by Robbie, Vic
Von Bayerstein’s impatience rose with every question and his voice sharpened. ‘Who sent the agent?’
The farmer shook his head vigorously.
‘What country is he from?’
The door opening made him start. Red-faced and sweating, Horst and the other soldier entered the kitchen and a curt nod told him all he needed to know. The farmer and his wife also saw the signal and knew, too. They appeared to deflate as if their lives and even their ability to mourn were being sucked out of them. In the silence, the increasing mood of despair became oppressive and it throbbed inside his skull.
‘Very well, you leave me no option.’
The farmer scrambled to his knees. ‘No,’ he cried.
‘Horst, your knife, I think we have made enough noise here today.’
As the farmer struggled to his feet, two of the Nazis stepped forward to pinion his arms. ‘No, please, if you have a God please have mercy.’
The General paused. ‘This is your last chance, tell me what I want to know and you can save them.’
But the farmer just looked at him, a mixture of despair and helplessness crossing his face.
Horst removed a hunting knife from a sheath at his waist and it glinted evilly in the dim light and he looked to his superior for the order.
The General nodded grimly and moved over to the window and looked out onto the tamarind trees swaying in a slight breeze that had picked up, and it seemed to sigh in sympathy for the happenings in the farmhouse. Behind him, there was a scuffling of feet, muffled protests and an extended release of air like a football being punctured, and a thud as the bodies fell to the ground. He indicated to Horst that he’d done well and was shaken to find he almost felt some sympathy for the farmer. It was all so unnecessary. If the farmer had told him what he wanted to know, this could have been avoided.
‘Bring him to me,’ he ordered the two soldiers holding the farmer. ‘This is all your fault,’ he told him.
The farmer’s eyes appeared to glow with a righteous defiance, and he stared back at the General no longer feeling fear because there was nothing left to fear. Von Bayerstein swallowed hard and took a step backwards as if suspecting the man carried a contagious disease.
‘This is your last chance. Tell me about Raymond.’
The farmer drew himself up and appeared to relax and then smiled. His spittle caught the General in one eye and rolled slowly down his cheek.
In shock, von Bayerstein reeled away; his face distorted in disgust as he clawed out a handkerchief, and with a shaking hand cleaned away the sputum. For a moment, he remained with his back to the farmer, and when he turned around, he had regained his composure.
‘Our business here is finished,’ he said to Horst. ‘Bury this, this arschloch with his family. There must be no sign we have been here.’
He left the room without a backward glance and on the journey back he didn’t speak as all he could see was the raw hatred in the farmer’s eyes.
28
Grand-Rivière, Martinique: Thursday, November 13th, 1941
The noise of water bubbling and churning slipped into his consciousness in those moments before you escape from sleep. It was a relaxing sound and he might not have opened his eyes but for an insect alighting on his nose, and he had to swipe it away. A cloudless sky provided a blue counterpoint to the black volcanic sand of the beach, and the ocean slipped away with a sigh like a defeated army before barrelling into the shore and exploding on the sand once again. He sat up and winced as his body protested at the stiffness from spending a night on the sand. He checked his clothes. Not wet. He could have been another piece of jetsam washed up, except human hands had placed him here. Ben looked around to get his bearings.
The beach was deserted save for a fisherman sitting on the sand and leaning against his multi-coloured boat that was pulled up away from the water. The fisherman wasn’t interested in him. His bakoua straw hat tilted over his eyes, he was smoking mélias and clutched a demijohn, presumably of tafia white rum, with a protective arm.
Ben struggled to his feet and groaned as his entire body creaked and protested. Raymond had been true to his promise of another boat trip. Only this time he knew little about it because they’d injected him and in the seconds before losing consciousness he feared he was going to be fed to the fishes. Instead, in the early hours of a new day, he was dusting himself off and extricating sand from his shoes and other places it shouldn’t have gotten into.
Across the coast road a rundown café stood well back from the beach, and he headed off in its direction with a wave to the fisherman, who reciprocated with a lazy salutation of his own. He needed a large black coffee with an equally large whisky. Pleased there were no other customers, he picked a table near the window, ordered the drinks, which he gulped down quickly, and ordered two more with some buttered croissants. The coffee and alcohol kick-started his circulation and he wondered why the Resistance lifted him in the first place. If they saw him as a potential threat, why hadn’t they fed him to the fishes? They suspected him of something, yet for some reason they’d let him live. And he thought of Ronnie and felt guilty for getting her involved in this. Presumably, she had corroborated his story although she knew little about him. He tried to put himself in Raymond’s shoes. He wouldn’t be satisfied with his story and would want to know more. Perhaps Raymond suspected him of working with someone else on the island and let him go free so he might lead the Resistance to his contact. Were Raymond and his men the Resistance or was it a plot to get him to reveal everything about his mission? And had they taken him to Dominica? Whatever was happening here, once he got back to the hotel he would attempt to contact Smee for new orders.
A small yellow car pulling up across from the café interrupted his thoughts and a woman with short black hair cut close to her head and impossibly long legs clambered out. She paid no attention to the café and walked down to the beach and appeared to be scanning it from side to side.
He threw some francs on the table and left his unfinished drinks and followed her down to the shore. ‘Looking for someone?’
She wheeled around in surprise and her eyes widened as she took in his dishevelled state. ‘Sa’w fè?‘ she said and, realising he didn’t understand, added: ‘How are you doing? Tough night?’
He smiled nonchalantly as if it were reasonable to walk off a beach at dawn. ‘Where have you been, Ronnie?’
She deflected that with a relieved smile. ‘Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you, of course.’
‘Where the hell am I?’
‘The village of Grand-Rivière at the northernmost tip of the island.’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘I received a message saying you’d be waiting for me.’
‘Did you receive a visit from the Resistance?’
Panic crept across her face. ‘Resistance?’ she whispered, and put a finger to her mouth. ‘Be careful, don’t use the word on this island. We’re told they don’t exist. To mention their name implicates you. Some men came to see me and I told them all I know about you which really isn’t much.’
‘Did you know them?’
‘No, of course not,’ she snapped, looking around, worried someone might hear.
‘Can you take me back to the hotel. I need to change my clothes.’ And he shook some more sand free from his jacket. ‘Then perhaps we might get some lunch.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, you did promise.’
Now the Resistance knew of his presence he presumed his cover was blown. And, calculating the possible permutations of his viability on Martinique, he doubted he would be of any further use to Smee.
Ronnie broke the silence, turning sideways with one of her long searching looks that made him glance anxiously at the road ahead.
‘Why are you here, Mr Peters?’ she asked with a hint of a smile like an adult trying to coax a naughty child to confess.
&n
bsp; ‘I told you.’
The smiled broadened, encouraging him to explain.
‘That’s all there is to it.’
‘You’ve chosen a strange time to visit.’ She looked away.
‘Ronnie,’ he said, laying a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘There’s nothing more to it.’
They climbed up the hill from Grand-Rivière and she didn’t speak again until they were approaching the Rivière Bridge. ‘I used to come here with my family as a child. When you cross the bridge, you feel a sense of disconnect from the rest of Martinique. Clean spring water tumbles down from Mont Pelée all the way to the channel of Dominica and you can swim and bathe in it and it’s as though the water washes away all your impurities and problems. You leave behind all the bad things in these waters. I wish…’
She lapsed into silence, which deepened the farther they drove.
Back at the hotel, he sprinted up the steps, buoyed by the prospect of a hot bath to soothe the aches of a night on the beach and a change of clothes. He picked up his key and before he could climb the stairs the receptionist called him back.
‘Mr Peters, there’s a message here for you.’ She waved an envelope in the air.
He took it and tore it open. Inside, a typewritten note of six words in one way answered some of his questions but also made things even more complicated.
29
Fort-de-France, Martinique: Thursday, November 13th, 1941
Club Parisienne looked predictably seedy from the outside and Ben was glad he decided not to ask Ronnie to join him, instead telling her to go home and pick him up at the hotel the next morning. He pushed through a beaded curtain and entered a large room with a stage, framed by red velvet drapes, at one end and a bar at the other. In between, tables, laden with bottles and overflowing ashtrays, were pushed so close together the waitresses in their short skirts were in danger of losing their modesty as they struggled to squeeze past. The room stank of stale sweat, spilt drinks and the unsavoury anticipation of the audience. Banks of cigarette smoke drifted in the air like a fog and the palmettos lining the room drooped from an overdose of nicotine. On the stage, a bored girl discarded her clothing with the enthusiasm of a laundrywoman to music crackling out of an ancient gramophone. A buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clink of bottles and glasses, droned around the room suggesting the audience might be as bored. And when the girl finished her act she ran off to some desultory applause and another took her place, attracting equal interest.
The note from the receptionist at the hotel said ‘Meet contact at Club Parisienne tonight’. And he would have laughed at the cryptic message had he not been worried he was sinking into something like quicksand.
Smee had made no mention of a contact. As far as he was aware, he was alone on the island. His first instinct was to ignore the note, but curiosity got the better of him. It could be a trap. If Raymond thought him to be a spy, his people would be watching him. He ordered a large whisky from a barman, who gave the impression he would rather be somewhere else, and it surprised him the Scotch was not watered down. He picked an empty table on the far side of the room and positioned himself so he could see everyone entering. No one took any notice of his arrival. Most of the audience were men and there were a few women, who were not there to enjoy themselves. It was a mixed crowd of French sailors, soldiers, civilians, some of whom he marked down as possible secret police, and at one table three noisy vacationing Americans, each with an arm around a local woman and a glass and a cigarette in each hand.
He wondered what ‘meet the contact’ meant. Would someone come up to his table and introduce himself, or would a message be slipped to him during the evening? Would there be a secret meeting outside the club? How would he recognise the contact? In some ways, having a contact only complicated matters and could make it much more difficult for him. He sighed. All he could do was enjoy his drink and watch the dancers, each of whom appeared to be more bored than the preceding one. Perhaps it was all part of the art of stripping.
A noise at the entrance caught his attention as a group of six people entered the room, and it was obvious they were well known to the club. A waitress led them to their table and even the barman straightened up and looked alert. Two men at the front and two at the back guarded a tall man and a woman sandwiched between them. The leading two looked similar to the goons he had stopped from molesting the girl, and it was obvious they were Germans if only by the reaction of those around him. Their heads dropped and their eyes looked anywhere but in the Nazis’ direction. He could have sworn the dancer and the music also paused, but he couldn’t be sure.
Unlike the others, his gaze focused on the woman and the man, who was obviously a military officer, judging by his upright bearing. Tall, with close-cropped blond hair, he had a bony face and a white scar scored its right side. A monocle glinted in his left eye, and he ignored those around him and was concentrating on the woman. The woman startled Ben, not just because of her beauty, but because it was Natalie. Her face exuded a fresh vitality and was pale in sharp contrast to her black, shining hair tumbling over her bare shoulders. He was pleased to see her again yet depressed she was in the company of Nazis. The German guided her through the tables holding her right elbow as if he never intended to let her go.
Trepidation shone out of the barman’s eyes as he placed several magnums of champagne in ice buckets on their table in the centre of the room and now awaited orders. The hubbub of conversation in the room faded away and everyone was drinking earnestly and watching the happenings on the stage with renewed interest. All except Ben. He was more intrigued by the people several tables from him. Although he didn’t understand German, he could pick up the odd word and some names. One of the men appeared to be the leader’s deputy and was referred to as Herr Major. Another, called Horst, although subservient to the leader, appeared to have more influence than the others by the way they listened to him. The Major ordered the barman to pour drinks and they all raised their glasses in a toast to the ‘Fatherland’. He noticed Natalie’s subdued toast didn’t match the enthusiasm of the others. She leant over to whisper to the leader and he kissed her hand and stood up, pulling back her chair for her to get out.
As she made her way towards the stage, he sensed a change in the atmosphere. There was a buzz of anticipation, and the leader’s gaze became more intense as he watched Alphonse introduce the next act. When Natalie took to the stage, some of the patrons stood and applauded her. She commanded their attention, not only for what she wore, which was considerably less than when she entered the club, but her presence. And around him drinkers suspended glasses in mid-air and held their breath as if to breathe would break the spell. Unlike before, when some of the girls’ gyrations attempted to be erotic, her movements were almost balletic. And, as he watched her, any thoughts of meeting his contact were forgotten. He remembered his conversation with her at the hotel and reran it in his mind, and he couldn’t believe she would fraternise with Nazis. He finished his drink in a gulp and when the next came took another mouthful without checking to see what he was drinking, and he wondered if he could somehow get past her bodyguards to talk to her again.
Out of the corner of an eye, he saw two of the Germans push back their chairs and get up from the table. One came one way around the table and the second man went around the other side and he knew they were coming for him.
‘Papers please, m’sieu?’ the shorter of the two Nazis asked him while the other, whose hand was bandaged, rolled on the balls of his feet ready for action.
He looked beyond the two men and while the leader of the Germans had his eyes locked on Natalie on stage the other two were watching how things developed on his table and were ready for backup if needed.
‘Why are you asking for my papers?’ he asked, knowing who they were.
‘Just give us your papers.’
‘Do I need permission to have a drink?’
The smaller man, who had a narrow rat-like face and a serious twitch in his left
eye, attempted a smile making him look even more untrustworthy.
‘No, m’sieu, it is security.’
‘So you’re doormen here?’
The German struggled with his temper. ‘We work with the local police.’
‘But you’re Germans.’
‘We are allies of Vichy.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘We will take you into custody, and you will not be released until we have confirmed your identity. That could take some time and would be very uncomfortable for you.’
As much as he would have liked to push them all the way, he realised his cover, what was left of it, demanded he keep a low profile. He swore under his breath and extricated his passport from an inside pocket and threw it across the table. ‘American,’ he said. ‘Neutral.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the German and took it over to Horst at the other table.
Horst thumbed it open, studying the picture in the passport and squinting at Ben as he tried to match him to his photograph. He flicked through the pages stopping to read various visas and stamps. He looked up at his colleague, who turned his back on Ben so he couldn’t see what he was saying. With a grunt, Horst threw the passport to his colleague.
He was disappointed. The Germans had stopped him from watching Natalie’s performance, and now she bowed to enthusiastic applause before running off behind the velvet drapes.
The shorter German returned and carefully placed the passport on the table before him.
‘What now, Fritz?’
‘We require you to come with us.’
He was certain the two were the ones he’d stopped from abducting the girl the day before.
‘Fraid not, Fritz, I’m enjoying my whisky, and I aim to finish it. Who knows, I might have another and watch some more dancers.’ He gave them his best smile and reached for his glass.
As he did, Natalie swept past the table and he marvelled at how a woman who took so long to take her clothes off could put them back on so quickly.