by Will Belford
‘The permits are not perfect of course,’ continued Marcel, ‘but the Germans have only just introduced them and they are not that hard to forge. The local printer is a friend of mine and he produced these in just two days based on his own papers. The only real point of concern is a new stamp that we could not replicate, but once you are out of town that should not cause problems, as it seems to be unique to the Northern region.’
‘It would be bloody hard luck if they pulled us up over something like that,’ said Joe lapsing into English.
Yvette stared hard at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe, ‘force of habit.’
‘A habit you will have to break if you want to stay alive,’ said Marcel with a grimace, draining his glass.
‘How do you know Richter was sent to Paris?’ asked Joe, once more in French.
A knock on the door interrupted him. Joe started, and Marcel held up his hand reassuringly.
‘It will be my brother Philippe,’ he said, moving to the door.
The door swung open to reveal the identical twin of Marcel, except dressed in a dark suit and a bow tie and sporting a thin moustache. Marcel gave him a quick hug and the man sat at the table.
‘Philippe, you know Yvette, and here is Joe Dean, the Australian I told you about.’
Joe stood and held out his hand. Philippe gave it a cursory shake and searched his pockets for a cigarette.
‘Philippe is a government clerk,’ said Marcel, ‘he spent some time working in Germany before the war and can not only speak their awful language but read and write it. The Germans have employed him in their headquarters to handle some of the day-to-day administration, and we asked him to keep an eye out for any orders to do with Richter’s unit.’
‘Oui,’ said Philippe, in a slightly higher voice than his brother, ‘Herr Richter’s unit is ultimately to be transferred to Eastern Prussia for training, but it is going to Paris first. There’s no posting shown, so I suspect they may be going to be rewarded for their services in the invasion, or for some unspecified duty.’
Yvette made a contemptuous snort in the back of her throat, a sound Joe had never expected to hear.
‘So, they reward their murderers eh? The Boche pigs!’
‘Yvette, please,’ said Marcel, ‘there is no use getting angry, focus your rage and plot your revenge. If you let your emotions get the better of you will make a mistake and find yourself arrested, and then you’re no use to us, yourself or to France.’
‘So I am just a foolish emotional woman am I?’ she snarled, then realising that she sounded just like that, she bowed her head.
‘You are right Marcel, I will concentrate.’
‘Now,’ said Marcel with a conspiratorial glance, ‘it may seem that Paris is a big place and there is no way to find him, non? Non! Tell them Philippe.’
Philippe took a long drag on his cigarette. He had not tapped it once, and the ash was growing precariously long.
‘Richter will be staying in the Hotel Meurice, the hotel that General von Cholitz, the military governor of Paris, has decided is the most palatial.’
‘The military governor? Christ, the place’ll be guarded like the Tower of bloody London,’ said Joe.
‘Wait,’ said Yvette.
‘Oui,’ said Marcel, ‘that is certainly so, but Marcel and I have a cousin in Paris, a man named Bernard Thiebaud. He is not much of a man – a painter by trade – but he is reliable enough, and he knows many people in the city, plenty among those who stayed anyway. Best of all, he has contacts among the black marketeers. Now, the Germans have not wasted any time getting their fingers into the black market, and Bernard’s contacts are enterprising men with many resources.’
‘You believe they can help us get Richter alone?’ said Joe.
‘I am certain of it,’ hissed Philippe, ‘the only question is whether we can get you there before he is posted somewhere else.’
‘That is another problem,’ said Marcel. ‘Clearly the only practical way is by train, as there is no petrol available and Richter might leave Paris at any time. We think the best way is to take you out of Calais and put you on the train at Boulogne sur Mer, where no one will be looking for you. You and Yvette can pose as a married couple going to Paris in the hope of work.’
‘Oui, but you will have to move quickly,’ said Philippe, ‘the Germans plan to close off the Northern department from the rest of France in the next few weeks and administer it from Brussels. After that?’ he shrugged, ‘travel across that border may well become impossible.’
During the conversation, Joe had presented himself with a simple choice: return to England as a failure now, or continue his mission. The prospect of facing people like Major Benjamin and Captain Jensen didn’t bother him, but how could he ever look Sergeant Smythe in the eye again? In the end it was no decision at all.
‘Let’s go to Paris tomorrow,’ said Joe.
‘That is what we were hoping you would say,’ said Philippe, ‘but we needed to hear you say it. We weren’t sure what sort of condition you might be in after…’
‘You got me out just in time,’ said Joe, ‘the Gestapo had already turned up.’
‘Perhaps they suspected you of having links with some of the locals,’ said Yvette, ‘and they were right.’
‘Well, thank you again for getting me out,’ said Joe, ‘I don’t know how to thank either of you.’
‘Kill Richter,’ said Marcel, ‘and you will have paid the debt.’
‘Kill him?’ said Joe, ‘my orders were to kidnap him and only kill him if all else failed.’
‘And would you not say that all else has failed?’ asked Yvette softly, taking his hand in hers.
Joe looked up into her eyes and saw, for the first time since they had seen each other in the prison, a softer light replace the harsh vengeful glare.
‘I must go now,’ said Philippe, standing abruptly, ‘good luck to you both, I hope you hunt the pig down and gut him. Marcel, that other matter we spoke about has been taken care of, as we speak she is on a train to Poland.’
He put his hat on, dropped the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and slipped out through the back door.
‘Poland?’ asked Yvette, ‘what did he mean? And who is this ‘she’ he spoke of.’
‘Nothing you need concern yourself with,’ said Marcel, standing dismissively. ‘Now, I am to bed and so should you be. We have tickets booked for you on the train from Boulogne tomorrow at 8.39, so we will have to leave early in the cart. Etienne will take you. Get some rest.’
He left through the back door, but Joe didn’t hear him go. He was lost in Yvette’s deep brown eyes. Troubled eyes.
She looked away, then back again, then she stood and led him by the hand into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
~ ~ ~
They kissed, long and passionately, and Joe’s hands wandered over her hips as she clutched him to her. Then he moved his left hand to her breast, and she lurched away and slapped him across the face, hard.
‘What the hell?’ he exclaimed, staring at her wild-eyed expression.
‘Don’t touch me like that!’ she hissed, ‘what do you think I am, some French whore?’
‘What?’ said Joe incredulously. ‘Have you forgotten what we had before…’
‘Before what?’ hissed Yvette, ‘before you ran away like a coward and left me to the fucking Germans?’
Her words were worse than the slap and he reeled back in shock.
‘I will never love you or anyone again,’ hissed Yvette, ‘not you, not any man, you are all filthy pigs.’ She spat at his feet and despite himself he felt a surge of anger at the injustice of this and involuntarily raised his arm.
‘Go on, hit me!’ she screamed, ‘that’s what you all do sooner or later isn’t it? That’s secretly what you all want to do to women isn’t it? Beat them, fuck them, then throw them away!’
Joe looked at his clenched fist. His heart was beating furio
usly and in the dim candlelight the room seemed blurry and unreal. He fought for self-control.
‘Fuck that! I came back for you in Roubaix and you refused to leave,’ exclaimed Joe, ‘my men were only captured because I insisted we come for you!’
‘Pah! You fantasist, you romantic fool,’ she sneered, ‘did you think we could just walk away from the Germans? Do you have any idea what they did in Roubaix?’
Then he realised: he knew nothing of what had happened to her, and she knew nothing of what had happened to him either.
‘That day in the square, when they put us in the truck,’ he said, ‘that was the last time I saw you, when that fucking Nazi had his hands all over you. They drove us to a farmhouse and lined us up against a wall with a hundred other British soldiers and shot everyone. Only me and Smythe escaped. Do you want to tell me what happened to you?’
‘Non. You would only pity me,’ she said, ‘and the last thing I want is the pity of a coward.’
‘Fuck this coward bullshit!’ roared Joe, leaping to his feet and towering hugely over her, ‘I may be many things but I’m not a fucking coward!’
Her eyes widened and she cowered into the corner, her arms covering her face.
‘God I’m sorry,’ he said, stepping away from her, ‘for Christ’s sake Yvette, I’m not a Nazi.’
She said nothing.
‘If you hate me that much,’ asked Joe, ‘why the hell did you get me out of that prison?’
‘You are more useful to France free than as a captive of the Germans,’ she said, glaring at him.
He looked at her. Took in the perfection of her face, her cascading hair, the body he had ached for these many nights, then he looked straight into her dark eyes and his heart sank. They were devoid of warmth. Black pools of dread, despair and deathly intent. He knew in that instant that she was lost to him. All the energy suddenly drained out of him as if a plug had been pulled. He realised he was totally exhausted and sat down heavily in the armchair.
‘I’m sorry Yvette,’ he said, ‘I’m not that kind of man, I thought you knew that, but perhaps I’m not what I think I am. Perhaps I am as bad as that German, but I won’t fight with you, it just … destroys my memory of you.’
She stared at the floor, her arms crossed defensively. Suddenly he was fed up with it all. His body drooped with exhaustion and his eyes crunched every time he blinked as if filled with granules of sand.
‘Nothing more to say?’ he said tersely, ‘fine, I’ll sleep here then, you take the bed. Thanks for getting me out.’
He turned from her and folded himself into the least uncomfortable position the chair allowed. She watched him from the bed, and within a minute he had fallen into a deep sleep.
He had the same dream he had dreamt night after night while recovering from his concussion: Yvette being dragged out of a line and shot in the head.
He was dragged out of the nightmare to find Yvette at his side, grasping his arms and shaking him.
‘Joe! Joe! Wake up!’
‘What the … where am I?’
‘You’re with me, you’ve been crying out my name,’ said Yvette.
She knelt over him and took his head in her hands.
‘Come, come to me Joe, there has been enough suffering.’
She pulled him up and held him tight.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she whispered, ‘dead or gone forever back to England.’
‘I thought you were dead too,’ said Joe, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, ‘we must never be apart again. Promise me that.’
‘I promise.’
She whispered the lie, and pulled him close to her.
~ ~ ~
‘Gone you say?’ asked the fat man in the leather trenchcoat, something he insisted on wearing, despite the late summer temperature outside.
‘Ja,’ replied Captain Hetzel, ‘we’ve been interrogating the other prisoners and the Frenchmen guarding them, but so far no one seems to know what happened.’
Suddenly the door slammed back on its hinges and Sergeant Gallien stumbled in, his face marked from the gag, his legs stiff.
‘Mein Gott, what happened to you sergeant?’ asked the captain.
‘Someone,’ gasped Sergeant Gallien, ‘hit me on the head when I was on duty,’ he was struggling to speak with suppressed rage, ‘I was on my last patrol this morning, just before dawn and they hit me from behind.’
He stooped and vomited abruptly on the floor, making the two Germans leap back to avoid the splash.
‘For God’s sake, get the cleaning woman in here!’ called the captain.
At that moment the feldwebel knocked on the door and entered with a salute.
‘Herr Kapitan, it appears that Madame Fevrier has been arrested and the new cleaning girl you appointed has not shown up today.’
‘Verdammt!’ swore the captain, ‘surely that little fool couldn’t have something to do with this?’
‘Are you talking about that brunette who was sweeping the yard yesterday?’ asked the man in the leather coat, ‘If so, then we must find her immediately, she can’t have got far. Chances are they are both still in town, but they will be trying to leave as soon as they can. Put out roadblocks and alert the train station, and put all your men on a door-to-door patrol. I want that man found captain, he may be just a man to you, but he is the first commando we have captured and he has some limited propaganda value.’
The captain picked up the phone and gave the orders. In the barracks a few blocks away, sergeants started yelling instructions.
‘Now then,’ said the Gestapo man looking at his wristwatch, ‘it’s 8.20, we have wasted too much time already. Where will they be going do you think?’
The door slammed opened and Hagan Schmidt hobbled in, his single good eye surveying the room malevolently.
‘Describe the French girl to me,’ he said.
~ ~ ~
The locomotive rolled massively into the station, steam jetting from its flanks, smoke and cinders from the funnel billowing around the people standing on the platform.
Yvette grasped the pillow under her dress that was threatening to slip out from its restraining belt, brushed her newly-dyed blonde hair aside and looked at Joe. His three days’ stubble had been shaved, leaving only a thin moustache, his hair had been cut short and the beret and shabby black coat that Marcel had provided went some way to creating the impression of a typical downcast Frenchman, perhaps leaving town to go to Germany for work. He still looked far too young though, and while young men were not enough of a rarity to excite immediate comment, they were uncommon nonetheless.
The journey from Calais in the cart was only twenty-five miles, but it had taken the best part of three hours. More than once, trucks full of German soldiers had passed them, and on the outskirts of Boulogne an officious sergeant at a roadblock had demanded to see Etienne’s papers, but no-one had chosen to open the two coffins that sat among the boxes and crates on the cart. In a grubby back-alley near the station, Etienne had reined in the his horses and lifted the lids to find both Joe and Yvette fast asleep. Dead, at first glance.
Ten minutes later they were on the platform as the train came to a halt with a shudder and a final exhalation of steam. That was when Joe saw the German patrol advancing through the crowd gathering around the doors of the carriages.
‘Here they come,’ he muttered.
‘Where are we going Joe?’ asked Yvette.
‘To Paris, to a specialist doctor, you have complications with the child.’
‘And who are we?’
‘Josephine and Henri Bonn, recently married,’ said Joe, rotating the thin gold band on his second finger that Marcel had given him and that was two sizes too big.
‘This belonged to my father,’ Marcel had said that bright yellow dawn as he pushed the ring onto Joe’s finger. ‘He was gassed by the Germans at Ypres and finally drowned in his own lungs after living through twenty years of breathlessn
ess. He’d be happy to see you wear it if it helps you against les Boches.’
It was a thin enough disguise, thought Joe, looking at Yvette’s humped belly, which to his eye looked utterly unconvincing. He put his arm around her protectively, picked up their battered suitcase and moved towards the steps of the carriage.
Inside the train, a man in a bench seat gave up his place for Yvette, and they pushed in against the window. Joe gave Yvette’s hand a squeeze, then the door at the end opened and the patrol came down the carriage. Five men, four with rifles in hand, the lieutenant in front asking people for their papers as he came down the line of seats.
‘Papieren bitte,’ said the officer to Joe and Yvette. The man studied Yvette’s forged papers and handed them to her.
‘Alles gut madame Bonn,’ he said, opening Joe’s papers. Joe looked at the armed men behind him. They were not in a state of high alert, but even so, there was no way he could get past them or through the window if he had to without being shot. He looked at the officer and felt sweat broke out on his forehead. He resisted the urge to wipe away a drop that felt the size of a football, and felt it trickle from under the beret and into his right eyebrow.
The lieutenant looked up at him.
‘M’sieu, your papers are not in order. Please accompany me off the train.’
Chapter Seventeen
At a local café, Hortense had introduced Bernard to a German official who worked in the governor’s headquarters. The man had shown Bernard a list of the items he wanted and the prices he was willing to pay for them.
‘The Governor and his staff have certain requirements that cannot be met by the commissariat you understand,’ said the man, ‘and it is my responsibility to ensure that they have everything they need. This lovely young woman,’ he said, gesturing at Hortense, ‘has indicated that you may be able to help me. Is this so?’
‘Oui m’sieur,’ said Bernard hesitantly, eyeing the list, ‘but I cannot provide everything on this list, I mostly have farm produce. Things like wine, chocolate, spices, they are not to be found locally.’
‘I don’t care how you do it,’ snapped the German, ‘just bring me everything on that list by noon on Friday. I believe you can see from the prices I have decided to pay that you can make a handsome profit yourself.’