by C. T. Wells
She heard them re–enter the house and Giselle stole another glance. The second German soldier was handing over some bank notes. Terese was nodding gratefully, accepting payment for the cabbages. A moment later, she heard the truck start up and drive away down the lane. Giselle put the match back in the box. Then she dashed across to Edouard. He was shaking too.
‘That was close.’ He looked like a frightened boy. He set the MP–18 down on the porch.
Giselle sat down next to him. She gripped his hand and felt it still trembling. It didn’t make her think less of him. He had acted bravely in spite of the enemy being so close. There was more to Edouard than he got credit for. They sat still for a moment, then she spoke. ‘I nearly lit the barn.’
‘Blasted sauerkraut!’ said Edouard passionately.
‘What?’
‘That’s what they wanted cabbages for. Sauerkraut. I nearly shot a man because he wanted to buy cabbages. All I can say is he’s lucky he offered a fair price.’
Giselle laughed, feeling the tension flow out of her body. ‘Edouard! You are the defender of France, the patron saint of vegetables!’
They walked back to the barn in the summer afternoon, still holding hands. He had risked his life willingly. Their long shadows stretched across the yard and jack–knifed towards one another where the beaten earth met the wall of the barn.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘I need to leave a message at the mill.’
‘Would you like me to come?’
‘No, don’t worry. Put the gun away then go and help Terese. I’ll meet you in the house soon.’
Giselle returned to the barn to gather a few items and place them in a small sack. The first was the German pilot’s pistol. The second was the letter that had been contained in the package dropped by Lysander two nights earlier. She also placed notepaper and a pencil in the sack. She would write the question asking for the destination of the reconnaissance film and she would leave the pilot’s pistol and the proof of his sister’s welfare. She would keep her promise, build goodwill with their contact.
Giselle set off across the yard carrying the sack. It would only take a minute to leave the items for the exchange on the millstone, then she could return to the farmhouse. She was getting hungry, and she was starting to worry about Martin. He was well overdue. She dismissed both thoughts from her mind and started humming a tune.
Passing beneath the sprawling chestnut tree, she headed for the path that led past the smokehouse and dairy, then on towards the windmill.
As she reached the smokehouse, a strong arm suddenly encircled her throat and her tune was choked off immediately. She struggled wildly, gasping for breath. She swung the sack at her assailant, hoping the weight of the pistol would do some damage. The man read her intent, caught her wrist and gave it a sharp twist. He now had her by the throat and the wrist. As he dragged her backwards towards the smokehouse, she thrashed, kicked and twisted.
The smokehouse had blackened walls and the carcasses of two pigs swinging from meat hooks. Giselle was flung face–forward to the ground as the door slammed shut.
She tried to turn and face her attacker, but he was on her again, his knee in the small of her back, pinning her to the floor and knocking the breath out of her before she could cry out. He gripped her hair, yanked her head back and stuffed cloth into her mouth.
Giselle shuddered with fear and screamed silently.
XVIII
Wolfe Schiller watched the proceedings in the officers’ mess. Jurgen Brandt had been made acting staffelkapitan in the absence of Claus Langer. He had taken to the role with vigour. When Brandt was worked up he could probably be plugged into the electrical supply to power the whole base.
Brandt was conducting a ceremony of sorts. The tailplane of Langer’s Messerschmitt had been undamaged by the crash landing and it had been cut away from the wreck. Brandt had mounted it to the wall of the lounge alongside the portrait of the Führer and he was now painting the twelfth symbol marking an aerial victory. The pilots looked on with a kind of reverence. They had all heard from Shaka that Langer shot down another Spitfire before the crash.
Jurgen Brandt finished with the paintbrush and turned to the men. ‘The British will pay for what happened today.’ His wild eyes searched all of them and he thrust the paintbrush into the air. ‘We will all be busy painting kill tallies on our planes!’
There were grunts and murmurs of agreement from the pilots. Wolfe was more reserved. With Langer, things had been under control but Brandt would lead them to death or glory. Wolfe had a bad feeling about which was the more likely.
‘If it were up to me,’ Brandt declared, ‘I would have you in the air right now, hunting down the Englanders. Eradicating them!’ He was pacing around now, incandescent with rage. He wanted to engage immediately, but Luftwaffe Command had them grounded until tomorrow. ‘We cannot take revenge immediately, so we will prepare for when we get our chance. I want you out with your aircraft. I want you to personally oversee refuelling and rearming. Talk to the mechanics. Get your planes in perfect condition. Do radio checks. Have everything in order, because tomorrow the hunt begins! Go! Ready your planes. Make the Führer proud.’ He stabbed the air with every command.
The men of the staffel nodded or saluted and made for the airfield. Officially, they were off duty, but no–one was going to argue with Brandt. He was a force of nature on any given day. Today, he was a one–man thunderstorm, crackling with pent–up fury.
Schiller approached him as the men headed out to the runway. He was about the only one who could speak to Brandt in the midst of his fury. ‘Shall I have the engineers tow Langer’s wreck away, sir?’
Brandt surveyed the airfield through the windows, his eyes blazing. ‘Off the runway, yes. But leave it in plain view alongside. Let it fuel their hatred every time they take off.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Schiller. ‘And another thing, sir. Shaka was flying with Langer. You are the new staffelkapitan. Will you take Shaka as your wingman?’
Brandt nodded. ‘He’s a good pilot.’ He frowned and looked out at the men he had sent off across the airfield. ‘Where is Shaka?’
‘He’s already been rostered off flying for twenty–four hours. He will go and visit Langer in hospital tomorrow.’
Brandt grunted. ‘All right, but I want him back in the air with me as soon as possible.’ He started pacing again.
‘We’ll get them, sir,’ reassured Schiller. ‘We’ll get them.’
‘We won’t get them if we’re sitting on the damn ground!’ Brandt started patting his pockets, feeling for something. He was still agitated.
‘Do you need something, sir?’ ventured Schiller.
Brandt scowled. ‘I need to fly. We are men of action, Wolfe. It kills me to sit still.’
***
Cruelty came to Josef naturally and unbidden; a legacy of his own mistreatment. As soon as he unleashed his anger, the desire to completely dominate somebody surged through him. He pulled the French girl’s arms together behind her back and used his belt to tie them together at the elbows. Then he twisted her around so she faced him. He watched her eyes widen in shock and recognition. She was afraid, and so she should be, but clearly she had not expected to see his face.
She wriggled backwards against the wall of the smokehouse and drew her knees up in front of her. Josef reached up and pulled a meat hook down from the low ceiling. He then knelt in front of her trembling figure and put the point of the hook against the flesh of her slender neck. It rested in the hollow just above her silver locket, the sharp tip indenting the flesh, poised to rip out an artery.
‘I am going to take the cloth out of your mouth. If you scream or yell it will be the last thing you ever do. Do you hear me?’
She nodded.
Josef reached across and pulled the bundle of cloth from her mouth. She breathed in deeply, but did not
call out.
He spoke quietly, his voice hard. ‘You say my sister’s life is at stake. But now yours is too. So this time I will be asking the questions.
The French girl seemed to understand that he was not bluffing.
‘What is your name?’
‘I am Giselle Alegre.’
‘You are working for the Résistance, but in fact you are nothing more than a criminal. You are taking my sister hostage and trying to force me to betray my countrymen. My comrades!’
Giselle stopped huddling against the wall and stared straight at him.
He was surprised, because suddenly she didn’t seem so cowed.
‘Don’t you take the moral high ground, Josef. You have invaded my country. And look at what you are doing right now. You are a bully and nothing more. You ought to be ashamed …’
A bully! He was a victim! Had always been. He was about to berate her but she cut him off.
‘I know you are a South African, Josef. You had a choice. You did not have to be part of this. But you chose, and you chose the wrong side.’
Josef had no words. He snarled and gripped her throat with one hand. Then he placed the point of the meat hook over her left eye and let it touch the eyelid. She flinched and it thrilled him. Something primal and brutal stirred within and he savoured every tremor beneath the palm of his hand.
But he controlled his voice, speaking cold and deliberate words. ‘You need to give me proof that Melitta is alive and safe. I don’t believe you have a letter. There have been promises from the start, but no proof. Give it to me now or the deal is off.’
Giselle looked at him with one smouldering eye. The other eye was squeezed shut because of the sharp steel pressed against her skin. Her voice wavered, but she was still negotiating. ‘If I give you proof, will you give me the information I need?’
It rattled him. She should be promising him the world by now. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because you owe it to your sister. The English are ruthless. They will have her killed the moment you stop being useful to us.’
He backed off a little with the meat hook, letting it hover in front of her face. ‘If they’re so ruthless, why are you in league with them?’
She stared at him, both eyes ablaze now. ‘You hypocrite! You are in league with Adolf Hitler. And you are threatening to rip my eye out with a meat hook. Don’t talk to me about ruthless.’ Her words drained the last of her courage and her eyes moistened with tears.
He couldn’t argue with her. He only needed to know about Melitta. ‘Just give me proof,’ he hissed.
She sniffed and her voice wavered as she spoke. ‘Look in the sack.’
Josef frowned. He hadn’t expected anything but more lies and manipulation, and now it seemed she was offering proof. Or was she just stalling? He stood and walked across to where the sack had fallen on the stained floor of the smokehouse. He heard Giselle breathing fast, shivering. It seemed he had really scared her. Good. That was the whole idea.
He put down the meat hook and, with a suspicious glance at Giselle, picked up the sack. Inside was his Walther. His holster was still attached to the belt that bound Giselle’s arms, so he put the pistol in his pocket. He rummaged in the sack and found the pencil and notepaper and flung them on the floor. There was one final item. A paper envelope.
His eyes flicked back to the crumpled form of Giselle as he opened it. Was there some kind of trick?
But then he saw Melitta’s writing. His own name, written in a loopy, feminine hand. Its familiarity was crushing, and it was Josef’s turn to tremble as he read it. Even the way she addressed him—no–one else had ever called him that.
Dear Joey,
I am alive. The English have treated me for smallpox. I am weak, and I have awful scars on my back from the disease, but I am getting better with every day and my face and eyes have been spared.
So many have died in the camps. It is terrible, and there is not enough quinine to go around. But please know that I am well and I will be forever grateful that it was you who arranged for my treatment. I don’t know how you did it, but you have saved me.
I am in a ward in Johannesburg and I look out over a pretty garden with the sort of flowers Mutti tried to grow. I hope I can see you again sometime, if you can ever bear to put up with your annoying little sister again!
I think of you every day. I hear of battles on the wireless and I pray you are safe. Fly well, Joey.
Your grateful sister,
Melitta
Josef was suddenly appalled. He looked down at Giselle. She looked so helpless, huddled on the cold, dirty floor, with her arms bound. Now there were tears streaking pale tracks through the dirt on her face. He suddenly realised he had terrified one girl in the interests of protecting another. Had he really done this? Surely, it was not part of his nature to terrorise a woman … but he knew that people could do things that defied their own standards. Hadn’t his own father sobbed apologies after giving him a thrashing?
He knelt to untie her and help her to her feet. A great weight of shame had settled on him but he needed to know more. ‘How is it possible? This letter is dated just five days ago. In Johannesburg.’
Giselle hugged herself, rubbing the welt where the leather belt had bitten into her flesh. She sniffed again and wiped at her tears, but she regained enough composure to speak. ‘Our English contact arranged for her treatment as soon as you were captured, knowing you would agree to help. He didn’t wait for you to say it. She was told you had arranged for her assistance through diplomatic channels and wrote the letter immediately. It was sent by air to England.’
‘But how do you have it?’
Giselle smiled for the first time. ‘You might think the Luftwaffe control the skies over France. But you don’t. It was air–dropped to me in the night.’
It was possible that a British aircraft could sneak through the German defences, but beneath the frown he was elated to think that Melitta was alive. He turned to Giselle, still overcome by the news, and he knew it was written on his face.
‘I’m …’ His voice trailed off as he looked at the ground. It was too pathetic to apologise.
She nodded, blinking away the tears. ‘It’s only fair. Yesterday I held a gun on you. Today you threatened to tear my throat out. I’d say we’re even.’
Josef tucked the letter in his tunic pocket and re–fastened his belt. He put the Walther back in its holster. Then they stepped out of the smokehouse and Josef closed the door on the darkness and the stench and the regret. The summer evening was perfectly still and the last of the sun slanted sideways, making the chestnut tree stark and beautiful in a golden wash. A different world entirely. Giselle brushed a stray hair out of her eyes, and even such a simple gesture seemed enchanting. He wanted to forget about what had happened in the smokehouse. He wasn’t that person.
He decided to tell her something, a peace offering of sorts. ‘You asked about the couriers … I have no news yet. It was not possible today …’
He was interrupted. ‘Giselle! Gis–elle!’ A stout woman in an apron appeared from the farmhouse. ‘Ah! There you are!’ Her eyes widened as she saw Giselle standing with a Luftwaffe pilot.
Giselle spoke reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Terese. This is Josef. A friend.’
Terese couldn’t hide her confusion. ‘Good evening Herr Josef … Ooh, should I say Heil Hitler?’
Josef smiled gently. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
Terese nodded. ‘Ah, Giselle. Martin is home. He tells me Anton is held up changing the tyre on the truck a couple of kilometres away so I will have to do the evening milking. There is food on the table, so help yourself. I will eat later. Those poor cows must be feeling heavy.’
‘Thank you, Terese.’ Giselle turned to Josef as the older woman bustled past towards the dairy. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Are you serious
?’
Giselle smiled, and he noticed how small dimples formed between her mouth and cheekbones. ‘It’s hungry work terrifying people. Come on. We need to talk and we can probably do it better in civilisation.’ She led him across the yard to the farmhouse. Giselle ushered him through the door, but Josef paused on the threshold. There were two young men in the kitchen. Had she led him into a trap? They were wearing labourers’ clothes. They were not farmers, though. Josef had spent the first fifteen years of his life amongst farming folk, and something told him the young men at the dinner table were new to the farming life. They may have had the clothes and dirty hands of farmers, but they had not formed calluses of real labourers nor had years of sun on their faces.
They looked up as he entered. The smaller one had dark eyes that widened. He froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. The taller one looked familiar, and Josef guessed right away that he was Giselle’s brother. Something about the face gave it away—the prominent cheekbones perhaps, or the fine eyebrows above green eyes, one of them raised in curiosity. The brother assessed Josef more coolly, taking the measure of him even as he smiled.
‘Martin, Edouard. This is Josef.’ Giselle glanced at each in turn. ‘We might as well all know each other. We’ve reached some sort of an agreement.’
Josef nodded a greeting to the two young men. They were still frozen. Giselle’s initiative in inviting a German pilot into their midst had left them speechless.
‘This one is my big brother.’ Giselle draped an arm over Martin.
Martin recovered quickly from the surprise encounter. He slid a bowl of soup in Josef’s direction. ‘Please. Join us. If Giselle has invited you, you are welcome at our table.’
Edouard finally sucked the soup from his spoon. Then he simply sat at the end of the table, gently swirling a glass of wine, considering. Josef caught his eyes flicker to the place above the door where a rifle hung.
Josef sat down. There were at least four knives within reach of anyone at the table. He didn’t pull his chair in close. He wanted the space.