The Tin Snail

by Cameron McAllister

  “Your name…,” the major continued, curious. “Angelo. That’s Italian, of course. Your father named you, perhaps, after the great artist, Michelangelo?”

  My heart started to thump harder.

  “I need to go,” I muttered, then turned and headed back across the gravel. I wanted to run, but I knew I must stay calm. With every step, I felt the major’s eyes boring into the back of my neck, to that raw patch of skin where my collar always rubbed.

  When I reached the back door, my father was waiting for me on the pantry steps.

  “What did he ask you?”

  “Nothing,” I whispered furtively. “He just wanted to know if my name was Italian.”

  My father sighed and I looked at him, heavyhearted.

  “He knows, doesn’t he?”

  “He certainly knows something, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to find anything,” he reassured me. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Into town. I need to talk to Victor.”

  But as we turned the corner of the house to head toward the gates, our way was blocked by a German soldier, a rifle slung over his arm.

  “The major has asked that you are kindly joining him for breakfast,” he barked in broken French.

  “We’re eating in the village. But thank him anyway.” My father made to skirt the soldier, but he stepped in front of us, barring our exit.

  “It was not a question.”

  A few moments later we were ushered into the breakfast room. Major Keller was pulling on his jacket when we entered, and he looked up, all smiles.

  My eyes nearly burst out of their sockets when I saw what was on the table. It was covered in a huge spread of delicacies, the likes of which I had barely seen before, especially not since the austere rationing had kicked in. My father had also spotted them, and swallowed hard. Every kind of chocolate pastry and sticky tartlet was here.

  Could the major somehow have known about my father’s sweet tooth? The idea was absurd, and yet…

  “Ah, I’m so glad you could join me.” Keller beamed. “Please, sit. We have brought some extra rations, as you can see.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable eating this while the rest of the country are eating acorns,” my father responded tersely.

  “You need have no worry on that front. My men will start distributing extra rations this morning,” Keller told him. “So we all have reason to celebrate the ending of hostilities.” He turned to me, picking up a pain au chocolat. “They’re not as good as Parisian ones, but the chocolate inside is first-rate. Try some.” He thrust it toward me. I took it reluctantly, eyeing my father uncertainly.

  “Please,” the major continued, “do me the courtesy of joining me for a few moments. We have much to discuss.”

  At that moment the door opened and the mousy figure of Keller’s companion appeared. He glanced up, blinking like a mole in the sunshine streaming in through the French windows.

  “Herr Engel, perfect timing,” Keller greeted him, then turned to my father. “I believe you may know each other already?”

  My heart clenched tighter.

  “Of course,” my father said, nodding slightly. The German engineer smiled back nervously and fumbled to free his hand from his briefcase.

  “Mr. Fabrizzi. We met at the Paris Motor Show. May I say how much I admired your aerodynamic design,” Engel said. “Quite extraordinary. I was sorry that it did not get the admiration it deserved. And that it met with that little accident…,” he added awkwardly.

  “Well,” said my father, “the ‘little accident,’ as you call it, was nothing compared to the setback it suffered when your army invaded our country.”

  “Strictly speaking, that would be Major Keller’s army,” Engel corrected, casting an awkward glance at Keller.

  “Quite right!” Major Keller was clearly eager to lighten the mood. “Now please, eat.”

  With that, he began to stuff his face with one of the pains au chocolat, swooning with theatrical delight.

  “These are unbelievable, ja?”

  I discreetly tore a piece off the end of mine and slipped it into my mouth. After so long without, the chocolate tasted exquisitely sweet as it oozed down my throat.

  Keller gesticulated at me excitedly. “Put some of the chocolate in your milk. Trust me, it’s truly sinful.” His eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  As he rammed still more of the pastry into his mouth, I watched Engel more closely. His hands were delicate, like hamster paws, as they carefully removed his spectacles and placed them on the table. I could see that he was fastidious, a man of detail and precision, but also of infinite gentleness as he spread out his napkin in his lap. He suddenly caught me watching him and smiled bashfully, his eyes surprisingly kind.

  I glanced at my father, who was carefully stirring his thick black coffee. I recognized the telltale signs: his mind was calculating as he began spooning in more and more sugar.

  Keller had obviously noticed too. “Ah, you have a sweet tooth as well, I see.”

  My father stopped and carefully laid the spoon down on the saucer. Some of the coffee had spilled over the top, just as it always did, staining the tablecloth.

  By now Engel was staring awkwardly at his spartan breakfast of a fig and some heavy black German bread. It seemed he didn’t share our sweet tooth.

  Funny, I thought. If he wasn’t the enemy, I could almost imagine him and Bertrand getting along.

  “What is it you want from us?” my father asked eventually, looking the major squarely in the eye.

  “Straight to the point. Good, I like directness,” Keller said approvingly. “My friend Herr Engel here is a huge fan of your work. In fact, he has talked of very little else since we left Paris….” He stopped and looked uncertain. “Did I mention that we had spoken with your Monsieur Hipaux? A most fascinating man.”

  My father did his best not to reveal that he knew this already.

  “How is Bertrand?”

  Keller grinned slyly. “Very obliging. We’ve asked him to tweak some of his plans to help with our war effort.”

  “Tweak?” Papa asked. He obviously liked the sound of it even less than I did.

  Keller was quick to reassure us. “Just to concentrate on vehicles—trucks mainly—for military use.”

  “I’m surprised he can make anything,” my father snapped. “Seeing as you bombed most of the factory.”

  “That was very regrettable,” Keller sighed, tearing off another piece of pastry and cramming it into his mouth. “Nonetheless, I think it will be a very fruitful relationship.

  “One thing intrigues me,” he continued, still chewing. “I asked Herr Engel here to take a look over the books—to see what the company has been developing over the last year. Shall I tell you what I found? Nothing. Isn’t that strange?”

  I felt my insides turn to water. Keller was onto us; there could be no doubt about it. I hardly dared look at my father. But when I did, he appeared calm and unruffled.

  “As you know”—he smiled coolly—“our latest designs met with a ‘little accident’ when you dropped that bomb on the factory. Besides,” he went on, “what would be the point of designing a new car when we were at war? Where would be the sense in that?”

  I stole a furtive look at Engel to see if he was buying it. If he was suspicious, his face gave little away as he chewed neatly on his fig.

  Major Keller studied my father closely. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you have been developing a vehicle you didn’t want the world to know about. One you wanted to keep all to yourselves.” He smiled wolfishly.

  I closed my eyes, sensing the inevitable, but my father held his nerve.

  “Then it was so secret, even I was not informed. Although that would hardly surprise me.”

  Engel looked up, suddenly puzzled. “Why would you say that?”

  Papa turned to him. “Herr Engel, you of all people must have heard the rumors?”

  “What rumors
?” Keller interjected, his curiosity getting the better of him now.

  “It was explained to me that my services as a designer were, shall we say, surplus to requirements. Why else do you think we would move here of all places?” my father said. “Bertrand is too good a man to leave me to starve, so he said I could become caretaker of this house.”

  Engel lowered his fig to his plate. “If this is true, then I am sorry. I happen to believe that your work is some of the best I have ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” my father replied sincerely. “Unfortunately our shareholders did not share your good opinion.”

  I breathed more freely again. Papa had been clever, his lies so close to the truth that it would be hard to see where the truth ended and the lie began.

  But if Engel was taken in, Major Keller was less easily duped.

  “Well, this is all most perplexing,” he declared, wiping his mouth vigorously before throwing his napkin down on the table.

  “Why?” my father asked, feigning innocence.

  “Because we had it on the greatest authority that you have been developing a car, right here, in this village. The Führer himself has expressed an interest in seeing it.”

  It was all I could do not to spray my hot chocolate across the table in a gasp of amazement. Hitler himself wanted to see our car?

  Keller shot a look at me. “Did something I say surprise you?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “The—the drink,” I stammered. “It was hot.”

  My father glared reproachfully at me before turning back to Keller. “What on earth would give you that idea?”

  “Come, come, Signor Fabrizzi, let us not play games….Did you really think I didn’t know about your little test track here?”

  “If there is one, it was long before my time,” my father replied dismissively. “Can I also ask why the leader of the Third Reich would be interested in a piffling French car design anyway?”

  The major turned to his companion. “Herr Engel, perhaps you should explain….”

  Engel fingered his glasses nervously. “For some time now, my team have been working on what we call a ‘people’s car.’ It is something very close to the Führer’s heart. But we were reliably informed by a”—he hesitated before carrying on—“source that you too have been developing just such a vehicle. Naturally, given your reputation for innovation, we would be most interested to—”

  “Steal it?” The words leaped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I smiled as Keller eyed me suspiciously.

  “I was going to say collaborate”—Engel paused for a minute—“on a joint venture. After all, our two companies share a lot of similar goals.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Papa interrupted, “but it was German designers who gave us that brutish monstrosity parked outside.” He was referring, of course, to the tank. “And now you’ve turned our factory in Paris into a production line for personnel carriers. I don’t see how we can share many values at all.” He’d abandoned any pretense of indifference now: his blood was well and truly up.

  Keller drummed his fingers on the table, thoughtful. “In that case we shall have to put our little collaboration on the people’s car to one side. In the meantime, I would be most grateful, Signor Fabrizzi—”

  “Monsieur Fabrizzi,” my father corrected him. “I think of myself as French now.”

  “Ah, of course…,” the major responded. “Nonetheless, I would be grateful to you if you could guide me around your new home away from home.”

  “Forgive me, but the locals hold me in enough suspicion as it is, without seeing me as a traitor.”

  “Very well.” Keller sighed. “Then perhaps Angelo won’t mind.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already on his feet.

  “Good, that’s settled.”

  I reluctantly followed one of Major Keller’s men out into the courtyard to find the Mercedes purring, the driver standing stiffly at attention beside it.

  At first Keller was nowhere to be seen. Then, with a rush of panic, I saw him. He was standing by the open door to the old garage. I urged myself to keep calm. After all, what was there to be found? Just the dusty old remains of the ambulance. I shuffled closer, trying not to betray my nerves. Keller, now resplendent in his finest cavalry outfit, was studying the ambulance curiously.

  “Such a shame,” he murmured as I drew closer. “An old relic like this should be in a museum. But I suppose it’s little wonder it’s fallen apart. After all, it was made in France.”

  “Actually, it was a Rolls-Royce,” I said, surprising myself with my nerve.

  “Even more fitting that it’s just junk now,” he sneered. “But enough idle banter. We have a guided tour to begin.” He strode off across the gravel to his waiting car.

  For a moment I lingered behind him, studying the ambulance. It was strange. I’d remembered my father and Christian stripping down loads of parts to use in the first prototypes—so how come they hadn’t been buried with everything else? I decided that my father, like Keller, assumed they were too old and useless to be suspicious.

  I hurried back to join the major. The driver held open the car door for his commanding officer, but instead Keller turned to me.

  “After you,” he said with a smile.

  I glanced at the driver, who looked faintly affronted at having to hold the door for a scruffy teenager. I clambered in and was joined by Keller, who thumped down into the leather upholstery next to me.

  “Where shall we go first?” he asked, his voice heavy with irony. “I think maybe the bar tabac. I always find that’s a good source of local information.”

  The huge engine roared into life and the car surged forward, crunching on the gravel as it swept through the gates and turned right toward the village.

  Keller surveyed the countryside as the car roared along, passing cows that lifted their heads lazily to see what the noise was about.

  “You know, I grew up in a village much like this one,” he shouted over the sound of the rushing wind. I thought he almost looked wistful. Then we thundered past a trough of silage by the side of the road and his face fell. “I hated every minute of it.”

  When we swung left into the village, I looked around the square with alarm. Several large personnel trucks had pulled in and were now spewing out troops.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” the major suddenly announced. “I think before we visit the bar I should like to see Bertrand’s old test track. You can show me, ja?”

  My face went white and I thought I might actually be sick. What if there were still some traces of the work we had done there?

  “Well?” Keller smiled at me, waiting for an answer.

  I cleared my throat. “I—I don’t know anything about a test track,” I stammered.

  He fixed me with a terrifying stare. “Surely a car enthusiast like your father talked to you about Bertrand’s famous test track.”

  I could see there was no way out of it. He only had to ask someone in the village and he would find it.

  “My father did once mention an old field where Bertrand tried out his first cars, if that’s what you mean,” I muttered. “I think it’s that way.” I indicated the road leading out of town.

  Keller shouted harshly to the driver and the car leaped forward again.

  Ten minutes later we swept into the field that until so recently had been the Tin Snail’s unofficial test track. In the ten months since the order had been given to destroy every last trace of the prototypes, the grass had grown high again, all but concealing the original cracked tarmac.

  Keller threw open his door and leaped out. He walked forward and surveyed the field while I waited sheepishly by the car.

  The field looked exactly like a field. Keller’s eyes narrowed as he studied it shrewdly. His face was very still as he sniffed the air; then he bent down to examine the earth, pulling away a little clump of weeds to reveal tire tracks.

  “I see that someone has been driving a lot of
vehicles through here. A year ago, maybe less.”

  “Benoît’s barn is down there,” I offered by way of explanation, pointing to beyond the wooded copse.

  “These are not the tracks of a tractor,” Keller persisted. “At least, not all of them.” He looked up at me from under the shadow of his peaked cap and I could see his black eyes drilling into me, searching for the truth.

  After a moment his expression softened again. He looked behind me, at the large corrugated-iron shed that had so recently been our workshop.

  “And what might this be?” he asked brightly, striding toward it in his well-polished cavalry boots.

  The doors were locked. With a nod from Keller, the driver smashed the lock off with the butt of his rifle. The major pulled the doors wide-open, and sunshine poured into the cavernous recesses of the workshop.

  To my relief, it was completely empty—not a single rivet or bolt had been left.

  Keller paced around it, clearly curious. “It’s strange, is it not—a place like this, left completely empty…”

  It was a good point. Benoît should at least have hauled a few rusty old bits of farm machinery in to make it looked used.

  “No matter.” Keller shrugged, turning on his heels and striding back to the staff car. He paused briefly, seeing I hadn’t followed him.

  “I should really be going to school,” I told him, and he grinned again.

  “Today school is canceled. You know what? I think we will take a trip to that bar now.”

  As before, it was not so much an invitation as an order.

  Engel was sitting waiting for us. He stood up awkwardly as we approached, nodding to the major before giving me a ghost of a nervous smile. Victor bustled over, looking anxious when he saw me with them.

  “We’d like the menu, if you please,” Keller announced.

  “Of course.” Victor nodded. “And to drink?”

  Keller jerked his head toward me. “I imagine my young friend here would appreciate another hot chocolate.”

  I tried to protest, but Keller dismissed it.

  “Nonsense. Victor’s wife received a new batch of chocolate only this morning, courtesy of the Wehrmacht.” Then he turned to Engel. “Perhaps you will join me in a local beer, Herr Engel?”