He shook his head. “I doubt it. I was transferred here from England right before Okee began. The mail from my family just caught up with me a few days ago and it’s several months old.”
“You’ve been right around the world in this war, haven’t you, Major?” Cady said.
He nodded slowly.
“But I guess France is where you’d like to be,” Cady added. “It must be hard, not having any word from her.”
Harris frowned. “From what I hear the whole country is in chaos since the invasion, with the Germans pulling out and the Allied advance. Laura would have no way to get any message through to me.”
“And you’re worried about her,” Cady said, volunteering what he did not want to say.
He looked away, not answering.
Cady patted his tanned arm as she walked past him into the aisle.
“If this Laura is as wonderful as you say she is, she’ll be fine. A beautiful, brave, and brilliant redhead like her? Come on!”
He laughed sheepishly. “I guess I was bragging, wasn’t I? Sorry.”
Cady pulled the netting around his bed again and said, “That’s okay, son. You’ve got a right.”
She took a step and then turned back to him, her index finger upraised.
“But I’ll have no more smoking, do you hear? And don’t think you’ll be able to pull anything when the day people come on. I’m working a double shift until three in the afternoon and I’ll be watching you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, and smiled into the darkness as she walked away.
Harris was reading after breakfast when Cady returned, carrying a manila envelope in her hand.
“Your orders,” she announced.
He sat up, reaching for the packet. “Good,” he said. “Time to get back in harness, this war isn’t over yet.”
“It is for you, Major,” Cady replied, smiling broadly as she handed it to him. “I peeked inside the envelope.”
He looked at her.
“You’re going home.”
* * *
With the Germans gone, the pall that had lain over the Meuse for four years lifted like a dawn fog.
In the Duclos house Brigitte played the once forbidden BBC channel at the top of its volume continuously. She and Laura listened with relish to the reports of the Canadian conquest of Falaise and the liberation of Paris. During the last week of August United States forces also took Avignon and Château Thierry, crossing the Marne at Meaux, and de Gaulle returned to the capital.
The news was all good.
Brigitte became adept at rendering British pop tunes in her Parisian accent, belting out “A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square” and “There’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover” until all hours. Laura responded with “I’ll Be Seeing You (in All the Old Familiar Places)” and “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” a technique which resulted in a truculent silence. Brigitte’s joy knew no bounds: Kurt was recovering nicely in the Saint-Dizier clinic and her beloved France was in the hands of the French once more.
During the final days of the month the Russians announced evidence that the Germans had murdered over one million people in the Majdanek concentration camp. Laura and Brigitte listened, mute with horror, to the broadcast of the grisly details, unaware that this was only the first of many such revelations. In the months and years to come the whole world would reel with the shock of the discoveries, the like of which had never been seen before in history.
The night that Laura heard about Majdanek she lay awake in breathless heat, replaying the incident in her head. She couldn’t forget the BBC announcer’s voice, describing the unthinkable in his clipped, British English, his journalistic impartiality seeming almost inhuman under the circumstances. Was there knowledge so terrible that the mind shut down from overload, refusing to accept it? Was that what happened to Henri? Had he understood in those terrible moments before he escaped into a fog of confusion that he had sent his own son to his death?
Laura sat up, lifting her damp hair from her neck. She had let it grow long again, as requested, and wondered now if Harris would ever see it. Where was he? The news for the last several months had been full of reports of marines in places with exotic names like Guam and Tinian and Iwo Jima, locations as familiar to Laura as the mountains of the moon. She had a deep suspicion he was no longer in England; he would have found a way to send her a message if he were. The marine strength was in the Pacific now and those islands were so very far away.
She started as she heard a noise on the stairs and put her feet to the floor. She was just standing when her door flew open and she stared, stunned, into a face she vaguely recognized.
“Jaques Lenoir,” she said, amazed by the dark fury on his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Not this one,” he said to someone behind him. “Try the other bedroom.”
“What are you doing?” Laura cried, running to him and grabbing his arm. “What do you mean by bursting in here this time of night?”
“Our business is not with you,” he replied curtly, shrugging her off. Laura saw that three other men had crowded into the narrow hall. She gasped in alarm when a fourth man emerged from Brigitte’s room, dragging the struggling girl with him.
“Brigitte!” Laura yelled. She ran to help her sister-in-law, who was clad only in a nightgown and barefoot, like her, but Lenior seized Laura about the waist and held her back.
“I demand to know what’s going on,” Laura gasped, fighting the steel bands encircling her middle.
“We’re just going to settle up with your brother’s sister,” Lenoir replied, loosening his hold when it was clear that Brigitte was down the stairs. The other men went pounding after her.
Laura whirled to face him. “Settle up?” she whispered.
“My wife works with her at the hospital,” Lenoir said. “She knows what that little cow has been up to and now she’s going to pay for it.”
Laura’s bewildered mind had a little trouble following the statement. His wife? She had a flash impression of a heavyset, middle-aged woman, the head nurse on Brigitte’s ward. Yes. Lenoir, that was the name.
“What do you mean?” she asked softly. But suddenly she knew. Without waiting for an answer she pelted down the stairs, Lenoir fast on her heels. He caught up to her at the front door where he whisked her off her feet as she was about to dash into the street. Her legs still pedaling madly, she tried to bite his hand and he let her go, cursing loudly.
“You want to see so badly, go ahead!” he taunted. “Go out and see what happens to Frenchwomen who sleep with Germans!”
Laura ran out the door and came to a sudden halt in the clearing at the road. Brigitte was held fast between two of Lenoir’s friends and Lenoir’s wife was brandishing a pair of garden shears, taunting her. A small crowd of about fifteen people had gathered. Laura recognized some of them.
“Where’s your boyfriend now?” Lenoir’s wife asked in a sugary voice, as Brigitte stared back at her defiantly. “How come he isn’t here to protect you?”
“You don’t understand!” Laura shouted, running forward again. “She was working for the Résistance!”
“Résistance!” Lenoir’s wife said scornfully, turning to look at Laura. “She was sleeping with that blond boche who was always sniffing around her at the hospital!”
“Stay out of this, Laura,” Brigitte warned, fearful that Laura would become the next target.
“She was cultivating him,” Laura said in a calmer tone, hoping that if she sounded rational they might respond in kind. “She had to be friendly with him to get information.”
“Oh, she was friendly, all right,” Lenoir’s wife replied nastily. “So friendly that she’s pregnant right now with that scum’s baby.”
Laura’s eyes flashed to Brigitte’s face and she saw in an instant that it was true. She’d been so caught up in everything else that was happening in the war that she hadn’t been paying attention. She hadn’t registered the significan
ce of the frequent naps Brigitte was taking or her bouts with nausea. But Laura remembered all of it now. And she remembered the singing. Brigitte’s happiness had had more than one cause.
“How can you know that?” Laura flung back, stalling for time.
“I see her sneaking off to the bathroom in the mornings at work. I know the signs. I’ve been a nurse for twenty years. Not everyone is as stupid as Mademoiselle Duclos here would like to think.”
“You can’t believe that,” Laura said calmly. “Her brother died for the cause and my husband did too. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember her father, our illustrious mayor,” Lenoir’s wife responded venomously. “He was only too happy to jump in bed with the Germans and his daughter is the same.”
“There he is,” someone said, in awed tones.
Laura turned to look. Henri was standing a few feet away, gazing at the scene about him with a puzzled air.
Everyone fell silent. They hadn’t seen Henri outside the house in years.
“What are you doing with Brigitte?” he said wonderingly. “Let her go.”
“Go back inside, Duclos ,” Lenoir said contemptuously.
Laura went to him, unable to believe that after all this time something had roused him into action. Did a paternal instinct remain, a memory stirred by the noise and the crowd, the sight of his daughter in ungentle hands? Had he looked from the window and suddenly recalled his duty?
“Come on, Papa,” she said easily. “Let’s go back in the house.”
He evaded her grasp with surprising agility. “Why are they holding Brigitte?” he said querulously.
“To pay you back, traitor,” Lenoir’s wife, the spokesperson, said tautly. “To pay you both back for what you did.”
Henri’s brow cleared suddenly, as if he understood. He lunged past Laura, reaching for his daughter. Lenoir stepped forward and knocked Henri to the ground with one blow.
“Leave him alone, he’s an old man!” Laura screamed.
“Collaborator!” Lenoir spat, and kicked him.
Laura fell to her knees and threw herself across Henri’s prone body.
“Forget him,” the man who had pulled Brigitte from her bed said to Lenoir. “We have other work to do.”
They turned back to Brigitte.
“Haven’t you done enough?” Laura sobbed, looking down at Henri, who appeared to be unconscious. “Who are you to set yourself up as judges?”
She saw that they were not going to listen to her. They wanted a scapegoat, an outlet for four years of frustration and humiliation, and Brigitte was it. When their attention was directed toward Brigitte again she made her move.
Earlier she had spotted the older brother of one of her students standing at the edge of the crowd. She got up and edged closer to the boy, whispering, “You’re Claude Gueret’s brother, aren’t you?”
The teenager stared back at her apprehensively, unsure if he should confirm it.
“Do something for me. They are wrong about her and I can prove it. You know Curel the miner, who lives by the church? He runs the Résistance cell here and he knows Brigitte is loyal. Go and get him before they really harm her.”
The boy looked uncertain.
“Please. I would go myself but I’m afraid to leave Brigitte alone here.”
He glanced around him indecisively.
“They are making a mistake,” Laura reiterated. “What can it hurt to tell Curel what’s happening and bring him back? If I’m wrong he’ll refuse to come, right?”
The boy made up his mind and sprinted off into the darkness. Laura watched him go, wishing that Langtot, who lived so close, were home. He could confirm her story, but had left town the previous week to visit his sister. Like many others he was taking advantage of the German pullout to travel freely for the first time since the occupation.
She looked back at Brigitte, who was standing with her head bent, unwilling or unable to defend herself. She had obviously surrendered to fate and made up her mind to endure what was sure to follow.
Laura walked to the closed circle of Lenoir, his wife, and their cohorts. She said loudly, “I’m a witness if you hurt her.”
“We’re not going to hurt her,” Lenoir replied silkily. “We’re just going to make sure that everyone knows exactly who she is and what she did.”
With that, his wife grasped the neck of Brigitte’s cotton shift and ripped it open down to the waist.
Brigitte flinched and Laura dashed forward. Lenoir caught her and wrenched her arms behind her back painfully, holding her fast.
“Be still, little sister, or you’re next,” he snarled.
Laura looked on, helpless, as they stripped Brigitte naked, leaving her gown in shreds at her feet. They then hacked off her lustrous blonde hair with the shears. As the pale tresses scattered on the ground Laura looked around at Brigitte’s tormentors. The women, all past their prime, seemed smugly satisfied at the ravaging of Brigitte’s young beauty. And the men’s avid expressions as they surveyed her nudity suggested motives other than those they professed for their actions.
The whole awful process took only a few minutes but it seemed like days. Finally Brigitte stood dry-eyed, shorn and shivering despite the heat, her arms crossed over her breasts.
The onlookers, who had been shouting exhortations, fell silent.
Lenoir released Laura. She ran to Brigitte and embraced her, covering her as best she could.
“Do you feel better now?” Laura sobbed. “Does abusing an innocent woman and an old man make up for everything?”
No one answered her.
It was thus Curel found them when he arrived. He was out of breath with his trousers hastily donned, shirt flapping open, the Gueret boy on his heels.
He took in the scene at a glance.
“You idiots, what have you done?” he demanded. He seized Lenoir, who seemed paralyzed by Curel’s appearance.
Lenoir stared at him dumbly. The others looked on, chastened.
They all respected Curel and considered him an authority on loyalty, and the war in general. When he spoke, they listened.
Curel shook the other man so fiercely that his head bobbed on his shoulders. Lenoir made no move to retaliate. When Curel let him go he stumbled awkwardly, then spun around to face the crowd.
“She deserved it,” he protested, speaking to the onlookers as well as to Curel. “She’s a collaborator.”
“She’s a member of my group, you ass,” Curel hissed at him. “She’s been working with me all along.” Curel took off his shirt and handed it to Laura, who helped Brigitte slip into it, buttoning it on her when Brigitte’s hands hung uselessly at her sides.
Lenoir glanced at his wife, his face blank.
“She was sleeping with a soldier at the hospital, that Colonel’s aide,” his wife said bitterly, not ready to admit any error.
“She was acting on my orders,” Curel said. “Should I have checked with you first, Madame Lenoir? I didn’t realize you were in charge of such matters.”
Lenoir’s wife dropped her eyes.
“While you, madame, and these other good people were sleeping safe in your beds at night, this girl was risking her life for all of us. And I see how nicely you have repaid her.”
“How were we supposed to know?” Lenoir’s wife demanded, her jealous resentment still unchecked. “You have to admit it looked very bad for her. She was with that boche all the time!”
“I admit nothing!” Curel fired back at her. “And only someone as stupid as you are would have taken things at face value, never stopping to think that there might be a hidden reason for what you saw. Have you never heard of subterfuge, deception? I suppose those concepts are too sophisticated for someone of your limited intelligence.” He took a step closer to the woman, who shrank from him. “How dare you take it upon yourself to do something like this?”
She did not reply, avoiding his gaze.
“Go home,” Curel said disgustedly, turning his back on the crow
d. “You’ve done enough damage here.” He put his arm across Brigitte’s shoulder comfortingly.
When the little band didn’t disperse immediately he rounded on them furiously.
“I said go home! I can’t stand the sight of you.” He began to walk Brigitte toward the house.
Lenoir’s accomplices looked around at one another and slowly, alone or in twos and threes, drifted off into the night.
Laura ran to Henri, with the Gueret boy at her side.
“Thank you,” she said to him as they hauled Henri to his feet.
He shook his head. “I was too late.”
“No, you tried. And you don’t know what else they might have done if Curel hadn’t arrived when he did.”
“Something’s wrong with him,” the boy said, peering at Henri. “He’s not coming around.”
Laura sighed. “Help me get him into the house.”
Together they half carried the old man into the front parlor and put him down on the sofa. His eyelids fluttered but his color was very bad.
“He doesn’t look so good,” the kid said. “Do you want me to go for the doctor?”
Laura nodded. “Thank you. He should look at Brigitte too. She’s...”
“I heard,” the boy murmured.
“Tell him what happened and ask him to hurry. I don’t think Henri can wait.”
When the boy turned to go Laura called after him, “You’ve been a big help tonight.”
He hesitated. “Maybe it will make up a little for...what they did.”
Laura smiled. “What’s your first name?”
“Daniel,” he said.
Laura bit her lip. “Dan?”
“Yes?”
“You remind me of another Dan I know. Now get going.”
The boy ran out the door.
Laura lifted Henri’s legs onto the couch and made him as comfortable as possible. There wasn’t much else she could do until the doctor arrived, so she went into the kitchen to see Brigitte.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing Curel’s shirt, her hands folded before her. Her face was smudged with dirt and her unevenly cut hair stood up from her head like a cockscomb.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 34