Brigitte sighed and closed her eyes, swaying against him. He held her braced against his body, one arm across her waist. He slipped the fingers of his other hand inside the band of her pants and traced her flat abdomen, as smooth as polished satin. Brigitte made a sound like a sob and turned in his arms, kissing him hungrily.
He picked her up and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her in his lap. She was like a dryad in his arms, all wild silken hair and soft, scented skin. Her breasts, white as milk and lightly freckled like a bird’s egg, tipped with cinnamon nipples, yielded to the pressure of his mouth. He let her slip down to the bed and kissed her everywhere he could reach, stripping off her briefs and finally resting his cheek against her thighs. His face was hot, his upper lip beaded with sweat, his whole body trembling.
Brigitte lifted him by his shoulders and helped him undress, gently disengaging herself when her nakedness distracted him. It was a long process and they were both slick with perspiration by the time his clothes were puddled on the floor and he pulled her down with him on the bed.
Brigitte explored him as she had never allowed herself to do before, running her hands over the matte expanse of his shoulders, down through the cloud of light hair that covered his chest. It grew darker as it narrowed into a line that bisected his belly and then fanned out again. Her fingers were busy, touching, caressing, until he could take no more of it. He snared her hands and rolled her under him, lifting her arms above her head and pinning her.
“You have me trapped,” she gasped, pretending to struggle. Her writhing only inflamed him more and he groaned aloud.
“Kurt, what is it?”
“Am I too heavy?” he gasped. She seemed so slender under him, as if his weight might snap her spine.
“Oh, no, never,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around him.
“This...it may hurt,” he said hoarsely.
“I don’t care,” she murmured impatiently, pushing upward, and suddenly he didn’t either. He thrust into her and she inhaled sharply, then relaxed slowly, her head dropping back on the pillow as her eyes closed.
“Brigitte,” he muttered. His muscles quivered with tension as he restrained the impulse to continue, but he would not do so until he was sure she wanted it as much as he did.
Her eyes opened. “What are you waiting for?” she asked huskily.
He bent his head and kissed her, then pulled her close for the long ride.
* * *
The night had grown chilly, and a breeze from the window made Brigitte shiver as it dried their entangled bodies. She pulled the sheet up over both of them and Kurt murmured drowsily as she tucked it under his chin.
“Wake up,” she said.
He blinked at her. “Are you all right?” he said.
“I’m fine. What time do you have to report back?”
“I have the night off,” he said.
She kissed him, delighted. “No more errands to run for Becker?” she asked.
“No. He’ll be busy tonight himself.”
“The same way you’re busy?”
Kurt looked at her. Could she possibly know about the Colonel’s lady? But her expression was playful. She was teasing.
“Mind your own business,” he said, tugging on her hair.
“Oh, you’re such a good soldier. Don’t you ever wonder what the great Colonel is up to behind closed doors?”
“He has his own problems,” Kurt said shortly.
“Why? Because you’re pulling out of France?”
He sat up. “The failure of the occupation is not his fault.”
“You like him, don’t you?” Brigitte said accusingly. “You really like him.” She moved away from him on the bed.
“I think he’s a good man caught up in bad circumstances.”
Brigitte turned away. “He had my brother shot,” she said stonily.
“He couldn’t do anything else.”
“That’s right, defend him,” she said bitterly.
He pulled her into his arms. She stiffened for a moment and then relented.
“Let’s not argue, all right?” he said. “Let’s talk about something pleasant.”
“What’s that?”
“What our life will be like when the war is over.”
She smiled, playing along. “Where will we be living?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Will you have a job?”
“Of some sort. And you’ll be a nurse.”
She giggled. “I didn’t think I’d be a taxidermist.”
“What’s that?”
“Somebody who stuffs dead animals.”
He made a gagging sound. “And how many children will we have?”
“Three. All blond.”
“That’s not hard to imagine,” he said dryly. “Two boys and a girl?”
“Two girls. Twins.”
Kurt rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you’ll want to dress them alike.”
“Of course.”
“I hate that. Imagine having to face a mirror image of yourself all the time.”
“And I’ll...we’ll... call them...” she said, ignoring him. “What shall we call them?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Gigi and Fifi,” she replied, falling into a fit of laughter.
“Dogs’ names,” he said disgustedly. “French poodles.”
“Trixie and Dixie,” she went on, laughing harder.
He stared at her.
“American dogs,” Brigitte explained. “Those are the names of American dogs.”
“How do you know?”
“Laura told me.”
“‘Laura told me,’” he said, mimicking her. He pushed her down on the bed and began tickling her. Brigitte curled into a ball and shrieked hysterically, trying to fight him off at the same time. They wrestled noisily until Kurt went suddenly still and put his hand over her mouth.
“What was that?” he whispered.
Brigitte sat up and listened, alert.
The sound came again.
“Oh, God, it’s my father calling,” she hissed, vaulting off the bed and scrambling into her clothes.
“Do you think he heard us?” Kurt asked, alarmed.
“He must have heard something,” she replied in a low tone. “Just stay here and be quiet. I’ll go and see what he wants.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked.
“I don’t want him to see you. He’s usually confused but sometimes he seems to come out of it for a moment and I can’t take any chances.” She stepped into her shoes and went to the door.
“Call me if you need me.”
“I won’t need you. I’ll be right back.”
Brigitte slipped into the hall and went to her father’s room, tapping on the door.
“Papa?” she said loudly.
“Come in,” he replied, his voice reedy but intelligible.
“Did I hear you calling?” she asked once she was inside the dark, stuffy room. Henri remained wrapped up in all weather with the windows shut, and the air in the cell was unbearably close.
“What’s all that racket?” he said irritably.
“Racket?” Brigitte said innocently.
“Do you mean to tell me you didn’t hear that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Papa.”
“Are Thierry and Alain fighting again?”
“No, Papa.”
“It sounded like a fight to me.”
“Maybe it was Langtot’s cat in the field.”
“That animal should stay in the barn.” Henri turned on his side. “Send Thierry in here; I want to talk to him,” he said.
Brigitte sighed, hoping that he wasn’t going to be difficult. Sometimes he demanded to see people who couldn’t possibly be produced and then waxed belligerent when his orders were not obeyed. She and Laura had become adept at inventing excuses for the absent family members.
“Thierry’s not here,” she said quickly. “He
has the night shift at the factory.”
“What time is it?”
“About ten.”
“Then you send him to me when he gets back. Make sure you tell him. I’m tired of his quarreling with Alain. He’s older and should be more responsible.”
“All right, Papa.” When Henri awoke again he would forget that this conversation had taken place.
“And where’s Alain?”
“Sleeping,” Brigitte replied, thinking that it was no lie.
“So early? He’s too lazy to be a son of mine.”
“Is there anything I can get for you, Papa?” Brigitte asked, seeking to conclude the interview.
Henri closed his eyes. “No. But throw some water on that cat. It’s impossible to get any sleep around here.”
“I will.” Brigitte closed the door and returned to Kurt, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He heard something and thought it was my brothers making noise,” Brigitte replied wearily.
“Your brothers?”
“Yes. He drifts around a lot in time, always when my brothers were alive.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said it was a cat.”
“Did he believe you?”
She shrugged. “He wanted me to throw water on it so he could get some sleep.” She shook her head. “All he does is sleep.”
Kurt was silent a moment and then said, “Brigitte, I’m sorry about him.”
She rubbed her arms as if they were bruised. “And Thierry and Alain, are you sorry about them too? Are you sorry about everything this war has taken from us? My brothers’ lives, my father’s mind?”
“Yes, I am,” he said quietly. “I would restore it all to you if I could.” He got up to put his arms around her and she allowed herself to be led back to the bed.
“I remember this house when it rang with laughter,” she said dully. “Now when he hears someone laughing he can’t even recognize the sound and thinks it’s something else.”
“What was he like before all this?”
She smiled wanly. “He was never what you’d call real strong material but at least he was sane.”
Kurt kissed her, offering comfort, and she responded. He turned off the light and removed the clothes she had so recently donned, making love to her again. And afterward they took a nap in a patch of moonlight, escaping cares like Brigitte’s father, in sleep.
Laura found them that way an hour later when she returned from her meeting. She saw Brigitte’s sweater in the kitchen and knew she was spending the night, so she knocked on her door to give her a message from Curel. When she got no answer she turned the knob, thinking to leave a note. She froze on the threshold.
The two lovers, both as blond as Vikings, limbs entwined like Laocoon, lay on Brigitte’s bed. They made a heartbreakingly beautiful tableau. Brigitte’s golden head was on Kurt’s shoulder and his arm curved around her protectively. The sheet was twisted down to their hips, leaving them both naked to the waist.
Laura thought she had never seen a more lovely picture. She gazed at the two young people for a moment, then pulled the door closed quietly and went down the hall to her room.
Chapter 13
June passed, and July. Each day brought further news of the Allied advance, as Cherbourg, Carpiquet airfield, Saint-Lô, and finally Vannes in Brittany fell before the invasion force. The citizens of Fains-les-Sources played a waiting game, watching for the sign that would tell them their occupation was about to end.
It came during the early part of August. Laura was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of heavy traffic on the road running past the Duclos house. She went to the window in her room and caught her breath when she saw a stream of armored trucks and cars pouring down the road. She could see the red flags flying from the vehicle hoods and painted on the canvas flaps of the trucks. The Germans were pulling out.
She stood there watching for several minutes before she remembered that Brigitte was in the house and went in to wake her.
Laura found her already up and standing at her bedroom window, her cotton nightgown clinging damply to her body with the heat.
“Do you see what I see?” Laura asked, moving next to her.
“I sometimes wondered if I would ever see it,” Brigitte replied quietly.
“They arrived in broad daylight but they’re sneaking out at night like thieves,” Laura said contemptuously.
“Just as long as they go, and stay gone,” Brigitte said. “Godspeed back to Berlin, boys. Don’t take any kaffee breaks on the way.” She turned from the window and did a little two-step.
They looked at one another and grinned like conspirators. They’d been expecting this daily but it was exhilarating to actually witness it.
“Do you think Kurt is with them?” Laura asked.
Brigitte shook her head.
“No. He would have told me. They must have just gotten the orders. This is probably the first group. The command post always goes last. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Laura nodded. She was always amazed by Brigitte’s ability to love Kurt as an individual while hating the rest of the Germans as a group.
“What do you think it will be like without them?” Laura asked, smiling.
“The trains won’t run on time,” Brigitte replied and they both laughed, giddy with excitement.
“The Americans must be getting closer,” Laura said. “They looked like they were in a hurry.”
“I won’t get any more sleep tonight,” Brigitte said resignedly, “and I’m on the 7:00 a.m. shift.”
“Want some company? I’ve got summer school exams to correct.”
Brigitte bent from the waist in a courtly gesture for Laura to precede her. “Let’s make some tea,” she said.
“No more tea. I finally threw out the leaves. We’d used them four times already.”
Brigitte groaned as they went into the hall and descended the steps. “Do you remember what it was like to have enough of everything?”
Laura sighed. “I certainly do. Buttered noodles, sugar in coffee, coffee, cream pastries, roast beef, coffee... ”
“Oh, shut up. You’re making me hungry and there’s nothing in the kitchen except three scrawny, sprouting potatoes.”
“But when the Americans come...”
“Yes, I know,” Brigitte said, smiling. “Manna will fall from heaven and Pouilly-Fuissé will sprout from all the rocks.”
“I’ll settle for some...”
“Coffee,” Brigitte finished for her as they entered the kitchen.
Their voices blended into the night as the continuing sound of vehicles rumbling past the house formed a counterpoint to the conversation.
* * *
Early in the morning Becker was in his office, reading a succession of dispatches as fast as they could be decoded. When the last arrived he sat back and dropped it on his desk, sitting in silence until Kurt Hesse at his elbow said, “Sir?”
“The rest of us are to be out of here by tomorrow night,” Becker said. “We’re to blow the bridges over the Marne and the Seine for ten kilometers around on our way to slow the Allied advance.”
“Do you want me to organize the demolition details, sir?” Hesse asked.
Becker nodded. “And send word to the division leaders to meet here at nine o’clock. I want to speak to them.”
Hesse was almost at the door when Becker’s voice stopped him.
“And Hesse?”
The corporal turned. “Yes, sir.”
“Bring Madame Remy to me as soon as you’ve done that.”
“Now, sir? Shouldn’t I wait until this evening?”
“It can’t wait until then,” Becker replied quietly. “Go to her house or the school, wherever she is, and get her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Becker spent the time waiting for Lysette issuing orders to his staff and preparing for the evacuation of the hospital. His men scurried about
readying the departure as he tried to think of what to tell her. She knew what he thought, how he felt; it had all been said already. But he still struggled for the right words in his mind, as if he could come up with a magic combination that would make her understand why he must leave her.
When Hesse returned he was alone.
“Where is Madame Remy?” Becker asked him.
Hesse was red with embarrassment. “Sir, she...uh...”
“Yes? Out with it!”
“She refuses to see you, sir,” Hesse blurted. “She wouldn’t come with me.”
Becker stared at him blankly.
“I didn’t think you would want me to... force her,” Hesse added, twisting his cap in his hands nervously.
“What? Oh, no, of course not.” Becker looked away from him and said thoughtfully, “Perhaps this way is better if she finds it easier.”
Hesse said nothing, wishing he were somewhere else.
Becker remembered him and said briskly, “Begin assigning the crews to the bridges. They must be destroyed within the next forty-eight hours.”
“Yes, sir,” Hesse said gratefully and fled, glad to escape.
Becker sat at his desk again and, once the door had closed behind his aide, rested his head on his folded arms.
* * *
Lysette had been awakened by the traffic during the night, like many of the other villagers, and recognized that it meant Becker’s departure was imminent. When his summons came she was not surprised. She had sent his driver away. She knew what she had to do and had no wish to endure a painful goodbye scene as well.
She felt curiously calm. She was supposed to meet Laura at the school to plan the fall schedule, but such mundane considerations held no meaning for her now. She got the kitchen knife she had selected for the task and the whetstone her husband had used to sharpen tools. She sharpened the knife until it drew blood instantly when pressed against the skin. Then she sat on her couch and put her left arm, palm upward, across her knees.
She had read somewhere that vertical cuts bled faster, and she made two on the first wrist, and then, with greater surety but less dexterity, two on the second. There was very little pain, just the sensation of flesh resisting and a scraping sound as blade met bone. Both sets of wounds bled freely. She let the knife fall as she lay back, folding one stained arm across her middle and trailing the other hand, dripping crimson now, to the floor.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 30