by Bryan Young
“Bonsoir,” she began. Then she opened her mouth and the only thing that came out was a blazing string of French I couldn’t hope to keep up with.
“Do you speak English?”
She took in a breath that sounded as though she was expressing wonder and shock, forcing me to wonder if somehow they made a mistake in sending me here.
“English?” I asked again. “Anglais?”
“Little,” she said, exasperated. “Little.”
“I need a room. Une chambre. Just a room. Uh…”
“Eh?”
I wasn’t sure why this was so complicated. What else would someone coming into a business like this, with the hour such as it was, want? I wasn’t asking for anything complicated, just a room. Perhaps she was some sort of double agent, an informant for the French, and I’d missed a code or a cue that I’d been told about in my briefing.
Thinking back on it, I’m sure I hadn’t missed anything. But the longer I stood there outside the privacy of a room the surer I was to be caught and shot as a spy. That was the basis of every thought in my head since I’d landed outside the city. When was I going to be caught and how quickly were they going to execute me for it?
“A room...” I pointed to the rack of keys behind her, pulling myself back together. Then the French came to me slowly. “J’ai besoin d'une chambre.”
Understanding hit her and her face pulled up into a jowly smile. “Oui, nous avons une chambre pour vous.”
Turning her back to me, she shuffled to the keys on the wall and pulled one down. She turned again and shuffled back, never losing the mindless smile from her face.
She placed the key on the counter and turned the registration book around for me to sign. Her craggy hand lifted up the old quill of a pen, dipped it in the ink, and handed it to me.
I signed the name they’d given me for just such a purpose on the ledger: James Hester.
It wasn’t a fancy name and seemed to suit me as well as anything, I suppose. It certainly suited me better than Ulysses, but that was another matter entirely.
I placed the attaché case I’d been clutching so nervously on the counter and opened it as discreetly as I could, looking back behind myself to make sure no one but I could see its contents. Scrambling to find what I was looking for, I quickly located an envelope marked “logements,” and pulled it from the case which I shut immediately. I took the sealed envelope and slid it across to her.
She shook her head and tskked, trying to slide the envelope back. “Après,” she said. “Après. After.”
If I had to leave in a hurry, I doubted there would be an after. I’m not quite sure why I cared whether or not this old woman got paid. Perhaps it was her emaciated frame and kindly smile, but it seemed as though the war wasn’t treating her too well. I wondered how German occupation had affected the residents of the city. Things didn’t seem too entirely locked down. Hell, all it took me was some scrambling in the bushes to dodge a German patrol and make it into the city no worse for wear.
Maybe it was too easy. Maybe they just didn’t expect an incursion from the back side of the city from one man in a three piece suit and a felt dress hat.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I shoved the envelope back in her direction and took the key before she could protest further. Reluctantly, she accepted it, folding it into a pocket on the front of her baggy dress, while I checked the room number on the heavy door key.
Three-ten.
All the way up to the third floor.
Leaving her with a smile, I trudged up all three floors of the staircase behind me, winded at the end, but relieved. Sleep was coming sooner rather than later. I was hopeful I would never spend another sleepless night on the war or anything else.
The lock accepted the key and I was granted access to the spare, modest room on the top floor of the dusty old place. There was a bed on a thin metal frame, a chamber pot beside it. There wasn’t much room for anything else besides a small, half-table beneath the lone window at the end of the room. On it was a basin for water and a pitcher to match.
It wasn’t much, but it was going to be home for as long as this mission took.
The sooner I could get all this over with, the better.
Without even taking my suit off or pulling the blanket down, I flopped onto the bed and surrendered to the sweet grip of sleep.
Many restful hours later, I awoke in the late hours of the morning. Milky sunlight poured into the room through the frosted window and I couldn’t sleep another moment.
There was an absence in the bed when I woke in the morning. Ordinarily, Sara would be there, laying next to me, calling me back to bed when I wanted to leave. I didn’t realize how easy it was to stay in bed when you had a reason beside you. But in a bed two sizes too small, without Sara or even the recent warmth of her, getting up that morning was easy.
As I stretched and yawned, I imagined her there alone in our bed, staring at the spot where I should be and my heart cracked at the edges.
Putting her out of my head, I lifted the case they’d given me up to the bed, unclasped the latch on the top, and opened it carefully. Despite my rummaging through it in the dark the night prior, the contents were still remarkably neat. They packed me two changes of clothing and some money with different uses marked on them.
The compartment on the top contained a map of Cambrai with the potential locations marked out on it, circled neatly in red ink.
Opting to change clothes, I pulled the first outfit from the case. As I fanned out the pair of slacks, I found another envelope flitting out to the bed. It had no writing on the outside and I assumed it just another container full of money and resources I’d need to get me through the mission.
I dressed into the clean, casual shirt, a sweater vest, and a flimsy cap, as well as the slacks. If nothing else, I’d be comfortable as I bluffed myself to what I was sure was my own demise.
Not realizing what it really was, I tucked the unmarked envelope into the breast pocket of my shirt, placing it over my heart but beneath my vest.
I’d long since gotten rid of Lucy’s letter, but I found an odd comfort in having an envelope tucked away over my breast. Though this letter had more meaning than I had realized then.
I double and triple checked each of the forged German documents and travel papers they gave me and tucked those neatly into my right pocket.
The money and German scrip they’d procured for me found its way into my back pocket.
With any luck, I’d find the right place quickly, gather the confidence of Dr. Jamert, and get the hell out of there. Bounding down the stairs I reached the vacant office, then crept out into the day, making as little noise as possible.
Cambrai looked much different in the daytime, though it felt no less deserted. It reeked of the dust from fallen buildings, mold from the damp morning, and of upturned soil. It was bombed out in places, rubble lined the road and alley ways. How painful it must have been for the French to bomb and attack one of their own cities to defeat the German aggressors. There were more than a few brick buildings toppled over, causing gaps in the streets, like teeth missing from a once beautiful smile.
The closest circle on my map took me two narrow streets closer to the river and four blocks down. I nodded and smiled to everyone I passed by, hoping I’d blend in better. But I felt overdressed. The few people I came across were dressed in drab clothes with sullen faces, bent over from too much toil.
My smiles were met with utter indifference.
It made me wonder what was going on in the city. I hadn’t been briefed too much on what was happening in Cambrai besides the fact the Germans occupied it. That they omitted that information meant one of two things: either I didn’t need to know it to complete my mission or they didn’t know what was going on themselves.
With as carefully planned as this operation seemed to have been, I had my doubts.
As I turned the last corner and saw the café, I distinctly remember feeling alone in the world. My
back felt bare, exposed, as though someone was ready to put a knife in it at any moment. When things began to derail, I thought back to that moment and feeling, wondering if I had actually known the moment things went awry. If there could be a pinpoint of it, it might have been right there.
That feeling was the first thing to go wrong, the second was the cadre of the Kaiser’s soldiers drinking café, occupying half the tables that spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the tiny shop with the red awning.
I would’ve put money on the fact that my heart actually stopped for an entire moment. Once I regained my sense, I knew if I turned to run, the soldiers, who had already noticed me, would become suspicious. One of the first lessons Lorick taught me was that if you acted with confidence, people will believe just about anything you tell them.
I puffed up my chest and walked to a table with a swagger, as though I was meant to be there.
Sitting down, neither forcing nor averting eye contact from any of the off-duty Germans, I wished I’d acquired a newspaper somewhere, or something to do. Being there, trying to look and act comfortable with no bit of natural business to conduct might have been the most awkward situation I’d ever placed myself.
It took every bit of restraint to keep my eyes off their rifles, standing there beside each of them, propped up as though they were nothing more than brooms. This was a break from routine for them. They had no reason to feel threatened, so why would they be threatening?
They weren’t even wearing their spiked helmets, the ones that struck terror into the hearts of so many soldiers I’d known. They were on the ground next to them, below their rifles.
The server, an old man with thick, black-rimmed glasses and even thicker lenses squinted at me, handed me a menu, and asked for my order as though I should have known what I wanted without even looking.
Even though I’m sure there were no suspicious eyes cast in my direction at that moment, I could feel them on me. Tingling heat radiated over my shoulders. It was probably only the sun, but it felt more like the sneaking tendrils of scrutiny. Every movement I made would be catalogued, analyzed, and reported back to an intelligence department to rival any in the world.
Every time a soldier would laugh or shift his gaze in my direction I was sure he was on to me.
I wanted to order my drink watered down so it would more resemble the taste of the coffee I’d grown accustomed to back home, but that would have been a dead giveaway to the shifting eyes of the German soldiers. Instead I ordered the café like any other European in France.
The espresso drink was bitter and hot, but sipping it gave me something to do while I waited to see if a hapless Belgian doctor with betrayal on his mind was going to arrive. It got me to wondering why the meeting was taking place behind the lines. Why would they have risked him crossing the lines, knowing German soldiers are notorious killers? There must have been something more to it. Why wouldn’t they have just taken the cards from him forcibly as he crossed the border, unless he was already in occupied France.
I remember the dull ache in my head as I pondered those questions. I sat there quietly, sipping the acerbic mixture with the suspicious rays of sunshine at my back, and coming to the same conclusion I had about everything else since I’d been given the assignment: circumstances were less than ideal but didn’t matter. I was there, and presumably he would be, too.
My patience drained with the last drops of coffee in the dainty porcelain cup. I wasn’t comfortable with the soldiers everywhere, and if I wasn’t comfortable with them, Jamert probably wouldn’t be either.
I stood, dropping some change down on the table, and left quickly in the opposite direction I’d arrived from.
Each step I took away from the café and the Germans felt like a step toward freedom.
“Ihr da,” a voice behind me called out in a guttural German accent.
My first instinct was to ignore it and quicken my pace. There was no way one of those soldiers had any reason to be calling on me. I’d done and said nothing that would have brought me any undue attention. Unless somehow leaving and going the other way was a tip off. In my experience, Germans were suspicious of everything. Why not me?
“Sie haben etwas vergessen!” The voice called out, louder this time, and closer.
I told myself it was merely a coincidence and kept going until a hand landed on my shoulder and spun me around. Fighting every urge in my body to adopt a defensive posture, I let it happen. It took no acting whatsoever to seem confused.
My gut told me it was all over. The game came crashing down around me. The Germans would develop their super-weapons, and I’d die in an occupied French gutter. The sight of the uniformed German roughly turning me around was enough call to inflame my sense of panic, but I couldn’t, so I choked down on every bit of instinct I had in order to play my part.
“What is it,” I asked meekly. “Can I do something for you?”
“Amerikaner?” He said, curiously.
I nodded my head worriedly, looking down to his other hand, only to find that he wasn’t armed. There his rifle sat, back at the table with those of his mates who were still carrying on as though nothing was wrong. “Yes, yes.”
“Sie haben etwas vergessen,” he repeated, then translated from the German for me. “You forgot.”
He grabbed my hand and placed in my palm some coins.
Coins?
“Oh,” I stammered. “How... how careless of me.”
I closed my palm around the money and tipped my head to him. “Danke. Danke.”
“Bitte.”
Disgusted with myself, I turned to leave.
I’d almost given everything away because I was in the habit of leaving tips on tables from my days in the States. It had been more than a couple of years since I’d been home and I’d broken myself of the habit soon after I arrived in Europe, but I suppose stressful situations drop you back on the old ways. The cogs that turn those motions and muscles are deeper and older. It takes a lot of practice to strip a gear like that down to to the subconscious and install a new one, ready for a new operation.
Resolving to try harder, I took an increasingly circuitous route back to my room, hoping to avoid any more Germans, soldiers, civilians, or otherwise.
Once I made it into the privacy of my room, I figured I could distract myself with making a more detailed inventory of everything they’d given me.
I began my inventory with the letter in my shirt pocket, the one that had been folded into my clothes. Inspecting it, there was no indication of its purpose. There was no postmark on it and the entire, cream-colored envelope was blank.
Inserting my finger in the opening at the top fold, I tore it open one finger length at a time.
Inside, I found two sheets of paper, folded neatly and smelling vaguely of cinnamon.
Realizing what it was, I was both shocked and elated. Adrenaline and love punched me in the center.
It was a letter from Sara.
There was no mistaking her slanted cursive that I had too few opportunities to read. We hadn’t traded many letters, since our courtship had been in such close proximity, and we relied heavily on whispering things to each other.
The letter itself was addressed to me, but only with a term of endearment. My name was nowhere to be found, no doubt at the instruction of whatever intelligence operative she’d managed to convince to get me a letter. I had no idea how she got the letter to them and how they managed to smuggle it so neatly into my briefcase. In the grand scheme of things, it’s still one of the few mysteries left in this whole affair I have no answers for.
I was too glad to care. I had something from her, her spirit, her words.
I still have the letter now and I can put down her words exactly as they were, helping me reflect on what it was I lost.
“My darling,” it began. “I promised I’d write every day and I know you’ve only left this morning, but I miss you as though it’s been a year. I can’t believe how much I miss you and I haven�
��t been from you any longer than usual yet. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’ll be gone longer than usual that makes it hurt more. You won’t be back tonight. I’ll be alone in this bed we’re meant to share and I can’t bear it. You’ve promised me that you’ll come back to me and I’m holding you to it. Something horrible will happen if you don’t come back soon enough, I’ll make sure of it.”
Reading it then, it brought a smile to my face. Copying it now has an altogether different reaction.
“I’ve been told to be as vague as possible in this letter, and that’s what I’m trying to do. After you left I went to my job and we saw an influx of clients from a recent explosion in business. They even put us on alert.
“I have the sickness for you badly. I see your face when I close my eyes and I can feel you against me.”
It was a sickness we shared. It was the affliction I was looking most forward to being cured of by finding myself in her arms once again, and none too soon.
“I’ve finally decided that married life suits me as long as its with you. As long as you come back to me. When all this is over, I want you to take me to your home. I want to see where you grew up and I want to see the things you saw there. I want you to see where I grew up. I want us to feel as though we’ve been born together, knowing the same things, feeling the same things. I’ll show you where I grew up. I’ll take you to the schoolyard where I had my first kiss. We’ll see the world through each other’s eyes.”
It was a dream we shared.
“I’m glad LeBeau came by,” she continued, sparking an uneasiness in me. “He’s charming and let me know how I’d write you. While you’re gone, he’s offered to take me dancing. If I can make it away from work with energy left in me, I’ll take him up on it. He’s such a wonderful friend to you and I’m grateful he’s in our lives.”
I choked on that idea, but did my best to compartmentalize it and move on to the next thing.
But that was the last thing she wrote.
She signed off with all the love in her heart. “Your dear Sara.”
New stains of wet tears mixed with those that had dried. That letter has become a chart of the different types of crying one can do over the same set of words.