by C. T. Wells
‘You are welcome here,’ Anton said with a chuckle. ‘But listen, you are not just pretending to be farm labourers. You will really be farm labourers, yes? Unless you have urgent business for the résistance, you will milk cows, you will weed gardens, you will mend fences. You’re not here to fool around with your radio. There is much to be done, and you will start at dawn tomorrow.’
They thanked their hosts and Edouard led them through the twilight to the barn. In summer it was not required for housing animals and the stalls had been converted to crude sleeping quarters. A hanging lantern bathed the lower level of the barn with a warm glow, but, up above the trio, the shadows of the heavy timber trusses made an array of dark triangles on the ceiling.
‘What do you think of the accommodation?’ asked Edouard.
‘It will do fine,’ Martin said. ‘What do you think of our hosts?’
Edouard shuffled for a moment, taking a while to find his words. ‘I don’t like the way Anton looks at Giselle.’
Giselle frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you were carrying the plates to the kitchen he looked at you … like you were one of his heifers.’
Martin laughed. ‘A heifer?
‘Are you calling me a cow?’ Giselle stuck her hands on her hips.
Edouard flushed. ‘No, of course not. I’m serious. I didn’t like the way he looked at you, that’s all.’
Giselle smiled. ‘Then I’m sure you will protect me from the lusty farmer, Edouard.’
‘I will.’
She saw the sincerity in his eyes. ‘I think it’s acceptable for a socialist to appreciate chivalry.’
‘Did you bring everything from Caen?’ asked Martin, changing the topic.
‘Yes. I carried the cases here on the back of a lorry.’ Edouard indicated two battered portmanteaus and an attaché case in one of the stalls.
Martin dragged them carefully into the lantern light to open them. Amongst the clothing and personal effects were a pair of silenced Ballester–Molina automatic pistols and spare magazines. In the second case he found the compact radio transceiver that kept them in touch with England. The third case held the MP–18 submachine gun and a demolitions kit wrapped in blankets.
‘I had to leave the sniper rifle hidden in the city,’ explained Edouard. ‘I couldn’t conceal it for the journey here.’
Martin nodded. Edouard had already taken a considerable risk smuggling their cache of weapons to the farm. Their assortment had been stolen from the Germans or supplied by their British contact. ‘What’s this?’ Martin pointed to a cylindrical object wrapped in clothing and sitting in the third case.
Giselle recognised it at once. ‘Edouard! You remembered my clarinet!’ She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and reached to unwrap her favourite instrument. Edouard stood speechless, clearly basking in the affection.
Martin watched as she held the instrument to her lips. ‘Now we can really give the Germans hell,’ he said as she started to play.
XI
Bruno LaChance looked around suspiciously as he was led through the grand foyer of L’Arlequin theatre. A labourer, a grubby man in paint–speckled overalls, he preferred a cheap bar and a game of cards to theatres or music halls. The foyer was empty, except for the life–sized photographs of cabaret starlets and sirens of the stage adorning the purple walls. Their sensuous smiles and languid poses did nothing to put his mind at ease.
Bruno’s companions were the cause of his disquiet. They were Gestapo agents, their pallid faces expressionless above the dark collars of their coats. Two of them held Bruno by the elbows, and two walked behind with machine pistols.
The theatre was deserted. The Germans had shut down L’Arlequin because of performances parodying Nazis. The bar next to the foyer was empty of both patrons and liquor.
They led Bruno towards the doors to the main auditorium and, though he had the strong body of a workman, he was weak at the knees. What were they going to do with him? Two days ago, he and his two brothers had been caught. Bruno, Maurice and Philippe LaChance had been in the act of painting anti–German propaganda on the wall of a factory when a patrol of stormtroopers had arrested them.
For the two longest days of his life they had been held in police cells, telling themselves that painting a wall with the symbols of the Free French was a small crime. The Germans were prigs, but surely they would not be shot for such a harmless act. Bruno had voiced this opinion firmly, hoping to impart courage to Philippe; the youngest of the three. He was only sixteen, and should have been in school when it happened.
But when the Gestapo took him from the cell, Bruno quietly lost all hope. He was expecting torture and death. But he had not expected a disused theatre to be the venue.
The men at his elbows marched him through the doors. It was dim inside, and his eyes had to adjust to take in the cavernous space. Tiered seating dropped steeply away beneath him. Footlights illuminated the scarlet ripples of a stage curtain. It seemed deserted. But, no. There, in the middle row was the dark outline of a man, wearing a snap–brim hat.
The Gestapo man behind Bruno prodded him with the machine pistol and the labourer made his way down the steps. The agent said nothing, but motioned for him to sit next to the man.
‘Good evening, Monsieur LaChance,’ the man in the hat said. ‘I saved you a seat.’ He spoke French perfectly.
Bruno looked at the man but it was difficult to discern his features in the darkness. He smelled faintly of soap and hair oil. Bruno looked back over his other shoulder. He could no longer see the four Gestapo men, but he sensed they were somewhere behind him.
‘I think you are just in time for the show.’
Bruno sat down, as bidden.
‘Have you heard of The Great Willi?’
‘Non.’
‘A pity. He is a wonderful magician, Bruno, but unfortunately the war has taken him away from the stage and he must serve the Führer as a humble policeman. But, on occasion, The Great Willi performs for a private audience. We are the lucky audience tonight.’
Bruno shifted in his seat. What game was this? He had expected a thumbscrew perhaps. Or a car battery and cables. But even then he had little to tell them. He was just a man who had vented his frustration with leftover paint. He didn’t know anything else. He tried to speak firmly, but his voice wavered as he spoke. ‘I don’t know what this is about but I have nothing to tell you.’
‘Shhh! The show is about to begin.’
The curtains drew back. Spotlights snapped on overhead and converged on the stage of L’Arlequin. It was a sprawling mess of abandoned theatrical props: abandoned dresses and hats, costume racks, a stripped down piano, a gilt–edged mirror and a Corinthian column supporting nothing. At the rear hung a vibrant backdrop of the cosmos; stars and planets and a half–moon of papier maché hung from wires.
And then, from amidst the tangle of abandoned props, a figure materialised, stepping into the spotlight. He was squat and powerful, wearing the same dark clothes as the other agents, only The Great Willi had a black and white theatrical mask covering the features above his bull neck. It fixed his expression in a garish grin.
The Great Willi bowed to the audience and then spun towards a mannequin who stood amongst the costume racks and stage blocks, slightly to stage left. He extended an arm towards it, as though introducing an assistant. It was a female figure, wearing a fashionably bobbed wig and a cocktail dress. She had a fox–fur around her neck and, incongruously, her hands were cuffed together.
The Great Willi was not a graceful mime. He confronted the mannequin and stretched out his palms in a clumsy gesture of questioning.
The man in the hat leaned closer to Bruno and whispered as though not wanting to disturb other theatre–goers. ‘You may not be familiar with this part of the story. Here, the Great Willi questions his beloved. He wants to understand her. To know e
verything she knows. He wants to know all the important people in her life.’
Bruno sneered at the man in the darkness. ‘This is a joke!’
‘Mai non! This is a tragedy. The tragedy is that Willi’s beloved is a mute. And she cannot tell him the things he desires to know. Now he must work his magic so she can reveal her true heart.’
Bruno looked back at the stage and his eyes widened as the mannequin came to life. Or so it seemed. Her posture changed. She straightened, as though standing tall. The Great Willi had his hands extended towards her as though supernatural powers flowed out of him. His fingers shook as though channeling the magic was a great feat. And then she was rising up off the floor, hanging limply and slowly ascending until she hovered a metre off the stage.
‘A levitation trick. But I know how he does it.’ The Gestapo man nodded enthusiastically. ‘Piano wire and fish hooks.’
Bruno grimaced. What would it do to real flesh?
Onstage, The Great Willi picked up a metal toolbox. Bruno had one just like it—a standard possession amongst tradesmen.
‘His box of magic ...’ breathed the man in the hat.
With a flourish The Great Willi withdrew a device from the box.
‘His magic wand ...’
The device looked nothing like a magic wand. It was more like an insect spray. It was a brass cylinder with a wooden pump handle. There was now a faint smell of alcohol in the theatre.
Then The Great Willi raised a finger, urging the audience to wait. There was more. He starting working a small plunger on the cylinder, pressurising the alcohol mixture inside. Bruno knew exactly what it was. He had used one himself for stripping paint. It was a blow torch.
‘This is a disgrace.’ muttered Bruno.
‘No this is miraculous. See what The Great Willi can do with his magic wand.’
The mock magician onstage gripped the pump handle in his left hand and lit the pilot light with a cigarette lighter. Then, displaying it to the theatre, he worked the pump and a with a soft whoosh, a jet of blue flame shot out from the nozzle.
The Great Willi closed in on the mannequin who was gently swinging, above the stage. A long tongue of flame licked at her painted wooden feet, and smoke curled up through the beams of light towards the dark void above the stage. Bruno screwed up his face. The Great Willi gave another stroke of the pump and played the flame up her calf and thigh. A real person hanging by the fish hooks and wire would be writhing from the searing heat, tearing their flesh as they tried to evade being charred by ‘the magic wand’. It would be agony, but death would not come quickly. He was queasy now, and he looked away.
‘Look,’ the man in the hat said. ‘The magic is working! I think she is ready to talk.’
Bruno stood up defiantly. He would rather die fighting than be humiliated or mutilated like that. ‘You’ll have to shoot me, because I won’t stand for this. Even if you do that to me, I don’t know anything. I have nothing to tell you. ‘
‘Bruno! Shhh! It’s time for the Second Act.’ The Gestapo man pointed to the stage. ‘Sit down.’
Bruno gasped. In the spotlight two more agents were dragging a youth across the stage. He wore paint–flecked work clothes and was handcuffed just like the mannequin. ‘Philippe!’
The boy blinked under the blaze of the spotlights, trying to get a bearing on his brother’s voice.
The Great Willi walked upstage and faced the audience, still brandishing the blowtorch. The eyes beneath the smiling mask fixed on Bruno and the gloved hands were outstretched and upturned in a gesture of inquiry.
‘Now he invites you to talk,’ interpreted the man in the hat.
Bruno LaChance snarled in rage. Young Philippe huddled and shivered on the stage.
The magician shot out another burst of flame.
The Gestapo agent turned to him and smiled. ‘Come on, Bruno. It’s time for a little audience participation.’
***
Josef huddled against the wheelhouse of the trawler. There was a heavy fog over the channel and the conditions seemed perfect for an unnoticed approach to Guernsey. Captain Hook, as they had agreed to call him, had told Josef to wait on the deck and not to speak. He had two hefty crewmen who carried revolvers in shoulder holsters over their woollen turtlenecks.
Josef had sensed from the outset that these crewmen weren’t too taken with their German passenger. Now they watched him shivering on deck while they sipped hot tea in enamel mugs in the warmth of the wheelhouse.
A couple of times during the crossing Josef had stamped his way around the deck of the trawler to keep warm, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his flying jacket. He realised it was not a normal trawler. The diesel motors seemed remarkably well tuned for such a derelict–looking vessel.
Outwardly, it seemed the shabby fishing boat was held together by nothing more than flaky paint and barnacles. However, the machinery was in top condition; well–oiled, free of rust. Beneath the vague outline of fishing nets piled on the deck he had seen what looked like a heavy machine gun and a spotlight. No, this fishing boat didn’t bring home many kippers. It had other duties.
At dusk, Lucas and Hood had delivered him to an isolated jetty somewhere on the channel coast. There had been no fondness in the farewell. Moments later he was aboard the trawler and making a fast crossing of the channel towards occupied France. Still, it had been hours of sitting around, and Josef’s injuries seemed all the more painful in the cold. He was pleased when one of the sailors finally roused him.
The Captain backed off the throttle and the trawler drifted through the mist. The two sailors moved to the port side and prepared to lower a rowboat from its davits.
‘Are you rowing me ashore?’ asked Josef.
‘No. You’re rowing yourself ashore. You can keep the boat, courtesy of His Majesty. We’re not getting off.’
Josef stared out into the night. Dark water vanished into the fog. It was impossible to see anything out there.
‘How will I find it?’
‘We reckon Guernsey’s over there.’ One of the sailors waved his hand in the general direction of the channel island.
‘How far?’
‘Dunno. Maybe a mile. Maybe ten. Hard to tell in the fog.’
‘Ten miles?’ asked Josef. ‘I could miss it completely if the tide turns.’
The sailor shrugged. ‘Well, don’t mess about.’
‘If you do miss it,’ the other one said, ‘It’s only another thirty miles to the French coast.’
Josef sighed. He wondered how long his strength would last. Thirty miles—nearly fifty kilometres—on the open sea? That was an ordeal he did not want to contemplate.
The rowboat splashed down into the water beside the trawler. Josef had to descend a rope ladder to clamber into it. He could feel the cold emanating up from the channel water and he shivered, concentrating hard on finding the slippery rungs of the ladder. The thought of falling into the channel was enough to cause another shiver.
Keeping low, he slid onto the little vessel that rocked and bobbed with his shifting weight. He got himself seated and fitted the oars to the rowlocks. With a tug on the left, he tried to orientate the little vessel as best he could towards Guernsey. For all he knew, they’d pointed him towards the middle of the Atlantic, but he had to trust them. Surely they knew he was integral to some important mission, even if he didn’t understand it himself.
He started pulling on the oars evenly, trying to not to steer off course. The wake made a straight line from the trawler to his boat, and he hoped he could maintain a constant heading.
The British sailors just stared stone–faced as the diesels opened up and the trawler turned for England. They vanished into the fog almost immediately. Even the sound was soon lost, deadened by the moist air.
He was alone on the dark water now, with only the slap of oars marking time. He was col
d to the bone, and his fear cut even deeper. Josef’s life depended on reaching a small dot of an island. Worse still, Melitta’s life depended on him hitting the mark. There was nothing for it but to row steadily. He dared not to stop and rest, because the only indicator of direction he had was his own wake. As soon as he stopped, he would bob around, lose his heading and maybe never reach land.
He wondered how many hours it was until dawn. Maybe he would be spotted from the air by a German plane. He willed his body to keep working rhythmically. Even when the muscles in his shoulders started to burn, he kept pulling steadily, sometimes craning his neck and hoping for a dark mass to loom out of the fog. The water looked calm, but how could he know if a tide was dragging him into emptiness?
As the strength in his arms faded towards the end of the first hour, Josef remembered the little canister of Pervitin tablets in his flying jacket. He pulled it out and tore open the tube. He dropped a tablet into his mouth and resumed rowing before the ripples of his wake vanished to nothing. It had to be worth a try.
Nothing happened at first. It was just like eating a sweet. But gradually he started to warm up and he felt the strength surge back into his arms. He pulled harder, wondering why he had even lost confidence earlier. Either the tablet was helping or he had found his second wind.
The wake lengthened and he was sure he wasn’t going off course now. It would be possible to get to France, if need be. He started to hum to himself as he rowed, and it sounded rather good.
He did not know how long he rowed that night, but as dawn broke he washed up on a grey and rocky shore. By then he was sick of his own company and his tuneless humming, and the aches in his body ran from head to toe.
It was a desolate place but he wanted to kiss the sand. He dragged himself through a small surf and hauled the boat onto the beach between outcroppings of black rock. His limbs staggered up the shore and collapsed at the wrack line amongst the kelp. Breathing heavily, Josef rested on the sand until the foamy tide reached up and touched his boots.