by C. T. Wells
He turned back to Melitta on the dock. He was about to call out to her, but it seemed a crass thing to do amongst his sophisticated fellow travellers. They were relaxed; smoking and chatting, as though travelling to Europe by air was quite the norm.
Josef ran his eyes over the curvaceous metal of the airframe. Up close, the radial engines were huge. He watched a white–uniformed crewman releasing the bow line from its moorings. Soon this magnificent craft would take to the air, and he would be on it. Bound for Europe and a future full of promise.
Josef turned and gave another wave to Melitta across the water.
Soon the launch was bobbing alongside the silver fuselage. When it was his turn, he climbed the steps into the aircraft and took in the plush seats and polished metal trim of the promenade cabin.
Josef found his seat and accepted a flute of champagne from a steward. It seemed the done thing. A moment later he sensed vibrations through his body as the engines roared and the propellers blurred. He felt the seat push him in the back as the whole craft surged out across the bay, no longer bobbing on water, but firming up almost immediately. The hull rose up to plane across the water and then in a majestic and impossible moment the giant craft lifted away from the water. He would never forget the stomach–lurching feeling of rising into the air for the first time.
As a boy, he had ridden his bicycle with hands off the bars and arms outstretched, imagining this moment. You could study aerofoils, lift and drag, and thrust and gravity but the theory couldn’t thrill you like your first actual take–off. He was intoxicated with the sheer audacity of flight.
When they were airborne and banking across the bay, he looked through the window, and he could still see Melitta, a tiny white figure on the concrete dock. She was the last one there. He was not abandoning her, he told himself. She was fifteen now. Nearly grown up. But receding into the distance, diminishing in the ever–widening vista of African coast.
Josef raised the champagne glass to toast her in a final gesture of farewell that she would never see. Then he drank deeply from the glass and stared straight ahead. He decided he didn’t like the fizz of champagne, didn’t like the way it tickled his nose and didn’t like the way it tasted bitter and sweet all at once. He swirled the pale liquid in the glass, making a little vortex that drew bubbles back into the depths. He was not abandoning her, he told himself. She was fifteen now.
On the bulkhead of the promenade cabin was a map, smartly framed in stainless steel. It showed the Empire’s route marked in red, tracing a line from one British territory to the next, north across Africa and the Mediterranean to Europe.
The memory receded and Josef’s hand trembled slightly. The photograph showed her as a woman. She had finished school last summer but had never come to Europe. He had written too few letters and sent no money.
Josef realised his whole game plan for dealing with interrogation had just collapsed. Lucas held the trump card now.
‘Fortunately the London office has good records of enemy aliens held in the compounds. So we found out about her rather quickly. I have since been in touch with the British Consulate in Johannesburg. They’re handling the internments so I made some enquiries. Unfortunately, your sister is not well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There have been nasty outbreaks of smallpox in the compounds and not enough medicine to go around. It would be a pity to see that lovely complexion ruined with pustules and rashes and—’
‘What has happened to her?’
Lucas’ blood–shot eyes fixed on Josef. ‘She is sick. I don’t really know how dire the situation is, but I can tell you this. After infection, and without vaccination, only about half survive. Those who do are usually scarred for life. If you agree to help me, I will see that your sister gets the best of care. She will get a vaccination. She will have any wounds tended to. All you need to do is agree to help. I will cable the instructions to Johannesburg at once.’
‘What must I do?’
‘All in good time, Josef. All in good time. First, we must arrange for you to escape from England. I daresay we’ll have you back in France by the end of the week. Will you help me, Josef?’
Josef looked at the photograph of Melitta. There was no decision to be made. ‘I have no choice.’
‘I knew you’d see it that way. You’re a practical man.’
VIII
Giselle Alegre walked quickly through the dark streets of Caen, her shoes clacking a conspicuous rhythm on the pavement. She hoped she was in time. She must be. If it had already happened, there would have been at least one gunshot and the whole district would be swarming with Nazis. It was late in the evening and the streetlights were shut down. No more orbs of electric light these days. No more bright reflections on the wet cobbles.
Giselle looked back down the shadowy canyon of a street. It seemed empty. The only sound was the flap of a discarded newspaper in a gutter. Soon it would be curfew, but even now a lone woman would probably catch the attention of the German soldiers. She found herself feeling the silver locket at her neck. She did not believe in lucky charms, but the locket gave her resolve when she needed it.
Giselle was close to her destination and, as a final precaution, she ducked into a recessed doorway on the Rue Arcisse de Caumont. She waited. It was almost unbearable. She had to get the message through, but she also had to be sure she was not leading anyone to her comrades.
The tempo of her heart jumped as she scanned the streets. Was there anyone out there? When she was sure she was alone she darted across the street and into the deep shadows of the church that presided over this quarter of Caen: Saint Etienne le Vieux. She saw the familiar motorcycle and sidecar parked near the door to the transept, ready for a quick getaway.
Giselle cast a final glance over her shoulder and approached the door. It was heavy oak, banded and hinged in black iron. She knocked, soft and quick.
There was no response.
Giselle bit her lip. She had just received orders via the radio and if she didn’t get through in time it could be a disaster. She pounded on the door.
‘Who is it?’
She could hear the tension in Edouard’s voice. ‘It’s Giselle. Let me in.’
The door opened a crack. She could just make out dark–eyed Edouard. ‘Isn’t there supposed to be a password?’
‘Forget the stupid password. You know it’s me. I have to speak to Martin at once.’ Edouard always complied. For one thing, she was Martin’s sister. For another, Edouard would do anything for her. The attention was not unwelcome, but it was the furthest thing from her mind at this moment.
Giselle stepped inside the church. A sacristy lantern emitted a reddish stained–glass glow, but the light could not penetrate far into the soaring void above. She could smell candle wax and the polish on old timber pews. The air was still and cool.
Edouard had a German MP–18 slung over his shoulder; a squat and brutal–looking weapon. It was an ugly accoutrement for such a gentle and refined boy. He could have been a chorister, but he had a sub–machine gun instead of a hymn book. Giselle pulled her mind back to more pressing matters. ‘Where is he?’
Edouard pointed to an arched doorway near the main entrance.
Giselle nodded and strode towards the dark arch, conscious of the noisy clatter of her heels. She felt like she always had in church; scared of doing something wrong, but now more than ever. She didn’t know how many souls were at stake if she didn’t deliver the message. She entered the archway. Inside, a tight and twisting staircase wound around the outer walls. Thick bell ropes descended through the middle of the space.
Giselle stepped out of her heels. She set a stockinged foot on the first step and started climbing. Concentrating on each step, one hand on the coarse masonry of the wall, the other on the timber balustrade, she ascended swiftly. Breathless, she arrived at the final landing. A short ladder led
to the bell tower, far above the streets of Caen. She scaled it rapidly, emerging on the platform where her brother sat nursing a Mauser rifle with a telescopic sight. He scowled at her.
‘What are you doing here, Giselle? It will happen any minute.’
She was panting hard from the climb. ‘I have to tell you …’
Martin put his face close to hers. ‘There are already bodyguards on the street. You must go at once.’
‘No!’ She locked eyes with her brother. ‘Our orders are to stand down. We must abort.’
‘Giselle! We know there will be reprisals. That is the price of war …’
She shook her head but he ignored her and returned to the narrow space overlooking the Place Louis Guillouard. Cars were parked in the forecourt of the prestigious Lycée Malherbe where a recital was being performed. She could see the Mercedes–Benz gleaming under the streetlights, flanked by German kubelwagens.
Once the abbey of Saint Stephen, the magnificent stone building was now a private institute where a youth choir was entertaining officers of the occupying force. It made Giselle sick to think of it. It was exploitation. She hated the way the Nazi butchers hid their inhumanity behind a veil of culture and sophistication. ‘Martin, this is not about the reprisals. It is an instruction from England.’
Martin lifted the Mauser and hissed at her: ‘Shut up! I have to concentrate.’ He set the barrel of the rifle on the window sill and sat on a chair he had carried all the way to the top of the tower. He pulled the rifle into his shoulder, and watched the building opposite.
‘Martin!’ She was desperate. ‘Our contact has told me there is a different objective now. A higher priority.’
‘I don’t care about what the English say. This is our country, and we will liberate it with or without them.’
‘We need them. We have to work together. I have orders. You must not kill tonight.’
‘Look! It is time.’ Martin put his eye to the telescopic sight. Down below on the far side of the square a squad of SS bodyguards were standing in the street around the Mercedes. ‘I will only have a moment, when he walks from the building to the car. Go down to Edouard. Go with him on the motorcycle. There are only two seats so I will stay and shoot anyone who follows you.’
‘Martin, put down the rifle.’ Her tone caused him to glance over his shoulder once more. Her hand was on the heavy bell–rope. Below her, it dropped through a hole in the platform and reached all the way to ground level. Just above her hand, a mighty brass bell quivered with the resonance of her voice. Just a faint hum, but if she pulled the rope the bell could rouse the city. ‘If you do not put down the rifle, I will warn them.’ She gripped the bell rope with two hands.
‘You’ll have us all killed!’
‘So be it. The English have their reasons for keeping him alive. We must follow orders, if we want their support. We need them.’
Martin lowered the Mauser to the floor and arched his neck in frustration. Giselle took her hands off the rope. She understood how hard it was for him. He had been tense in the days leading up to this. It was hard for him to let all that courage and will dissipate. She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Look.’
Together they peered out of the bell tower. The recital had finished. A small group of dignitaries were descending from the stone archway to the road. French civilians and German military personnel together. Martin bared his teeth as he watched the collaborateurs ingratiate themselves to the Germans. At the centre of the group, the corpulent figure of Reichsmarchall Hermann Goering was unmistakable in his powder blue Luftwaffe uniform and matching fur–lined cape. He was gregarious, flanked by a sycophantic entourage who lapped up his banter.
Giselle’s lip curled as she watched him. He might once have been a dashing fighter pilot in the Great War, but now he was an obese mockery of the young men he ordered to their deaths. The cape made him look like a nouveau–riche pimp. And the collaborateurs were like pathetic little lap dogs, cosying up to their master and hoping his pudgy hand might scratch their bellies.
The Reichsmarschall paused for a second on the steps, checking the position of his car. Giselle knew that would have been the moment to take the shot. Martin was an excellent marksman and at less than three hundred metres he could have confidently put a bullet through Goering’s chest just below the Iron Cross. Giselle could scarcely believe that they had been forbidden to take the shot. Why would London want this monster alive?
And then the moment was gone. Goering was ushered into his car which moved away with the escort vehicles in place. The esplanade soon flooded with the audience departing from the evening’s performance and the cavalcade drove almost directly beneath the tower of St. Etienne as it disappeared into the night.
Giselle and Martin sank down and sat with their backs against the stonework.
‘Thank you, Martin.’
He looked at her; she saw the determination written in rigid flesh. He would give his life for their cause. ‘I was ready to do it.’
‘I know, Martin, but you were wise. Not now.’
At length, he spoke. ‘It makes no sense. It could take months to get such a chance as that ...’
‘For some reason, the English want Goering alive right now. And we need allies.’
‘We can’t completely trust them.’
Giselle nodded. It was on all their minds. Mers El Kébir was all over the newspapers. Only weeks ago, the Royal Navy had attacked the French fleet whilst at anchor in French Algeria. Following the fall of France, England was unsure whether the French naval resources would fall into German or Italian hands and become deadly assets for the enemy.
On the third of July, a British taskforce made the fate of French battleships certain. The French Admiral had not met an ultimatum to surrender their ships to British control and Churchill had ordered them to be neutralised to prevent any chance of the Axis forces gaining naval superiority. British capitol ships fired repeatedly on the French fleet sinking or damaging six ships and killing 1,297 French sailors. The facts were indelibly carved into the minds of the French people. One thousand, two hundred and ninety–seven. They would not forget.
The Germans had made a great deal of it, ensuring the French population was well aware of the actions taken by France’s so called greatest ally. The incident had driven a wedge between the nations. In London, the relations between Churchill and De Gaulle were particularly strained.
And here, in the bell tower of Saint Etienne le Vieux, Giselle was haunted by the British ruthlessness. ‘I don’t completely trust them. But we need England. If we want the résistance to prevail, we need them to enact the covenant.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
***
Melitta’s face swam towards him. She was ethereal but floating closer, taking on the form of flesh. Josef hoped she could see him too, from her side, wherever that may be. Why had he been such a distant brother?
She was growing up, he saw; on the cusp of full womanhood, alive with vitality, just as he had seen her in Lucas’ photograph. He wanted to reach her, to apologise for leaving her alone in the world. She was older now and she might forgive him. She had been a terrible sulk when they were children. She looked up at him, and their eyes met. A pause and then she smiled with recognition. There was genuine warmth in her face; not a hint of condemnation. He smiled back at her, and for an instant in eternity, they were reunited. Then her smile faded and pain and confusion spread across her brow. Her complexion, so radiant in the vanishing moment, was suddenly corrupted as the pox manifested itself; the angry spots spreading and multiplying. Her eyes shone with fear and he saw her skin breaking up, bleeding and weeping. Now she was utterly disfigured and consumed by panic.
He reached out to her but she was being dragged away by the gloved hands of faceless white figures. He tried to chase her, but it was impossible for his leaden body to catch up. She strained to loo
k at him, the desperation leaving her and only love and sorrow radiating from her before she receded from view entirely.
Josef lurched upright, breathing hard.
A dream. A nightmare.
He dismissed it. It was untruth stirred up by an overwrought mind. She would have the treatment. It had already been agreed. According to the luminous dial of his pilot’s watch it was nearly eight in the morning. He had slept well past dawn. The blackout curtains had completely hidden the coming of day.
Josef stood up and stretched, taking in the comfortably furnished upstairs bedroom. His gums and jaw still felt thick and sore, and his ankle had swollen, but otherwise he was functioning.
His flying uniform had been taken, but a towelling robe was folded on an armchair nearby. He donned the robe and limped to the dormer window, pulling back the heavy drapes.
It was a fine summer morning and he looked out on emerald fields rolling away into the distance. Even in summer it was green. Not like South Africa. Below him a hedge bounded a formal garden with paths and rose gardens and strangely shattered ornaments. Beyond the hedge there was a windsock and a carefully mown landing strip. His pilot’s eyes lingered on it for a moment, automatically assessing the wind strength and direction.
A knock interrupted his calculations. Josef crossed to the door and tried to open it. It was locked from the outside. Then he heard a key rattling and the door swung open and he was face–to–face with someone he had not expected.
She was slender and ginger–haired, with glossy lipstick that seemed a bit much for the hour of the day. She reminded him of someone famous, someone from the movies. Carole Lombard perhaps. She stood in the hallway with folded clothes held out before her—civilian clothes, he noted.