Paris Encore

by Bodie Thoene

  Outraged, the Polish colonel tossed his napkin onto the table. “Not for me, Monsieur Chardon! It is about my homeland! The national honor of Poland! There is cause enough to die for!”

  Andre touched his fingers to his brow in salute. “And yet, when Hitler invaded Czechoslovakia, Poland darted across the border like a hungry little mongrel dog to grab the Czech province of Teschen! Hitler let you have it, too, Colonel, because he knew all along he would take it back. Check and checkmate. Where were all our high ideals when Austria went under and Czechoslovakia was overrun? Do ideals only apply when what we value is stolen? I, for one, am still hoping, as General Gamelin says, that France will not be bled white again. Not for any cause or nation beyond our own borders.”

  “You would negotiate with Hitler after what has been done?”

  “I would negotiate with the devil if I thought there was a chance that this could all be stopped.”

  “But Poland!” The colonel sputtered with indignation.

  “No matter who wins, I fear your nation will be lost. Spoils to be divided among the victors. A point on the negotiating table. The war is no longer about Poland.”

  Red-faced, the Polish colonel leaped to his feet, wavering as if he would like to strangle Andre. Then he stormed from the dining room.

  Josie, her expression matching that of the Pole, simply stared hotly at Andre as if she could not believe what she had heard. He smiled at her, but she averted her eyes. While the others recovered easily from the rage of the Polish colonel, Josie finished her meal in stony silence. Whatever warmth she had felt toward Andre had completely vanished by the time coffee was served.

  Horst stayed on the snowy bank of the Vistula until almost dawn. Leaving the river, he walked through the deserted streets until he came to the Cathedral of St. John. The broken spire was profiled in the predawn light. He entered through a side door that hung from one hinge.

  It seemed a dead place. Holes still gaped in the ceiling. Morning stars shone through the vaulted stone. Rubble had been cleared from the floor in front of the altar, where a colony of red votive candles burned beneath a crucifix in the otherwise dimly lit interior.

  He removed his cap and crossed himself, more out of habit than conviction. Some years before he had visited the magnificent Warsaw structure with his red Baedeker’s guidebook in hand. Now there was little left that he recognized.

  As he turned to go, a man called from the shadows in German, “We are inconvenienced, but still in business, for the moment.” There was a sharpness in his voice. “It was five centuries old, this cathedral.”

  “Yes,” Horst replied. “My wife and I were here before . . . very old. I remember.”

  “This building you have destroyed, but you have not—cannot—destroy the truth.”

  “You Poles have one truth. We Germans another. So? What is truth?”

  The voice was nearer. “Curfew is not lifted, Herr Officer. I knew you had to be a German officer. Your friends are shooting Poles and Jews for being out past curfew—those who are only looking for wood to warm their families—shooting them as children shoot sparrows in an orchard, and leaving them in the snow.” As he spoke, the popping of a rifle sounded distinctly. The priest crossed himself. “As I was saying.”

  Horst could not reply to that. He closed his eyes briefly and saw the young mother being hurled into the oblivion of the Vistula. He was suddenly ashamed that he had come here.

  “I did not mean to intrude, Father. Forgive me.” Horst inclined his head as the priest struck a match and lit another candle a few feet from him. He was a tiny, dark-eyed man.

  “Forgive you?” The priest held up the light as if to study the uniform of Horst. “Well, you are not SS.” He sounded relieved. “I thought . . . I have been expecting the SS.”

  “No, Father. I am Major Horst von Bockman. Seventh Panzer Division.”

  “And I am Father Kopecky,” the priest said, nodding slightly. “You are Wehrmacht. I thought most of you had been withdrawn. To leave us to the vultures.”

  “I came back . . . on business.”

  “You are a Catholic?”

  “I was. But I only meant to . . . I have brought something.” Horst retrieved an envelope from the pocket of his overcoat. Giving it to the priest, he shifted his weight nervously. “I have heard . . . you feed people here.”

  Father Kopecky opened the folded paper and examined the crisp new Reichsmarks. His expression displayed neither surprise nor curiosity as to why so much money would be given to feed the hungry. “You must carry a heavy burden of guilt, Major.”

  “Yes.” Horst did not argue but briefly recounted what he had seen of crucified men, murdered women, and starving children.

  “God is not some sort of court magistrate who accepts a fine in payment for the crimes of men.”

  “I did not know where else to turn.”

  “The condition of your soul is between you and the Almighty. No one else. Not the church. Not a priest. The only hope for any of us is that God alone is good and merciful. It gives Him joy to forgive us freely. Even the angels rejoice at the turning of one sinner’s heart toward heaven. So says the Scripture. But then we must be willing to live as if we are forgiven. Showing mercy to others.”

  “Where do you see mercy or goodness in Warsaw?”

  Father Kopecky held up the envelope as though it was some small proof. “The Almighty is also a pragmatist, I think. There is more at stake here at St. John’s than your peace of mind, Major. The sun and the moon do not orbit around your guilty conscience. There are other more helpless lambs in the flock who also need mercy. So many Reichsmarks will feed many hungry children. We were down to the last of our provisions.”

  Andre awoke before dawn and lay in bed, impatiently waiting for the hours to pass before he could telephone the home of Abraham Snow.

  He showered and ate breakfast early without ringing Josie to join him. Then he retreated back to his room and placed the call to the father of Elaine. There was a long silence on the other end of the telephone when Andre announced his name.

  Then the gruff voice of Abraham Snow replied, “Colonel Chardon, why do you bother me? My daughter is . . . Elaine is gone. There is no changing it. Leave us to our grief.”

  “I wish to see Juliette.”

  “Why are you suddenly interested? She is getting along as well as any child might who has lost her mother in such a way. Your sudden appearance in her life would simply disturb her mind. She has never known a father.”

  Andre glanced at himself reproachfully in the mirror. His eyes flitted to the red-wrapped package on the bureau.

  “You are right in what you say, Monsieur Snow. I mean nothing to her, of course. But I have brought her a gift. Something for the holidays.”

  “A gift? It will only be a gift from a stranger. Meaningless. Why not send it with a messenger, Colonel? What purpose can it serve to meet her? If she knows you are her father, it can only hurt her. I must refuse.”

  “Please, don’t hang up. I wish only to see her. I would not hurt her for anything, Monsieur Snow. I will not tell her. I have something that belonged to my mother . . . a doll. I wish only to give it to her.”

  A bitter laugh emanated from the telephone. “Yes, I know these kinds of presents. You do not bring it for Juliette but for yourself. To ease your guilt? To satisfy your curiosity, perhaps? Or do you hope to see what Elaine must have looked like when she was five? To see the child is to see the mother. Well then?”

  He was right, of course. Andre had brought the gift thinking somehow that to behold the child would be to recognize some tangible part of what he had lost when he lost Elaine. His motives were selfish, yet . . .

  “Five minutes is all I ask. You will be there. I will be discreet. I will tell her I am an old friend of her mother’s who has just dropped by. I implore you.”

  There was silence as Abraham Snow considered the request. “Bring your gift then.”

  The phone clicked hard in Andre’s ear
as the old man slammed the receiver down.

  Clutching Juliette’s package, Andre hurried to Josie’s room. But she was not there. The door was open, and the hotel maid was already hard at work, stripping the linens from the bed.

  He did not wait for the groaning lift but ran down the stairs to the lobby. Josie was taking coffee with the Polish colonel in front of the fire. The two were speaking in low, sympathetic tones. The Pole glanced up, caught sight of Andre approaching, and stiffened. He muttered something at which Josie turned. Her expression was less than friendly.

  Andre was unintimidated by their dour expressions. The morning was too full of hope to be ruined. “Bonjour. I am glad you have found pleasant company to breakfast with, Josephine. I had a telephone call to make.”

  “A success, I take it,” she replied.

  He held up the package as indication that he was going to be occupied for a while.

  “We finished breakfast some time ago,” Josie said. It was apparent from her icy tone that she had not forgiven Andre for insulting the Polish colonel with the truth last night. Now here she was in the lounge, conversing with the very man Andre had insulted. Andre was certain he was meant to feel this as a kind of unspoken chastisement.

  At the moment Andre did not care if she approved or disapproved. He did not mind that she was sipping coffee with a vain peacock of a man like the Polish colonel. Water off a duck’s back, as the English would say. Andre was about to have five minutes with his daughter! To meet his child face-to-face for the first time! It was not much, but it was something. Perhaps a beginning.

  “Take as long as you like, Andre.” Josie seemed pleased that he was on his way. The reserve in her eyes was unmistakable. “Colonel Wolinska and I are going to the cathedral to have a look around. Regular tourists. Do you mind?”

  Andre glanced at his watch. It was 9 am. “I thought we would leave for Paris by eleven this morning.”

  It was clear that his timetable was not hers. She had come all this way for one very unpleasant dinner at the kaiser’s table and not even a full morning in Luxembourg City.

  Her smile was forced. “You are the man with the travel pass.”

  A few minutes later, Andre arrived at the great house on Boulevard de la Petrusse. This morning the blinds were open, and the sunlight shone through the tall windows. Glancing up at the facade, Andre caught a glimpse of a small figure dressed in red, peering down from an upper-story window.

  “Juliette!” He said her name, and in that instant the face vanished. The broad steps of the house were guarded by two stone lions, blackened by time and the all-pervasive coal smoke of the city.

  Andre hung back; a twinge of apprehension knotted his stomach. He could not touch the door or cross the threshold without the awareness that this had been the house where Elaine had lived. How vast and empty the rooms must seem now without her.

  He swallowed hard and prayed that he would say the right thing, that he could remain calm, even though he wanted nothing so much as to wrap his arms around Juliette and tell her everything!

  He rang the bell and waited. Behind him a cloud passed in front of the sun. The door was opened by an elderly butler in formal dress. Chin high, expression aloof, the man did not step aside to admit Andre.

  “Monsieur Snow told me to expect a messenger.” The servant studied Andre with surprise.

  “No. I am . . . Colonel Chardon. I am expected by Monsieur Snow. I have come to pay a call on Monsieur Snow and his granddaughter, Juliette.”

  The man still did not budge. He considered Andre with a look of pity. Perhaps he was fully aware of the identity of Andre. Perhaps he knew as much as anyone about Elaine Snow and her child.

  “I regret, Colonel, that Monsieur Snow and his grandchild have only just left for a long trip to Belgium.” He raised his hand regally to indicate the back bumper of a large, black American Buick fast disappearing around the long curve of the boulevard.

  “But I only just spoke to Monsieur Snow! Twenty minutes ago from my hotel. He told me to come.”

  “Be that as it may, they have gone.”

  Andre pointed up at the windows. “I just saw a little girl in the window upstairs.”

  “You are mistaken, Monsieur. That is the daughter of our cook.” The man wagged his head in dignified refusal to accept Andre’s protest.

  So that was it. Even if they were in the house, Andre was not to be admitted. He could not charge past the servant. Nor could he make demands. Abraham Snow had simply decided that he and Juliette would not be at home when Andre came. There was nothing to be done about it.

  The shadows around him deepened. He glanced down at the gift in the rumpled red paper.

  “I am sorry, Colonel,” the butler blurted in a voice thick with sympathy. “Shall I take that for you? Give it to Mam’zelle Juliette?”

  Beaten, Andre nodded. “I was in hopes of giving it to her personally. I have not written a note. Will you see that she knows the gift is from me?”

  “Of course, Monsieur Colonel.” He looked past Andre, as if the sight of him there on the doorstep was painful. Like a lost puppy in the rain.

  Andre fumbled in his pocket for a pen and a small notebook. What to write?

  Merry Christmas, dearest Juliette.

  I give you a beautiful little girl in search of a loving home. Take care of her.

  Best regards,

  Colonel Andre Chardon.

  He tore the paper out and placed it in the outstretched hand of the butler. As Andre looked at the dignified face of this man, it occurred to him that this servant knew Juliette very well. So he dared to ask, “What is she like?”

  The brown eyes softened still more. “She is very sweet, Monsieur Colonel. Beautiful as her mother was at that age. Except—” he almost smiled— “she has brown eyes. Much like the color of your own. And she sings like a lark. You would be proud.”

  So he knew.

  Andre handed over the gift. “This belonged to my mother. If she ever asks, tell her I was . . . a dear friend of her mère.”

  “Yes. My solemn oath, Colonel.”

  17

  Now They Are Dust

  B flight of the 73rd RAF Fighter Squadron completed its early morning patrol and winged in toward the base at Rouvres. All six planes touched down safely, none showing any sign of having been damaged or of having even been in battle.

  Terry Simpson examined each returning plane’s unscarred outline and sighed heavily. “Right-o, chaps,” he said. “Our turn to ‘ride boldly, ride’. . . . Death to the Huns.” He flicked the butt of the Players cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.

  “More likely we’ll footle around with nothing to show for it,” growled his wingman, Hewitt. A sly look crossed Hewitt’s face, and he tossed the next remark casually into the circle of men that made up A flight like a nonchalantly dropped hand grenade. “Unless we jump some Messers, like Tinman here.”

  David Meyer colored up to his hairline until his freckles glowed.

  “Put a sock in it, Hewitt,” ordered Simpson.

  “Aw, he knows I’m just havin’ him on a bit. Right, Tinman?”

  David gave a negligent wave of his hand to indicate that he had taken no offense, but as he walked toward his waiting Hurricane, his ears were still burning.

  Three days earlier, in an excess of zeal borne of frustration, David had spotted and attacked a formation of what he took to be German aircraft. He pulled up abruptly when he discovered that they were French Morane fighters, but not before the French section scattered in all directions, and a startled French pilot had loosed a string of machine-gun fire. The incident had brought a vociferous complaint from the French squadron’s officers and a severe dressing-down from his own squadron leader. David had held his breath during the reprimand, fearing that his section—he, Hewitt, and Simpson—would lose their furlough, but the captain had let him off with a caution.

  David settled into the cockpit of his Hurricane with a sigh and adjusted th
e parachute harness. After the engine roared to life and David checked the gauges on the run-up, he throttled back and looked over toward Simpson’s plane, getting a nod and a wave. He gave the thumbs-up to his ground crewman to pull the chocks, and a minute later the Hurricanes were speeding toward the end of the runway and leaping up into the clear blue French sky.

  A flight orbited at twenty-five thousand feet and, as Hewitt had forecast, “footled about” searching for nonexistent targets. “Right,” came Simpson’s muffled voice through David’s earphones. “Let’s have a look-see southwest.”

  The new course carried the flight across Verdun. David looked down over the snowy hills and thought again how five miles of altitude could hide a lot of tragic history. Verdun had been the setting for the ten bloodiest months of the Great War. Close to a million men—French and German—had been killed or wounded there. And after close to a year of attacks and counterattacks, the line of battle had ended almost where it began.

  David peered over his right wing at the wintry calm below and was brought up sharply when Simpson’s voice crackled in his ear. “Meyer, what’s that black spot at your nine o’clock low?” David’s head snapped around, and he grimaced at his inattention. Too much of that would get a man killed.

  Red section—Simpson, Hewitt, and Meyer—broke off from the other three planes of the flight and dove southeast to investigate. A few seconds passed; then Hewitt gave a yelp of exultation. The long, pencil-slim silhouette and twin tails identified the craft as a Luftwaffe Dornier Do 17. It was probably heading back to Germany after a reconnaissance mission, although the twin-engine planes were also used as bombers.

  “Right!” Simpson’s voice was crisp. “Form line astern. . . . Attack from dead aft. . . . I’ll lead, and we’ll break left, right, left. Here we go!”

  The orders called for the three Hurricanes to change from their V formation to a line with Simpson in the lead, Hewitt next behind, and David following last. They would attack the Dornier from directly behind it, since that area of the bomber was not protected by machine guns.