Harris waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, people say a lot of stupid things. Nobody really understands what a loss like that means until it happens to them.”
She examined him, impressed with his perception. “That’s very true. But how do you know?”
He looked down, away from her probing gaze.
“I can imagine,” he murmured.
“My parents didn’t want me to marry Thierry,” she said lightly, to change the subject. “My father in particular was really adamant about it.”
Harris glanced up. “Why?”
Laura sighed. “I’m afraid I was very much daddy’s little girl before I arrived here. He thought that I would get France out of my system, come back to my senses and marry one of the young interns he was always bringing home from the hospital. My sister Ellen did.”
“Your father’s a doctor?”
She nodded. “He didn’t realize, and I guess I didn’t either, how much I would change.”
Harris gazed at her, listening.
“He and my mother still write me all the time, sending passage money, begging me to return home,” Laura went on.
“They must be very worried about you.”
She extended her hands, palms up. “They want me to live with them again, play tennis and go to charity luncheons with my mother.” She watched him for his reaction.
“I’m sure they mean well,” he said lamely.
“They’re in another world, Dan,” Laura said. She went to the stove and dipped her elbow in the water. “I think this is hot enough now.” She poured the contents of the pot into the tub and added some cold water from the pump to temper it.
Harris stood and began to unbutton his shirt.
“There are still some things of Thierry’s left in the cellar,” Laura said quickly. “I’ll see if I can find another pair of pants for you. Those are really too hot for this weather.”
She left him alone in the kitchen to bathe. He climbed into the tub, lowering himself into the steaming water, folding his long legs and sinking in the bath up to his chin. He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the metal rim.
He didn’t know how to say goodbye. He wanted to say something lasting, something that would make her remember him, but his mind was as blank as a sponged chalkboard. The heat from the tub rose around him, misting his hair and softening his beard. Finally, with resignation, he picked up the bar of hard milled brown soap and began to lather his arms.
In the damp cellar below, surrounded by Brigitte’s glass jars of fruit preserves and silver corn and tomato puree, Laura dawdled at her task, giving Harris plenty of time. She unfolded and refolded Thierry’s garments, at length selecting a pair of gabardine pants and a cotton lisle shirt with lightweight socks. She put the bundle of clothing under her arm and ascended the stairs slowly, pausing silently in the doorway of the kitchen.
Harris was shaving, wearing the bath sheet she had left for him around his waist and nothing else. His back was to her as he bent and peered into the mirror, scraping at his dense beard with Alain’s inadequate razor. His hair, darkened with water, clung wetly to the nape of his neck, where the silver chain of his dog tags glittered against his skin. His wide shoulders, lightly freckled, tapered to a narrow waist, barely creased by the draping of the towel. A thin white scar began under his left shoulder blade and traversed his back like a tram track, disappearing into the snowy folds of cloth.
Laura put the clothing on the table and left, going into the parlor to wait.
After a few minutes he appeared in the hall, wearing the dark blue trousers but still naked to the waist. He looked very different clean shaven, and clean; even the first night she’d met him he was already wearing a growth of beard and a layer of dirt. Droplets of water glistened on his freshly combed hair, and his unobscured features were strong, more arresting than handsome. He was holding the shirt she’d found for him in his hand.
“This is too small,” he announced, extending it to her. “Can’t button it.”
Laura got up to look. She had given him one of Alain’s shirts instead of one of Thierry’s.
“I’ll get you another,” she said. When she came back he was still standing where she’d left him, as if awaiting instructions. She gave him the new shirt and his hand closed over hers as she did so.
“Is everything all right?” she asked him, reacting to the gesture, the intense expression in his eyes.
He removed his hand and turned away. “Everything’s fine, everything’s jake,” he said briefly. “I feel like a new man.” He donned the second shirt and finished dressing, putting on the clean socks with his battered shoes and thumbing his damp hair back from his ears. Laura watched him dump the bath water out the back door into the garden and then return. He shifted restlessly in his adopted clothes, like a scrubbed, gowned acolyte waiting for the service to begin.
“You look much better,” she said warmly.
“Yeah, well, there was a lot of room for improvement,” he replied, pulling down the corners of his mouth.
They looked at one another.
“You shouldn’t go without something to eat, “Laura said, aware that she was trying to delay his departure.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Harris replied, hating himself for sounding the way he felt, awkward and tongue-tied.
He sat again as she put food on the table for him, making coffee the European way, mixing the grounds with the water and then straining it afterward. He began to eat the sandwich she’d produced and finally, when there was nothing left for her to do, she sat across from him and watched him finish off the snack.
“How did you get that scar on your back?” she asked softly.
He looked blank for a second, then his brow cleared. “You saw that?” he said, taking a swallow of his coffee.
She nodded. “When I brought in your clothes.”
“I got cleated in a football game.”
“Cleated?”
“Yeah, you know, the cleats on the bottom of the shoe. They dig into the ground, give you purchase when you run.”
“And the cleats dug into your back instead of the ground?”
“In the pile up. Right.” He drank again, appreciatively.
“It looks like it must have been painful,” she observed.
He lifted one shoulder. “It was twelve years ago. I was a kid. I remember it bled a lot, took some stitches.” He looked at his watch and set down his cup, not meeting her eyes.
“Henri will be back soon,” Laura said, reading his thought.
He nodded and stood up. “When I first planned this mission I thought he might help me,” he said contemptuously.
“He’s an old man,” Laura murmured.
“So is Langtot, so is Curel.”
“Henri’s afraid.”
“We’re all afraid. Henri is a traitor.”
“Not everyone is like you, Dan,” Laura said quietly.
“Well, let’s hope everybody’s not like him,” Harris replied. “That’s what we’re banking on, isn’t it?” He moved toward the door and Laura followed, unlocking the screen. He went through it, then turned and faced her in the shadow of the porch alcove.
“I’ll do my best to take care of the kid,” he said shortly.
Laura dropped her eyes gratefully. “Thank you. He’s...reckless, to make up for his father, and very young.”
Harris shoved his hands into his pockets and exhaled sharply. “Things could go badly for us tomorrow night,” he said baldly.
“I know,” Laura answered softly.
“You’ve been very nice to me,” he added obliquely.
She opened her mouth to reply and he held up his hand.
“I know you would have done the same for anybody they sent,” he continued in a rush, as if to speak for her.
That wasn’t what she’d been about to say but she waited in silence for him to finish.
He coughed nervously. “I think you’re a swell girl, Laura. It takes great courage to sta
y here when you don’t have to; if I make it through this mission I’ll be getting out, but you have to face it every day. And by your choice. I guess...” he hesitated and began again. “What I’m trying to say is that I admire you.”
Laura swallowed past the growing lump in her throat. She wasn’t able to answer, and he went on blindly.
“I know I have no rights with you, but I’d really like it if you’d think of me once in a while. It would help if I knew you were doing that.”
“I’ll think of you,” Laura whispered.
“Will you?” he said huskily. “For sure?”
The tears in her eyes spilled over to run down her cheeks. “I’ll pray for you.”
The light was bad but he could tell by her voice that she was crying. He reached out to touch her wet cheek, and she turned her face against his palm. When he murmured, “Kiss for luck?” she was already moving into his arms.
He had meant to kiss her lightly, briefly, for something to hold on to, but once his lips touched hers the hunger took over and the long weeks of waiting could not be denied. Laura melted into him and he forgot Alain, the mission, and everything else.
The reality of touching her was far more compelling than any scene he had created in his imagination. Her body was incredibly soft, yielding, and her scent, a light, haunting jasmine, wafted around him, making his head swim. Her lips opened under his and he drew her closer, pushing her up against the wall with an unintentional force that made her gasp.
Laura had almost forgotten what it was like: the rush of feeling, the overwhelming desire to cling and submit that forced all other considerations into the background. She thought she should pull away but didn’t want to; the urgency of their situation had compressed time and her emotions. She’d become entangled with this man before she knew it.
A car door slammed in the street in front of the house.
They sprang apart in alarm.
Only the Germans had cars.
“Henri,” Laura whispered, putting her hand to his lips when he tried to speak. “Go out the back.” Harris reached for her once more but she pushed him away. “Go!” she hissed. “Now!”
He turned from her and bolted down the steps of the porch. She sighed with relief as she saw his dim figure hurtling across the field to Langtot’s barn. Then panic returned when she glanced around the room and saw the signs of Harris’ visit. She tossed Alain’s shaving things in a drawer and stepped out of her dress hurriedly, shoving the second coffee cup behind a plant. She kicked off her shoes and, barefoot and in her slip, whirled to greet Henri as he appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Papa,” she said, smiling. “I was just about to take a bath.” She grabbed the kettle and splashed water into the tub to cover up the telltale wetness in its bottom.
Her precautions were unnecessary. Henri was drunk. He backed up, crashing into the hat stand in the hall and lurching toward the stairs.
“Can I get you anything, papa?” Laura asked, her voice deceptively calm, determined to take no chances.
He mumbled something unintelligible and clambered upstairs to sleep. She listened to him stumbling around on the upper floor until the protesting springs of his bed indicated that he had fallen onto it. Then she held her hands out in front of her and willed them to stop shaking.
That had been a close one; Henri’s terror of the Germans made him unpredictable. She was glad he’d been too full of wine to notice anything amiss. She dipped her fingers into the tub and splashed her flushed face with cooling water.
Night sounds drifted in from the door Harris had left open during his hasty departure. Laura went to close it, looking across the darkened field toward the almost invisible outline of Langtot’s barn.
“God bless you,” she said softly, and shut the door.
* * *
The hospital was very quiet at night. Brigitte had been moved to the11-7 shift to cover for another nurse who was ill, and she found the silence unnerving. The patients, all asleep, made no demands, except for the occasional pain case in distress who woke and asked for a shot. Even the bustle of the German garrison, housed in the same building, was stilled. Except for the guards the soldiers were all in their quarters.
Brigitte could hear the squeak of her shoes on the tile floor as she wheeled the medication cart from room to room, leaving a paper cup of pills for those who could wait, waking those who had to have their medicine at a specific time. The supervising nurse was busy changing a dressing at the end of the hall and would check meds when Brigitte was finished.
She returned to the nurse’s station and signed off the med sheet, clipping it to the supervisor’s notes. She glanced up at the guard who stood stiffly across from the desk, looking at a point over her left shoulder. How bored he must be, Brigitte thought. He never moved or engaged in conversation. None of them did. She felt like breaking into a czardas just to liven things up a bit.
Her expression changed as she saw Kurt Hesse striding down the corridor toward her. She glanced quickly at the guard, then at her watch. It was two o’clock in the morning, what on earth was Kurt doing? He couldn’t get away with these sudden arrivals forever.
Hesse went to the guard and spoke to him, ignoring Brigitte’s presence. She edged closer, trying to hear what they were saying. Her German was getting pretty good.
“They need you down at the warehouse,” Kurt told the man. “We’re moving that shipment of grain to Lyons in the morning. You have to inspect the bags since you’ve done it before and I’ve been sent to relieve you here.”
Shipment of grain to Lyons, Brigitte thought. She must remember to get word to Alain. Perhaps it could be interrupted.
“Nobody told me about this,” the soldier said.
“Just came up,” Hesse replied. “You can check the schedule at Becker’s office if you don’t believe me. You’re posted at the warehouse until 7 AM.”
Grumbling and shaking his head, the soldier slung his weapon over his shoulder and loped off down the hall. Hesse waited until he was out of sight and then turned to Brigitte with a grin.
“What are you up to?” she greeted him. “Are you going to get into trouble?”
“Not at all. Everything’s official. I told him to check the schedule at Becker’s office.” He grinned again. “Guess who makes up the schedule at Becker’s office?”
Brigitte had to smile. “You are unbelievable.”
He shrugged deprecatingly. “That’s what they keep telling me.” He looked around furtively. “Where’s the head nurse?”
Brigitte nodded toward the last room on the wing. “Down there. She should be finished soon.”
“We’ll have a few minutes,” he said, propping his rifle against the desk, leaning across it on his elbows.
“To do what?” Brigitte asked suspiciously.
“Whatever you like,” he answered, smiling lazily.
“Really?” Brigitte said, a hint of winter in her tone. “Then I’d like to make some plans. We can go for a walk together tomorrow, in the open, in daylight, down the street. Or better yet, I’d like you to come to my house and meet my family, stay for dinner. Perhaps my brother could even be persuaded not to kill you. How would that be?”
His smile faded. “Brigitte, it won’t always be like this,” he said.
“Oh, is that so? When is it going to change?”
“This war won’t go on forever.”
“It’s been forever already. And even if it doesn’t, how is it going to end? Like this, with your country dictating to mine?”
“Brigitte,” he began, exasperated, and then they both stiffened as they heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Hesse lifted his rifle and moved back to the wall, standing at attention. He remained in that posture as the head nurse returned.
“Where’s the med sheet?” she asked Brigitte.
Brigitte pointed.
The woman glanced curiously at Hesse. “Isn’t that a different one? she said under her breath to Brigitte, examining the list.
<
br /> Brigitte nodded. “He just arrived. They must have needed the first one for something.”
The woman shrugged, then sighed. “You’d better come with me. I need you to help me move Mr. Landau.”
Brigitte went off with her, looking back at Hesse. He stood immobile, waiting for his next chance to speak to her.
* * *
On the following evening Kurt Hesse stood in Becker’s office, waiting for the commandant to appear and explain why he’d summoned him. He straightened his collar as he glanced into the small mirror above the washbasin on a corner stand, then stepped back as the door opened and Becker came in.
“Ah, Hesse, you’re here already,” Becker said briskly.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like you to pick up a guest for me, she’s waiting at the old church out on Rue de Vitry. Do you know it?”
“Yes, sir.” Hesse also had an idea who the guest was.
“Fine. You’ll fetch her and bring her to my quarters in the resident’s wing. Take her in through the kitchen entrance so no one will see her arrival. I wish her visit to be kept confidential.”
“Very good, sir.”
Becker sat at his desk and then looked up when Hesse remained where he was.
“Go on,” the commander said. “You’re dismissed.”
The boy saluted and left the room. Becker picked up a sheaf of papers and then set it down again, unable to concentrate.
He knew the chance he was taking seeing this woman, but he also knew that he didn’t give a damn about it. She made him feel better, younger, lighter of the cares he carried like the burden of a bad name. In her company he could forget his ruined career and failed marriage, the beautiful wife whose chilling contempt he fully returned, the two sons who treated him as if he were a stranger. He felt a connection to Lysette Remy that transcended the boundaries of reason and he wasn’t disposed to question it.
He pushed back his chair and stood. A walk around the compound would help to pass the time before she arrived.
Hesse ran down the hospital’s front steps just as Becker was emerging from his office. The younger man glanced at the setting sun and then headed down the street, humming under his breath. It was a fine evening and a ride in the open staff car would be a pleasure.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 13