“What did she say?” Zack asked in German, not understanding French.
“Don’t speak German in my house,” the woman rasped at Chantal.
Chantal nodded. She recognized the deep and total hatred that many of her countrymen carried for the Germans and everything German. She also appreciated how the same hatred was mother’s milk to the resistance movement, nourishing it, keeping it alive in the dark winter of early 1943 when only a fierce hatred could motivate ordinary people to rise above themselves and willingly take risks they would never contemplate in normal life. In quiet moments she had come to terms with her own feelings and had totally committed her life to the liberation of her country, partially out of personal dedication, but also to erase the stain of her father’s treason when he had thrown in with the Nazis. But she had a problem: German was the only common language she and Zack shared. They had to leave. “The Germans will be searching for us by tomorrow. We must move on tonight.” The woman jerked her head in agreement and left to arrange it.
“Don’t speak German,” Chantal told Zack in German.
“I hope you speak English then,” Zack said.
“I’ll learn,” Chantal replied. She had a flair for languages and had always wanted to learn English. That was the beginning of the English lessons that would fill the long hours of hiding during the next weeks.
Zack touched her hand. “Hand,” Chantal said. He pointed to her eyes. “The—”
“Don’t say ‘the,’” Zack corrected.
“Eyes,” Chantal said. They were bundled up in a hay loft on a remote farm in the Dordonne. The French Underground had conveyed them across France, hiding them in a series of houses and moving them in broad daylight when the roads were clear. Chantal had given him geography lessons about her country while they traveled and estimated they were about halfway between Limoges and Toulouse. Now they were south of the Dordonne River, well inside Vichy France and passing time with English lessons. Zack touched her elbow. “Elbow,” Chantal said. He pointed at her breasts, merriment in his eyes. “Tits,” Chantal said, catching the glint in his eyes and correctly interpreting it. “You’re making fun of me,” she scolded in German. Zack laughed and burrowed into the straw. “Tell me the correct word. This is important.” She bombarded him with straw.
He gave up. “Okay, okay. It’s ‘breasts.’” He crawled out of the straw and gave a little wince. He had used the last of the sulfa and his leg was bothering him again. He wiggled a finger, extended it toward her and barely touched her stomach.
“Belly,” she intoned. Then it came to her. “Tell me the correct word,” she demanded in German.
“Stomach,” he said. She repeated the word a few times and then looked expectantly at him, now well into the game. He pointed to her rear end.
“Tosh,” she said.
“Tush,” he corrected.
“Now what is the correct word?” she demanded, her features alive with amusement. A playful mood swept over her and he was enchanted by the young girl who flitted out from behind the reserved mask.
“Buttocks.”
She rolled the word around in her mind, forming her lips to pronounce it; then she scowled, the sound an assault on her French sensibilities. “I like ‘tosh’ better,” she announced.
Zack laughed. “So do I.”
That night his fever came back.
The small delivery van pulled into the courtyard between the house and the barn shortly after first light. A thin, nondescript man got out and spoke quietly to the farmer before they walked into the barn. Chantal heard their voices and sat up in the straw shivering, chilled by the cold air. She did not want the newcomer to think she was driven by fear and huddled in her cape.
“It’s time to go,” the newcomer said as he pulled himself up into the loft.
“I’m very worried. His fever is back and the infection in his leg…” Chantal’s voice trailed off.
“Yes, it is a worry. But we must go now. The police are looking for someone, but the Germans are not involved yet. Must be small cheese.” He helped Zack down the ladder. “Easy there, lad,” he said in English.
“You are not French,” Chantal said.
“No,” he replied, “just helping out.” He gave her a hard look. “Please be careful when you ask questions in this game.” He relented when he saw the look on her face. “My job is to get you into Andorra, where you’ll be passed over to a ‘friend.’ He’ll move you into Spain. There, you’ll be put in contact with the right people and we should be able to get Mr. van Duren here to hospital.”
Now Chantal was certain she was dealing with a British agent. The farmer had told her the Underground was in contact with the British. “What is your name?” she asked in English.
“Call me Leonard,” he answered.
“Damn,” the man called Leonard swore. “Too many roadblocks, too many patrols, and too bloody many Vichy.” They were hidden in a bedroom in the small town of L’Hospitalet in the Pyrenees Mountains, four kilometers short of the Andorran border.
“Can we cross at another place?” Chantal asked.
He shook his head. “This is the best place. The Andorrans have specialized in smuggling for centuries and are experts at outwitting the authorities. Our friend there”—he gestured at Zack, who was lying on the bed smothered in blankets—“is just another commodity to be smuggled for the right price.” He fell silent, thinking. “The Germans are pressing the Vichy to find someone and I think it’s you and our friend here they are looking for. We can’t wait any longer. I’m going to try to arrange it for tonight.” He slipped out the door.
Chantal sat on the bed next to Zack and laid her hand on his forehead and then gently caressed his cheek. She held it there, concern on her face, and estimated his fever to be about 39 degrees, slightly over 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Zack’s eyes opened and he touched her hand, gently pressing it to his face. “I heard,” he said. “You’d better go on without me, escape while you can.” He dropped his hand away from hers.
A look came into her eyes that he did not recognize and she did not move her hand away. “No” was all she said.
“Why?”
“I can’t run away from you.”
Zack thought he heard more than just a professional concern in her words and cursed the language barrier that separated them. A strong emotion urged him to envelop her in his arms, hold her, to feel her body next to his. But more than language separated them. “Chantal, I’ve got to know about the real Jan van Duren…. You said you killed him.” Now it was out in the open. Slowly, she pulled her hand away and turned away from him, still sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping her arms about her.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “My father is a fascist and a Frenchman and I’m not sure who he hates more, the socialists or the English. I cannot tell you how many times before the war he said, ‘Better Hitler than Blum.’ The thought of a socialist prime minister of France drove him crazy. I was away at school, finishing my last year of medical studies, and did not know how much he meant it. When the Nazis marched into Paris, he actually rejoiced and immediately threw in with them. He was proud of what he was doing.” She looked at Zack, letting him see her tears. “But I was ashamed and joined the Resistance.
“My father did prove himself useful to our Nazi masters. So useful that two attempts were made on his life. The second one killed my mother but he escaped unharmed. Then it was decided to make him the French ambassador to the Netherlands to save his worthless life.” In spite of her tears, her words were hard and measured. There was no weakness, no plea for pity or forgiveness in her voice. “The leader of my cell saw it as a chance to establish contact with the Dutch Underground and an attempt on my life was staged. The reaction of the Nazis was predictable. Two innocent men were picked up off the streets and shot. I was sent to join my father in the Netherlands.
“I could not bear to live with him but I could not escape him. So I threw myself into my practice. It was a perfect cover to establish
contact with the Dutch Underground and I treated many who were only sick of the German occupation of their country. But I tended mostly Dutch Nazis. I was someone who could be trusted. When Madeline van Duren approached me to care for her son Jan, I thought she and her husband were like my father. Herr van Duren is the Dutch minister of education under the Nazis and very well connected. A faction of the Dutch Underground not with the House of Orange had decided to punish the van Durens by assassinating their son. They tried to beat Jan’s brains in but they failed and he survived. That’s when the van Durens sought me out to be his doctor. I was someone they could trust. Jan was scheduled to be moved to the clinic in Baden-Baden for treatment when I was asked by the Underground—I don’t know which group—to finish what they had started.” Her voice trailed off. Then, almost inaudibly: “He was very weak.”
Zack stared at her, trying to take it all in through the fog of his fever. “But Mrs. van Duren knew…She was with us.”
“I didn’t know at the time that the van Durens were working with the Dutch Underground.”
“Then Jan van Duren was totally innocent,” Zack interrupted.
“Yes, like all the victims of this war. The Underground told the van Durens their son was dead and asked if you could be substituted in his place. They said it was a matter of taking advantage of an opportunity.”
“Did the Underground tell them who killed Jan?” Zack asked. Chantal nodded an answer. “And the van Durens still cooperated.” This last from Zack was not a question but a statement filled with awe. Then it came to him: “Was Jan deliberately killed so I could take his place?” Chantal looked away and didn’t answer. Zack pulled himself upright on one elbow and grabbed her arm, hurting her. “Answer me,” he demanded.
Before she could answer, voices echoed from downstairs, not loud but persistent. Chantal pulled free from his grasp and listened. “I only hear French, no German accents,” she said, biting her lower lip.
“Police?” Zack asked, collapsing back in bed, too weak to move.
“Yes,” she answered. Now they could hear footsteps move through the house below them. “There may be a way,” she said, thinking about the men who were searching the house. For a Frenchman, there was only one logical explanation for finding a young man and woman together in a bedroom. “Get undressed.” Zack stared at her as she quickly pulled her own clothes off. “Hurry,” she urged. He pulled his shirt off and was unbuckling his belt when she stepped out of the last of her clothes. He lay there, not able to take his eyes off her. Like many young unmarried men of his generation, Zack had never seen a naked woman before. The sight of her small and firm breasts, flawless back and well-shaped buttocks, narrow waist that flared into smooth hips, perfect legs and thighs that led his eyes naturally upward to the black triangle of hair overpowered him. “Please,” she whispered, “don’t look at me.” And he knew that she was a virgin.
“My God,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.” She ignored him and threw their clothes around the room in wild abandon. Then she moved to the door and unlocked it, opening it a crack. Measured footsteps were climbing the stairs. She hurried to the bed and pulled his shorts off, careful not to disturb the bandage on his leg. She could see signs of the fresh ooze of blood. She threw his shorts to the floor and mounted him, adjusting the blankets to cover the lower halves of their bodies. “Please,” she whispered again, “don’t look at me.” She made a rocking motion back and forth as they were coupled and bent over him, her small breasts rubbing against his chest, her long dark hair hanging down, caressing his shoulders and face.
The door flew open and a man in the dark uniform of a French constable, a gendarme, stood there. “Raymond, Paul,” he shouted, laughing. “I have found what we are looking for.” Two other men appeared behind him and pushed him into the room. Chantal collapsed onto Zack’s body and pulled the blankets up after they had all gotten a good look.
“Please,” she cried, “go away. My father, if he finds out…”
The three men shook their heads and laughed, delighted at their unexpected find. “Ah, mademoiselle,” the oldest of the three said, “we must examine your papers.” He said it in a mock-serious tone, enjoying the break in the search they had been detailed to conduct. Chantal rolled out of bed, careful to leave Zack’s legs covered, and scrambled for her clothes. She held them in front of her, trying to shield her body from their stares. The same man stepped up to her and pulled one of the garments away from her, pretending to carefully search it. Then he dropped it to the floor. “No identification papers there,” he said and pulled her skirt from her grasp. Again, he made a show of searching it, before dropping it to the floor and pulling the next garment out of her hands. Now Chantal was standing naked in the center of the room, the three French policemen surrounding her.
“Perhaps you have not searched her carefully enough,” the youngest said, running his hand down her side and across her pubic hair.
“Do you wish to search for my papers?” Zack said from the bed in perfect German. His voice was loud and commanding and he was propped up on one elbow, trying to act in control. The heads of the three men jerked around in unison and the one who had stroked Chantal stepped back. “Perhaps you would like to explain to your superiors how you embarrassed an officer of the Schutzstaffel who was traveling incognito? Yes?”
Only the oldest of the men spoke German but the two younger ones caught the word “Schutzstaffel” and they stood back and came to attention. The reputation of the SS was one they appreciated. Fear was plainly written across their faces. “Sir,” the oldest said, “we did not know. We are searching for two British pilots who are reported in the area.”
The relief Zack felt at this news shot through him like a warm tonic, reviving him and giving him hope. Perhaps, he thought, the vaunted German reputation for efficiency was overblown as the Vichy French were not searching for them. He had no way of knowing that the Germans were not even looking for them and their cover had held while they were in Germany. The authorities had not connected what looked like the accidental death of a drunken cabdriver with the nonarrival of one Jan van Duren and his attending doctor at the clinic in Baden-Baden. Cracks caused by the stress of wartime were spreading through the German bureaucracy. Their only danger was of being picked up in a routine sweep by the police.
“Do we look like British pilots?’ he asked, trying to put the right inflection in his words, the right combination of boredom, disgust, and superiority.
“No, of course not,” the policeman said, now searching for a way to escape. Then his basic nature pushed through the fear that was clouding his judgment and demanded that he remember he was French and not a lackey to the Germans, especially a young arrogant bastard like the one in front of him. “If we could see your papers,” he spread his hands in an elegant gesture. “Surely you understand, a mere formality.”
Zack’s mind raced as he fought the fever and tried to find a way to give Chantal time to escape. He motioned for Chantal to return to the bed and the movement of the naked girl momentarily distracted the men. Zack was about to say that his official papers were in a nearby hotel and that they would go there when he was finished here. It was all he could think of. A loud “Chantal!” came from the doorway and everyone turned. Leonard was standing there with another man. “Oh, no,” Leonard whispered sotto voce. “Colonel von Duren, I had no idea.” He had heard the entire conversation and keyed on Zack’s story. He drew himself up in righteous indignation. “Chantal, get dressed. Wait for me downstairs.” He turned to the three Frenchmen. “My daughter…a foolish girl infatuated with a gallant officer. Please, you must understand…” He beckoned the three Frenchmen into the hall and they followed him out. “That’s Colonel von Duren,” he told the policemen, “the Butcher of Beauvais. You’ve heard of him and what he did there.” He dropped the thought as if it were a hot potato. “He is traveling incognito as a Dutchman, a Jan van Duren.”
“I’ve never heard of this Butcher of Beauvais,” the o
ldest of the three said, still trying to act in charge.
“Then you may handle him any way you wish but please let me and my daughter withdraw. The man can be very dangerous.”
“Wait,” the policeman ordered and walked back into the room, surprised to see Chantal back in bed in the same position as when they had first discovered them. Zack pointed at his coat on the floor and the Frenchman rifled through the pockets. The Germans are so damn arrogant, he thought, ordering our women about, degrading them, not caring what we think. His Gaulish anger flared and he wanted to shoot the German. But it was out of the question. As a gendarme in Vichy France, he was identified with the Germans and knew that his own well-being was linked to that of the Germans. Then he did what any self-respecting Frenchman would have done: He focused his anger on the girl and one single word formed in his mind—collaborator. He pulled out Zack’s Dutch passport. The name and picture tracked with what he had just been told. He glanced at Zack and froze. Chantal was rocking back and forth on top and Zack was staring at him with the coldest look he had ever seen. “All is in order,” he blurted, now determined to escape from this situation. “Please forgive the intrusion…. We were only doing our duty…surely you understand?”
“Not if I’m disturbed again,” Zack growled. “I hope you understand.”
The Frenchman came to attention and saluted, almost knocking his cap off. He assured Zack that he understood perfectly and beat a hasty retreat out of the room and down the stairs, taking the other two with hm. Outside, he paused for breath and tried to think of a way to make contact with the Resistance. He had to cover his own involvement with the fascists. One day the Germans would be gone….
Leonard and the stranger walked back into the room and waited until the sounds of the three departing men had faded away. Chantal rolled off Zack and Leonard passed her clothes to her as she dressed under the covers. “Good acting, old chap,” Leonard said. “I don’t think we’ll be bothered by them again.”
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