by Black, Cara
She figured their video archives, her goal, were stored in the back room. She intended to check the area behind a lifesize photo of Hitler saluting, but a finger dug into her arm as she stood up.
“Sit down,” said a trucker in grimy overalls.
“Who’s she?” grumbled his friend, in a slightly more stained jumpsuit.
Nervously, she sat down. Someone elbowed her in the ribs. She turned sharply to see the one in lederhosen smiling at her. His white blond hair poked straight up, as if standing at attention.
“Boys wear tattoos, little lady,” he said to the accompaniment of sniggering around her. “Aryan women don’t.”
“Some do and some don’t.” She jerked her head around, indicating other women. Not many had tattoos. Some wore dirndls but all had on clunky Doc Martens. “Depends on individual preference.”
“Using big words. Do you know what they mean?” he said.
She didn’t answer, just cracked her gum.
“Women look better on their knees,” he said. “I know you would.”
He leaned on her arm, cupping her shoulder with an iron grip. She couldn’t move.
A voice next to him barked, “Service your own harem, Leif.”
The dark-sideburned man glided next to her, picked Leif’s fingers off her shoulder, and grinned. He wedged himself between them. Mockingly, Leif raised his eyes in surprise.
Aimee wondered if she’d gone from the frying pan into the fire but she smiled back at him. She stood up and raised her hand until Thierry acknowledged her.
Aimee forced herself to grin. “Why don’t the Jews get honest? They were only victims of wartime food shortage like everyone else.”
Snorts of approval greeted her as she sat down. Besides her, she felt the warm body heat emanating from the one with sideburns.
“I’m Luna,” she said.
“Yves,” he said, without turning his head.
Thierry continued, “Leif will outline our plans for the next few days. He’ll give the details of our evening mission and protocol for tomorrow’s demonstration.”
Leif strutted towards a blackboard standing under an original SS recruiting poster. To her horror, he outlined a plan to bash orthodox synagogues that night. She feared one would be Temple E’manuel.
Thierry sat down beside her. “I appreciate your bringing our literature. Ignore Leif’s crudeness; he’s better at planning and organization details.”
He motioned to Yves. “Get the equipment ready.”
Yves slid out of his chair and Aimee started to follow him.
Thierry leaned over to her. “Listen to this, it will be helpful for you.”
Aimee nodded, trying not to squirm in her seat. Was Yves the video cameraman? If they were taping this meeting, she hadn’t spotted the camera yet.
“Vans will transport us to the synagogue,” Leif said in a tone devoid of emotion. “To do the job, it has to be in and out, quick and vicious.”
Aimee wondered if that was how he treated his women. Instinct told her to find out which synagogue, tell Morbier, and get the hell out of there.
Thierry nodded approvingly at Aimee. “I bet you learn quick. You’ll do better sticking with us than sticking something in your arm.”
If those were my only choices, she thought, I’d pick junkie any day. Thierry seemed to be trying to help her, in his own Aryan way.
He went on. “A feeling of unity is born on our missions. We join together and accomplish our goals. We achieve satisfaction transforming ideas into concrete operations.”
She sensed he was speaking of himself, as if he needed a cause to justify his existence.
“We attack first. No Aryan will be a victim anymore!” Leif yelled from the podium to the crowd, who roared approval.
“Our stomachs wrench,” Thierry added. “But we do it out of love.”
She sidled next to Leif to find out which synagogue he’d targeted. Now he wore a Tyrolean-style short jacket, epauletted with metal lightning bolts and iron crosses. Neo-Nazi meets Sound of Music, Aimee thought.
“Do we get to hurt anybody?” she pouted, loud enough so he could hear it.
“If you’re lucky,” he said, eyeing her up and down. “You look healthy enough to be a breeder sow.”
The neon green light of the ClicClac sign shone through the window, giving his eyes a reptilian look. He was scary. She felt like a piece of meat about to be skewered.
But she clicked her heels together and stuck her arm out in a Sieg heil. “Is that right?”
“It’ll do. Let’s go,” Leif said.
“All right! Where are we going?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he grinned. “Just Jew land. If you’re a good girl you can kick somebody. C’mon.”
“Cool, I gotta pee.” She went towards the back door, passing a huddle of skinheads all in black leather.
Thierry grabbed her tightly by the arms. “That way.” He pointed her in the opposite direction.
Great, Aimee thought, how do I get out of this one? Thierry sure is a piece of work and he’s got his eye on me. She locked the door to the toilet and checked the battery pack of her tape recorder. Pencil thin and molded to the curve of her back, this state-of-the-art recording machine caught everything, even a yawn at fifty paces. She’d bought it at the spy store before the flics outlawed the place and closed it down.
Now if she just didn’t sweat too much, since it was a highly moisture-sensitive device…She placed it in a plastic Baggie she carried, made a hole for the microphone cord, then taped it to her back. She pulled out the cell phone from her jeans pocket and punched in Morbier’s direct line. Right now she didn’t care if he’d been called off the Stein case, she needed backup. While she did that, she put the toilet lid down, stood on top of it, and peered out the narrow window. Down below she could see two vans under the streetlight next to glimmering rain puddles.
No answer.
There was a pounding on the bathroom door.
“Salope! Can’t someone crap in peace?” she yelled.
The pounding stopped.
Finally a disembodied voice came on the line. “Yes?”
“Get me Morbier, it’s urgent,” she whispered.
“He’s on call,” the voice said. “I’ll patch you through.”
This was taking too long. “Hurry up,” she said.
Click, click, and a hearty voice boomed, “Morbier.”
Without benefit of introduction she began. “It’s going down right now,” she whispered slowly. “Two vans with skinheads are headed to attack synagogues in the Marais.”
The pounding started again. Aimee flushed the toilet, clicked off the cell phone, and wedged it in her jeans pocket. She opened the door in time to see Leif, his back to her, helping Yves move something heavy in the dark hallway. Bumping noises echoed from the stairs and Aimee figured they were carrying equipment down. Next to her, a black-painted door stood ajar and she quickly scooted inside. Shelves of videos cataloged by date stood before her in the green-purple light from the blinking video sign. Which one?
Musty smells emanated from the threadbare carpet, which barely covered the worn tiled floor. Dates, Aimee thought, that’s it! She scanned the shelves for the last two meetings, found them, and quickly stuck them inside her black leather jacket. Holding her breath, she zipped her jacket up, which sounded like a buzzing chainsaw in her ear. She held her breath but no one came in. Out in the hallway, more shuffling and dull thuds rose from the staircase.
She looked out and scanned the hall. Seeing no one, she tried the back door. Locked. Impossible to jimmy open without more noise than she felt prepared to make. All the windows faced the street, where the vans were parked. She edged down the stairs.
The party-like atmosphere still reigned as members congregated and moved towards the vans, formerly blue dairy trucks. The group numbered about twenty now. As she slowly backed out of the crowd towards the corner, Thierry caught her eye. He motioned to her.
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“Carry this.” He handed her a heavy gym bag. “Ride up front.” He started herding the group into the vans.
In front, taking up most of the passenger seat, was a stocky skinhead with a shiny scalp dressed paramilitary style. He squeezed her knee. “Stick with me,” he said.
“A privilege to be here.” She removed his paw from her knee then executed a mock bow in the cramped front seat. “Don’t they like me?”
“They’re always suspicious of newcomers.” He jerked his thumb towards the back of the van. “Everybody gets jittery when it comes to business.” He grinned, showing decayed jagged stubs of brown teeth. “Ready for some fun? You’re gonna like it, I know.”
A whiff from his mouth caused her to look away. Uneasily, she speculated about her newcomer initiation. When Thierry told him to move over so Aimee could sit between them, she shook her head.
“Motion sickness, I need air on my face.” She rolled the window down as far as it would go, which was barely more than a crack.
At least she was by the door. Thierry turned the heater on high and it hit her full blast. Conversation en route consisted of Thierry berating the paramilitary type for erasing some message from the answering machine. Sullen and surly, he ignored Thierry, his eyes focused on Aimee. She was starting to sweat inside her leather jacket. The two videos stuck to her like glue, spearing her lower ribs.
Thierry left the broad boulevards of Bastille, turning into dark narrow streets, deserted and quiet. She felt beads of sweat on her brow.
“I’m getting sick. Turn the heat down,” Aimee said.
Cries of “It’s freezing back here, turn the heat up” came from the back of the van.
“We’re almost there,” Thierry said.
Businesses were shuttered and the streets deserted. Silence except for the murmuring in the back. That’s when she started sizzling. Her perspiration had short-circuited the tape recorder and she was about to fry.
She reached forward and switched off the heat, growling, “It’s too hot.”
Discontented rumblings came loudly from the back. She grabbed a rag from the sticky van floor and wiped off as much sweat as she could reach. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the skinhead’s bandana, reeking of patchouli.
“Keep it.” He grinned at her. “So you don’t forget me.”
The patchouli oil rose from her pores, making her nauseous. Something to do with the sixties.
“Shut up,” Aimee grunted.
He giggled. “You’re one of my kind.”
She noticed another tattoo on Thierry’s wrist as he gripped the steering wheel.
“What’s that say?” she asked.
“‘My honor’s name is loyalty,’” he said proudly. His eyes narrowed as if to challenge her.
“Of course! Couldn’t read it from here.” She nodded. “The SS Waffen motto.”
What were they going to do and where would they do it? Could Morbier get flics to the Marais in time? And how long would this stinking patchouli ooze out of her?
Sweat trickled off her while the tattered tank top and videos glued stickily to her chest. She used the greasy bandana again to dab at her perspiration, keeping the videos in place.
“An eye for an eye…isn’t that what this is about?” She pounded her fist on the cracked dashboard. “Sieg heil and all that stuff is fine, but getting nasty with some of the kike population…” She chuckled, giving Thierry time to fill in the blanks.
“Violent assertion is part and parcel of the solution, but only as a means to an end,” Thierry said.
The paramilitary skinhead frowned. “Cut the high and mighty talk! We kick Jew butt.”
Thierry steered the van through a slim notch in the medieval cloister’s wall into the small square of Marche-Sainte-Catherine.
Aimee pressed further, “No, you know, like help with the final solution. Take care of them, one on one?”
She never heard the answer. Motorcycle engines gunned loudly as an amplified voice instructed them to pull over. From out of nowhere the small square filled with blue flashing lights and motorcycle police.
“Alcohol check. Out of the van. Allez-y!” said a helmeted patrolman.
“Merde!” Thierry said under his breath. “Of all nights.”
“Funny coincidence,” someone said from the rear. “Since she graced us with her presence.”
“Save your bad breath for the flics,” Aimee said and hoped Morbier’s tactic worked.
“Out!” the flics shouted. They tore her door open and slid the van door back. She struggled and elbowed the surprised flic in the ribs, shouting, “Get your hands off me.” She started to kick him in the ankles.
She wanted to be arrested. Desperately. Get out while undercover and with the videos under her jacket. She’d take advantage of the police check, whether a ploy of Morbier’s or not.
Suddenly a boot slammed against her hip, knocking her across the flics and their raised billy clubs. There were hoarse shouts of “Fascist pigs” and then all hell broke loose. Cries of pain echoed in the small square. She started crawling on the wet cobblestones. She made it to the other side of the van and almost got away.
“Hurry up,” Thierry yelled, pushing her in, and flicked on the ignition.
She didn’t have time to appreciate the irony of the situation or plan how she could escape. As they pulled away, Leif jumped in the open sliding door and clanged it shut.
Thierry’s foot jammed down the accelerator. That caused the van to careen wildly and Aimee to shield her face with her arms. The van lunged towards a gurgling, mossy waterspout over St. Catherine’s statue. Scraping the side of the van and chipping the statue, Thierry righted the steering wheel and gunned out of the square.
“Who are you?” Leif said from behind her, sticking something sharp in her rib. He slapped her hard with the back of his hand.
Thierry shouted, “Cut it out, Leif…”
“In my past life?” she said. Her cheeks stung as she peered down. “Get that knife out of my chest.”
“After you convince me you had nothing to do with what just happened,” Leif growled.
“What are you talking about? I’m with you,” she said.
“Lay off,” Thierry said. “You’re too paranoid.”
“Alors!” Leif said. “Look what happened last time.” He plunged the knife into the already cracked dashboard, causing the windshield seam to split.
In one movement, she pulled the handle, kicked the door open, and flung herself out. As she landed, she tried to roll away from the wheels of a car following right behind. Her shoulder crunched as it hit the pavement. White-yellow pain seared up her arm. Dislocated shoulder if I’m lucky, she thought. Scrabbling to her feet, she stumbled, then ran. Behind her she heard the squeal of tires, a crash and the tinkle of breaking glass as a car hit Thierry’s van. That gave her an extra minute before she heard loud pounding footsteps behind her. The van coughed, sputtered, and started up loudly.
The narrow one-way street echoed with her running steps. Behind her she heard more footsteps and the gunning of the van’s motor. Around her were silent, dark stone buildings. Only a few scattered windows showed a faint glow from behind a curtain. Don’t other streets connect here, she wondered frantically, vainly searching for another street to turn into. But she was surrounded by the last medieval vestiges left in the Marais. The long circular lanes designed the keep invaders out were keeping her in. She heard labored breaths right behind her. Puffing and sweating, she willed her rising panic down. A lichen-covered wall looking ten feet thick and reaching two stories high blocked her way.
Dead end. A dead-end dungeon.
To her left she saw a narrow stone passageway between the walls. Swerving into it, she ricocheted off some metal garbage cans that banged noisily, and kept on running. She heard the clanging of metal as someone behind her ran into them, too, stumbled, and yelled “Merde.” This was too narrow for a vehicle. The damp air hit her lungs and her breath chugged painfully. From
the dark corners she could hear the squeal of rats. Ahead, down the shadowy passageway, shone the fuzzy yellow globe of a street lamp.
When she reached it, she veered away from the sound of an engine to her left. Behind her she caught a glimpse of a taxi with a blue light signaling that it was free.
She switched back, keeping up her pace, and yelled, “Over here.”
The taxi started to speed away.
“Rape! Help, rape!” she screamed.
The taxi slowed down. Aimee realized the chasing figure had probably appeared in the taxi’s rearview mirror. Just as she was reaching for the door handle she heard heavy breathing and shouting right behind her. This person could easily pull her out of the taxi. She feinted to the right. Whoever was behind her lunged and just missed grabbing her jacket as she turned. She heard an “Ouff” and a heavy thud as she sprinted away. The taxi gunned its engine and sped off.
Down the slippery, glistening pavement she ran. Keep going, she told herself. Her lungs burned and dull slivers of pain shot up her arm, still hugging the videos to her chest.
Finally she saw the welcome traffic and lights of rue St. Antoine with plenty of taxis. Thank God, she thought, and took as deep a breath as her painful shoulder allowed. As she stepped out, the other blue van from the ClicClac screeched to a stop in front of her.
“Get in,” Yves shouted and gestured to her.
Behind her she heard the running footsteps again, echoing off the walls. Coming closer.
“Hurry up!” Yves pulled the handle from the driver’s side and the dented blue door swung open.
Before she could pull the door shut, he’d shot down busy rue St. Antoine.
“Where were you?” Aimee asked suspiciously. Why hadn’t he been with the rest of the group?
“Behind everyone.” He jerked his arm towards the back of the van. “Since I do most of the video I carry the equipment. Thierry trusts me.”
Aimee groaned.
“What happened to you?” His dark eyes held concern. He threw his jacket at her. “Take mine. It’s warmer.”
“No thanks.” She couldn’t take her smelly, ripped leather jacket off since the recorder was still taped to her back and the videos bulged out of her tank top.