you can’t come. That is what Harris told me to say. Now I must get away. The Germans are questioning everyone.”
“Did you see him Calais?” Laura asked anxiously. “Was he all right?”
“I took him on my boat across the Channel to England,” Fournier replied. “It was there he gave me this money. He was uninjured, except for some burns from the fire.” He looked around furtively. “Adieu, madame. May God have mercy on Alain’s soul.”
Laura pressed his hand quickly in silent farewell and then went back inside the house. Fournier hurried off, taking the same route across the field toward Langtot’s barn that Harris had followed. Laura pulled out the envelope he’d given her and was clutching it in her hand when Brigitte entered the kitchen.
“I just went up to check on Papa,” she said. “He came to the door and asked me what all the people were doing downstairs. He called me Claire.”
Claire was Brigitte’s mother’s name. “What did you tell him?” Laura asked resignedly.
“I told him I was having a meeting for the church. He doesn’t know the difference, Laura.” She glanced at Laura’s hands. “What’s that?” she asked distractedly. Then she took a closer look. “Money?”
Laura met her eyes. “Yes.”
Brigitte peered at the package. “Reichsmarks?”
“American money.”
“Where did you get it?” Brigitte gasped.
“Dan Harris sent it.”
Brigitte glanced over her shoulder into the hall, which was empty. “The marine you were hiding?” she whispered.
“Yes. He wants me to meet him in London. He’s on leave there until the middle of the month.”
Brigitte sat down at the table and folded her hands. “Then what are you waiting for?” she said quietly.
Laura stared at her. “Brigitte! How can I? Alain is lying dead in the next room.”
“Is he going to resurrect if you stay?” Brigitte asked her bluntly.
“That’s an awful thing to say,” Laura responded, shocked.
“No, it’s not. If there’s one thing his death should teach you it’s to make the most of every moment you have,” Brigitte said flatly.
“And Thierry’s been gone less than a year,” Laura murmured, almost to herself.
“That only reinforces my point,” Brigitte said, sighing. “Laura, I’ve lost two brothers. You’ve lost a husband and a beloved friend. My father is so addled he’s as good as dead. How many more people will be destroyed before this is over? There’s no time to waste, don’t you see that?”
“I don’t know what to do,” Laura said anxiously.
“Yes, you do,” Brigitte said quietly. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Laura didn’t answer.
“Alain told me how close you and the American had become,” Brigitte said.
“It made Alain very unhappy,” Laura said miserably.
“That wasn’t your fault, Laura. He was confused, he had brotherly love and a crush and all sorts of feelings mixed up in his mind. You have to forget that and go on with your life.”
Laura smiled sadly. “When I saw him the night before he died he told me to try to be happy.”
Brigitte’s eyes filled with tears. “You see? This money is like a message from him telling you to go.” She pressed her fingers against her eyelids. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you in love with this American?”
Laura shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s very different from what I had with Thierry. That was easy and comfortable and secure. This is...risky and scary but...powerful.” She gestured helplessly. “I can’t even describe it.”
“But you still want to go.”
“I have to open school next week,” Laura said feebly.
Brigitte made a disgusted sound. “Lysette can handle it until you get back. Stop being such a coward.”
Laura stared at her. She would not have expected the usually tolerant Brigitte to speak with such vehemence. The younger woman was changing, maturing, before her eyes.
“But I’d feel like I was running out and leaving you to deal with all this...” she gestured expansively, “...alone.”
“It will all still be here when you get back,” Brigitte said darkly. “Nothing would improve if you stayed.”
“But what about Henri? He gets worse every day.”
Brigitte shrugged. “He can’t face what he did. Could you?”
“I’m afraid he might get...violent.”
Brigitte sighed and shook her head. “No. I’ve seen people like him in my training. He just wants to retreat into his past and go back to a better, happier time. I’m sure he’s harmless.”
One of the village women appeared in the door and asked them to come inside to say goodbye to Father Deslourdes. Laura told her to wait a moment and then sat across from Brigitte when the woman left.
“Are you certain about this, Brigitte?” Laura asked quietly.
Brigitte reached across the table and took her hand. “Go to him, Laura. Go to your marine. You can take the train to Calais and the ferry across the Channel. You have American papers so the Germans can’t stop you from traveling.”
“I’ll have to get a pass.”
“Go to see Becker in the morning,” Brigitte said.
“I will,” Laura answered, and stood to thank Father Deslourdes for his trouble.
Chapter 8
Kurt Hesse presented himself before Becker’s desk and waited until the Colonel looked up at him before he spoke.
“Madame Duclos to see you, sir.”
Becker dropped the pen he’d been holding and fixed his aide with a gimlet stare.
“She wants a travel pass,” Hesse volunteered bravely.
“A travel pass,” Becker repeated. Christ, what now. The woman was a bigger cross than Kleinschmitt.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is she going? Far, I hope?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Hesse replied stoically.
Becker sighed. “Send her in.”
Laura entered and stood before him, wearing a navy print dress. Her titian hair was piled on top of her head. As always, her level green gaze made him testy.
“Madame Duclos,” he said shortly. “I understand you would like to take a trip?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To London.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“For a vacation.”
Becker studied her in silence. He felt that the timing of her departure was suspicious coming so soon after the boy’s funeral.
“Surely you can vacation in France?” he said.
“I have a friend in London I wish to see.”
Becker didn’t like it but there was little he could do about it. Her American citizenship protected her. If he attempted to interfere with her plans she could complain to the consulate, and the last thing he needed was a diplomatic problem to add to his host of others.
He pulled the appropriate form out of a drawer and picked up his pen again. “For how long?” he said.
She told him.
“I would have thought you’d prefer to stay and comfort your husband’s relatives on their recent loss,” he said mildly, filling in the blanks on the pass.
Laura clut
ched her purse more tightly, her knuckles whitening. “My father-in-law is beyond comfort, Commandant. And my sister-in-law urges me to go. She has her work at the hospital to occupy her.”
And other work as well no doubt, Becker thought. He was certain the whole family was in league with the rebels and would bear watching.
“How nice for you that you can get away,” he said acidly, aware that he was pushing her, because she resented it and because he could. “There are others, I’m sure, who would like to go but cannot.” He signed his name with a stabbing motion that left a blot on the paper.
Laura knew that he meant a French citizen would most likely not be permitted to leave the town. She extended her hand for the pass, which he still held.
“I have always known, Colonel,” she said politely, “what an advantage it is to be an American.”
Becker held her gaze, his dark eyes emotionless. Then with a slight flourish he put the letter of transit in her hand.
“May I go?” Laura asked steadily.
He nodded coldly. Laura escaped to the hall, clutching the piece of paper as if it were a lifeline. She shivered slightly.
What an icy replica of a man, she thought. She felt as if she’d caught a chill from him. She looked down at what he’d given her curiously.
It was made out in French, with blanks left for name, point of origin and destination.
“Ville de Bar-le-Duc,” it said across the top. “Laissez Passer.” Becker had completed it in his flowing, surprisingly legible script, indicating that Laura Duclos, “citoyen Americaine,” had permission to travel from Fains-les-Sources to “Londres” and back again, with the dates. At the bottom, under the space labeled “Military Governor of Meuse, France,” he had written, “Anton Becker, Oberst.” There was a 15 franc stamp in one corner, and on the lower left margin the letter was engraved with an eagle, its wings spread atop a globe clutched in its talons.
Laura removed her “Carte D’Identite,” with its black and white photo of her, from her purse and clipped the two documents together.
Now all she had to do was speak to Lysette about opening the school, and then go home and pack.
* * *
Brigitte Duclos was leaving the hospital at the end of her shift when Kurt Hesse appeared at the exit and blocked her path.
She turned on her heel to avoid him as he grabbed her arm and hauled her almost bodily into Becker’s office, where he locked the door.
“Let me go!” she protested loudly, shrugging off his hands. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But I want to talk to you,” he said, standing with his back to the door.
“About what?” she spat. “How many French citizens you murdered today?”
Hesse was silent. He could see that the shock over Alain’s death ,which had made her lean on him initially, had worn off. It had left anger and bitterness in its place.
“I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer for the firing squad,” she sneered.
“The Colonel selected marksmen for that duty,” Hesse said quietly.
“Oh, of course,” Brigitte said flippantly. “Wouldn’t want to take a chance on missing a bound and blindfolded target thirty feet away!”
“It was done for humane reasons. So he wouldn’t be wounded and survive in pain to endure another round.”
“You mean like a clubbed heifer in an abattoir,” Brigitte said nastily. “Staggering around in a daze, waiting for the fatal blow.”
“Yes,” Hesse concurred.
Suddenly her demeanor changed and she clutched his tunic. “They did kill him first thing, didn’t they?” she whispered in a begging tone. “He didn’t suffer? You saw it?”
“He was heartshot, Brigitte,” he replied, using the German word, herzwunde. “He died right away.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Herzwunde?”
Hesse explained.
She nodded. “Trust you Germans to have a word for it. You must have a whole vocabulary like that: heartshot, gutshot, headshot...”
Hesse grabbed her hands and she twisted away. “Don’t touch me,” she sobbed. “You killed my brother.”
He pinned her arms and held her fast. “I didn’t kill him,” he said through gritted teeth, steadying her. She was stronger than he would have guessed. “I wanted to save him.”
She drew back and stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“When Becker told me to pick up your father I tried to talk him out of it.”
“Why?”
“I figured the old man would give Alain away.”
“You knew Alain was behind the factory explosion?”
He released her and stepped back. “I suspected it.”
“And you didn’t tell Becker?”
Hesse shrugged. “He figured it out anyway. I just did what he ordered me to do. I rounded up suspects for questioning. I didn’t volunteer my thoughts on the subject.”
Brigitte looked up at him. “For my sake?”
He gazed back at her. “Certainly not for mine.”
“Don’t you care that my brother was working against your government here?” she asked softly.
“I don’t care about anything but me and you,” he said simply.
Brigitte moved forward and laid her head on his shoulder. His arms came around her slowly.
“Are we safe here?” she whispered.
“For the moment,” Hesse answered, wondering if they would really ever be safe anywhere. “Becker won’t be back for an hour or so.”
She was silent for a minute and then he felt her shoulders shaking.
“What is it?” he said, as her sorrow transmitted itself to his body.
“My brother is dead,” she wept, burrowing into his shoulder. “Oh, Kurt, my darling Alain is dead.”
Hesse held her and let her cry, aware that he could do nothing else to comfort her.
* * *
Before Laura departed Fains she hid the gun Harris had given her, along with the bulk of the American money, in the Duclos house. She debated taking the pistol with her, but realized that if she got into any trouble and was searched she would have a lot of explaining to do. And the money would come in handy for further resistance work. She left home with fifty dollars concealed in her shoe, some French money in her overnight bag, and the proper papers to get her out of France.
She had not traveled by rail since the occupation, and found the experience unnerving. The trains ran efficiently, but German guards prowled every station like bloodhounds, checking lettres at each stop and entering the compartments at will to search luggage. She displayed her documents so often that they were dirty and dog eared by the time she reached the coast. Laura was heartsick of gray uniforms and guttural commands and the sight of the channel, choppy and blue in the autumn sunlight, was like balm to her soul.
She was searched again before she was permitted to board the ferry, and some significant glances were exchanged when her citoyen Americaine status was revealed. At length, relieved that she had made it so far, she hung over the railing on the upper deck. She turned her face up to the enclosing mist, waiting for the dock crew to throw off the ropes.
She tried not to think about what awaited her in London. She was too uneasy about it. She knew Harris only in the context of his work for Vipère; what would he be like in a strange city, surrounded by strangers? There was only one thing about which she was certain. She couldn’t refuse his request.
The trip across the Strait of Dover was smooth and she was very glad to reach English soil. When she boarded the last train from Dover north to London she was tired enough to sleep through the rest of the journey. She awoke in Victoria Station, and the welcome sound of voices speaking her native language reminded her where she was. Even the clipped British version was like the music of water slipping over polished stones. She showed her papers for the last time when she got off the train in a cloud of steam, and then walked out to the Embankment and into a fine rain.
She was not prepared
for the sight that met her eyes. London was a city under siege. She’d heard about the recent rash of bombings on French radio, but that like everything else was controlled by the Germans, and she’d taken the reports as mostly propaganda. A cursory glance at her surroundings assured her that for once the occupation forces had been telling the truth.
The entire roadway was littered with rubble, as if under construction. Piles of masonry and asphalt paving had been hastily shoved to the side and roped off to make way for traffic. The building across the street was destroyed, the remains of it leaning crazily with the facade half gone, the interior exposed down to the supporting timbers and the buttresses pushed onto the walkway. Pieces of brick and chips of wood crunched underfoot as Laura passed, and she almost tripped over a uniformed workman who was sweeping up fragments of metal and dropping them into a container.
“What’s that?” she asked him, startled.
“Bomb casing from the raid last night, miss,” he replied. “Taking the bits in for the authorities to have a look.”
Soberly, Laura picked her way around the site and headed for the red Underground sign at the corner. She descended to the subway station and located the route map posted under glass at the foot of the stairs. She found the way to Russell Square and as she waited in the midday crowd of Brits on their lunch break, her anxiety began to mount. She felt like turning around and going back.
You’ve come too far to chicken out now, she told herself severely. If you can handle Colonel Becker you can handle this. But the butterflies in her stomach had proliferated into a second, more active, generation by the time she emerged from the Underground exit and glanced around the square.
The hotel loomed on the far corner, dark moss stained stone with a flight of steps leading up to a glass door. It was raining harder now and she tied a kerchief over her hair as she walked across the intersection. It was streaming with buses and official transports but few cars, as all private vehicles were subject to severe petrol rationing. The area was filled with servicemen in a variety of uniforms and women in navy nursing auxiliary outfits, coming from George’s Hospital in Kensington Church Street. Laura made her way to the hotel and entered the bustling lobby with her heart in her mouth.
Clash by Night Page 18