As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  “Nothing you can tell me, no explanation you can give me, will I either believe or accept,” she said coldly.

  “That's where you're wrong. Someday, I hope you'll let me try.” He had to keep talking, to keep her listening.“Besides, why were you in that car? That was never part of the plan. What did you expect me to do when I saw you? Let Victor kill you? I was prepared to do a lot of things, Ilsa, but seeing you die wasn't one of them.”

  Slowly, she opened the door a little wider. Rick wasn't sure if her gesture was an invitation to enter or an invitation to speak. He kept talking.

  “For a long time, I thought we'd go through with it,” he began.“I told Victor I’d help him, and I meant it. Part of me wanted to go through with it. For you, if nobody else.”

  Ilsa remained silent.

  “When you told me about how the Underground was begging London to call it off, that got me thinking about something Louie had been saying, that he had never trusted the British all along, that they had duped Victor into taking on this mission: not because they wanted to kill Heydrich, but because they want to provoke the Germans and get the Czechs fighting again. In fact, they pretty much admitted it to me themselves.”

  “Why would they do that?” she said.

  “Politics,” replied Rick“Good old-fashioned power politics. That's what this whole thing is about. That's what it has always been about. We may think we're kings and queens in our own little worlds, but to them we're just pawns in the game, ready for sacrifice without a second thought.” He thought about the absent rescue plane. He'd just about given up hope but decided not to let on.

  The door opened all the way, and Rick could see Ilsa nodding.“Reprisals,” she said.“That's what Heydrich said to me the last night.” Her voice caught.“That if anything happened to him, their vengeance would be terrible.”

  “I’m afraid he wasn't kidding,” said Rick. He realized he was standing in the hallway, which was no place for the conversation they needed to have.“Do you mind if I come in? There's a lot of things you ought to know.”

  She let him in and closed the door. Seated on a chair, he told her what had happened to Jan and Josef and the others in the church. He fumbled for a cigarette, then remembered he had smoked his last one. It had been a gift from Renault, just before everything. The hell with cigarettes. There were enough nails in his coffin as it was.

  “It looks like Louie was right, that it was all a setup, from the start,” he said.“The British care only about themselves, about whether they're going to come out of this war in one piece and with Hitler defeated by any means necessary. And why shouldn't they? They're only human.” He let out his breath.“Just like the rest of us.”

  “But what about the cause?” asked Ilsa, her eyes softening.“The cause we all believed in?”

  “They're the only cause they believe in,” he told her.“Just like we're the only cause I’m interested in.”

  “Victor died for what he believed in,” said Ilsa, her voice ardent once more.

  “He was willing for you to die, too. I wasn't. I guess that's the difference between him and me.”

  “I was ready if I had to.”

  Impulsively Rick swept Ilsa into his arms.“I couldn't let you. For a long time I thought I wanted to die, because of something I did years ago. Then I met you. You gave me back my life, Ilsa. I thought I’d lost it, but I got it back, thanks to you. My life came with a price, though: yours.”

  Now, at last, he could put the ghost of Lois Meredith to rest, once and for all.

  “I can't live without you, Ilsa. I thought I could. God knows I tried. But I couldn't. Not after Paris. Not after Casablanca. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Oh, Richard,” she murmured as he held her tight.“Do you know how much I love you?”

  They clutched each other as if they were the last two people on earth.“I thought you hated me,” he whispered.

  “No,” she breathed.“The time for hating is over.”

  “You're right,” he said as he roughly drew her mouth to his.

  That night they got word from Karel that a small plane would land in a farmer's hops field six kilometers outside Lidice at eight o'clock the next morning and that he and Ilsa were to be there and to be ready. The plane would land for exactly five minutes: if they were late, it would leave without them.

  They awoke to the sounds of men yelling. Rick was instantly alert and on his feet.

  “Get up, Ilsa,” he said.“We've got to hurry.”

  Ten truckloads of German security police were pouring into the village, firing at anything that moved.

  Karel GabcÍk burst into the room.“This way,” he said.

  “Take Miss Lund to the plane.” Rick turned to Ilsa and thrust his Colt .45 into her hand.“This may come in handy. I’m staying.” He reached for a rifle.

  “No, you're not,” replied Karel.“It's our fight, not yours.”

  Rick started to object, but young GabcÍk already was hustling them out the door and into a waiting car. The minute Ilsa and Rick climbed in, it sped off.

  “Tell the world,” Rick could hear Karel shouting.“Tell the world what is happening here. Don't let them forget.”

  His words disappeared in a burst of machine-gun fire.

  The battle of Lidice was over almost before it had begun. Taken by surprise, the villagers had no choice but to surrender. One boy, aged twelve, ran away. He was shot trying to escape. An old peasant woman, seeing the soldiers, tried to flee. A German marksman dropped her in her tracks.

  The Germans ordered every male over the age of sixteen to gather in the barn of a farmer named Horák, who was also the mayor. Then they were taken out in groups of ten and shot. Anyone still moving after the initial volley received a pistol shot to the head as a coup de grâce, but there was no grace or mercy in it, only malice. One hundred and seventy-two men of Lidice died this way, Karel GabcÍk among them.

  Seven of the women were taken back to Prague and shot in the courtyard of the castle, in the shadow of Dalibor Tower. Four of the women, who were pregnant, were taken to hospitals in Prague; when their babies were born, the infants were murdered on the spot. The new mothers, along with the rest of the village's 195 females, were shipped to the Ravensbrück camp in Germany, northwest of Berlin.

  The children of Lidice were taken to Gneisenau, where they were examined by doctors, given new names, and placed with German families so that they might be brought up properly as Aryans.

  When all the people were disposed of, the Germans burned the village to the ground and blew up the rubble with dynamite. They then brought in heavy earth-moving equipment and erased all traces of Lidice's existence.

  The car carrying Rick and Ilsa sped toward the rendezvous. It was not alone.

  A single German unit, an open jeeplike vehicle equipped with a mounted machine gun, had followed them out of the village. It was faster, it was gaining, and it was firing.

  “Get down!” shouted Rick. He had only Heydrich's Luger in his hand, useless at this distance, but it was better than nothing. One of his shots hit a headlight, but the German car kept coming. Another shot pinged off the windscreen, inflicting about as much damage as a moth.

  The Germans had found their range now, and their machine-gun fire was ticking up the trunk of their car.

  Rick found himself wishing for his speedy Buick, for Sam at the wheel, and for Abie Cohen and all the good boys back home he had not been able to save.

  The plane was just up ahead, its twin engines revving furiously. Figures of men were moving about in the hatchway. Rick hoped to God they were armed.

  The car was headed straight for the aircraft. Another few seconds and they would crash right into it.

  “When the car stops, run like hell,” he told Ilsa.“Don't worry about me. The minute you get on board, tell them to take off. Do you understand?”

  “I won't leave you,” she said.

  “There's been enough dead heroes for one day,” he snapped. The car screeched
to a halt.“Run!”

  Ilsa jumped out and ran. Rick jumped out and came up firing.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ilsa reach the safety of the plane. He fired back, hoping to draw the return fire.

  He estimated the distance between him and plane: about ten yards, and increasing. The plane was starting to move.

  “Get out of here,” he told the driver of his car. Their wheel man was only a boy. He couldn't have been more than fourteen years old, but he drove like a pro. He deserved to live.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Beat it,” barked Rick. He squeezed off his last two shots, hit somebody, and made for the plane.

  The kid floored the car and vanished into the forest.

  The yards disappeared under his stride, one at a time. Bullets kicked up the dirt all around him. This time there was an answer back from the plane: the nose of an automatic rifle poking through the interior darkness, spitting death back at the Germans.

  He was almost there.

  A slug caught him in the back of the left leg, above the knee. He stumbled and almost went down.

  “Rick!” screamed Ilsa. He could see her in the doorway of the plane, and then she was jerked back by a pair of unseen hands as the plane continued to taxi.

  He managed to stay on his feet, but he had lost some precious ground. The plane was starting to pick up speed, the bullets were zinging faster. Only two yards to go, god-dammit!

  A German bullet grazed the back of his right hand and he dropped the Luger. The hell with it: it was empty anyway.

  One yard to go.

  He sensed rather than saw the gunman standing in the car and preparing to fire off the killing shot.

  Reach and pray. Reach for a pair of hands that were thrust out from the hatch. Fingertips … palms … touch … grasp … gasp …

  A flash of light burned from the interior of the plane, accompanied by the unmistakable report of a handgun. As Rick realized that someone had fired at the Germans behind him, another bullet hit him in the right shoulder, below the scapular. He felt the bone shatter. But the impact drove him forward, just a bit, just enough, into someone's arms. His feet left the ground, and for a moment he was flying through the air.

  Rick wasn't around to accept delivery of the next bullet with his name on it. It clanged off the door as it slammed shut, which was just after he was yanked inside, which was just before the plane began to throttle back full, full, full, picking up velocity, speeding away from the armored car, increasing the distance until finally it soared up and into the air and away from Lidice, away from Czechoslovakia, away from the Greater German Reich, and back toward freedom.

  He lay on the floor, trying to figure out which parts of his body still worked. He managed to raise his head high enough to look for Ilsa. Safe in the arms of a burly Scotsman, she was still holding Rick's smoking .45, which she had taken from the farmhouse—and with which she had just saved his life. She had deflected the Nazi's aim just in time.

  He caught her eye. The look on her face—fear slowly turning to worry and now joy—spoke more eloquently than anything she could say. As soon as she saw him move, she flew to him, cradling him in her arms like a baby. He lay there with her, not wanting to die and, for the first time in years, fighting to live.

  A man leaned over him. A man he recognized. A man he never expected to see again.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blaine,” said Major Sir Harold Miles.“Welcome aboard. It's good to have you both back on English soil.” The major beamed and lit up a cigar.“Congratulations on a job well done.”

  Rick just stared at him.“Miles, you bastard,” he finally croaked.

  “My dear fellow,” replied the major,“someone has to be. There's a war on, don't you know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Seven months later Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund boarded another airplane. This one was bound for Casablanca. The passenger manifest read“Mr. and Mrs. Richard Blaine.” Sam Waters came along for the ride.

  “Are you sure you want to?” Rick asked him.

  “How many times you gonna ask me that, boss?” said Sam.“What'm I supposed to do, stay here the rest of my life? Time for me to start learnin’ some new songs and finally get that raise.”

  “You can always go back to New York, you know. They aren't looking for you, if they ever were.”

  “They never lookin’ for a colored boy, Mr. Richard. I told you that a long time ago, and I don't suspect things is changed that much.” Sam clapped Rick on the shoulder with one powerful hand.“Besides, I expect the Tootsie-Wootsie ain't what she used to be.”

  “Neither are we, Sam” said Rick.“Neither are we.”

  Rick was walking with the aid of crutches. His shoulder had healed well enough for him to move his arm freely, but the slug that had taken up residence in his left leg had fractured his kneecap. The sawbones told him he'd walk again, with a limp, but his dancing days were over.

  He and Ilsa had gotten married anyway. Sam was the best man. Major Miles gave the bride away.

  On their wedding night, the fundamental things applied.

  In November, the Allies had stormed ashore at North Africa, landing in three different places and sending the Afrika Korps reeling back across Algeria to Tunis. It was the beginning of the end for the Germans, and everybody knew it but them. Typical, thought Rick: the sucker was always the last to know.

  The French had fought side by side with the Americans and the British as they drove Rommel the length and breadth of une AlgÉrie FranÇaise and then kicked him right the hell out.

  Casablanca was one of the Allied landing sites. Back in London, Mr. and Mrs. Blaine followed the progress of the invasion closely.

  Three days after the city was secure, Rick had turned to Ilsa.“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked her.

  She was.

  It was the least His Majesty's government could do. Rick, Ilsa, and Sam returned to Casablanca in time for Christmas 1942.

  Aside from the war damage, it was the same place they had left a year ago. As they approached the airport, Ilsa gazed out the window in anticipation.“Look, Richard, there it is! It's still there!”

  He could see the sign, too. Ferrari had not taken it down: RICK'S CAFÉE; AMERICAIN. It looked better than ever, even with a few bullet holes in it.

  Everybody came to Rick's. They still would.

  Rick and Ilsa walked from the airport to the cafÉ. It wasn't far. It wasn't hard.

  The place was closed, but the door was open.

  Not too bad, thought Rick as he got a load of the joint. He'd cleaned up worse messes than this after a bar fight.

  They found Carl inside, doing the books.“How long can we afford to stay closed, Carl?” Rick asked him.

  Carl looked at him as though he had never left. Carl looked as though he had never left. His jowls still shook when he talked, and his eyes still sparkled.

  “Herr Rick,” he said,“two weeks—maybe three.”

  “Don't call me ‘Herr’ anything, Carl,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Rick,” said Carl.“Welcome home. And you, Miss Lund.”

  “That's Mrs. Blaine to you,” said Rick.

  “Yes, Mr. Rick,” said Carl, beaming. If there was a question in his mind, it stayed there.“Congratulations.”

  “Where's Ferrari?”

  “Gone off with the Americans.” Carl chuckled.“You know how he likes sure things.”

  “How about Sacha?”

  “It's his day off. Or have you already forgotten?”

  “Right,” said Rick.“What about Emil and Abdul?”

  Carl shrugged.“Where would they go?”

  “Is there any champagne on ice?”

  “Are you joking?” said Carl, and bustled off to fetch it.

  Sam's piano was shoved away in a corner. It was dusty, but otherwise unscathed.

  “Some of the old songs, Sam,” said Ilsa.

  “You know what she means,” said Rick.

 
She smiled that dazzling smile no man could ever resist.“You still remember it, don't you? Then play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”

  He played it.

  Ilsa opened one of her suitcases. She reached inside and took something out. She held it up for Rick to see.

  It was her blue dress, the one she had worn at La Belle Aurore.

  “Do you want me to put it on?” she asked him.

  “Not now,” he said.“Wait until we march back into Paris. Maybe not next year, or the year after that. But soon. We've got time. We've got all the time in the world.”

  Carl popped open the champagne and poured four glasses. Even Sam was having some this time.

  Now, at last, it was a story with an ending.

  “We'll always have Paris,” said Ilsa, throwing her arms around Rick's neck and kissing him until she couldn't breathe.

  “Cheers,” Rick said, holding up his glass.

  “Here's looking at you, kid,” said Ilsa Blaine.

  FADE OUT

  AFTERWORD

  Everybody knows Casablanca. Everybody loves Casablanca. Therein lies both the challenge and the danger of writing a novel of Casablanca.

  My solution has been to present the lives of the characters before and after the action of the movie (which lasts only three days and two nights), placing Rick Blaine, Ilsa Lund, Victor Laszlo, and the others in a larger historical context and without“novelizing” any aspect of the original screenplay. Imagine the film elongated at either end to reveal the epic, wide-screen version, of which the events depicted in Casablanca are but the middle of the story.

  The basis for the movie's screenplay was Murray Burnett and Joan Alison's 1940 play,Everybody Comes to Rick's, which was purchased by a sharp-eyed Warner Bros. reader, Irene Lee, in 1941 for the sum of $20,000. In Hollywood, the script was adapted, reconceived, developed, and adjusted by no less than seven screenwriters, principally the twin-brother writing team of Julius and Philip Epstein (who were responsible for most of the wisecracks); Howard Koch, who punched up the story's political significance; and Casey Robinson, who first suggested turning the character of Lois Meredith, the American divorcÉe of easy virtue, into the lustrous Norwegian heroine, Ilsa Lund.