by Tracy Groot
The man walked on and, soon, so did Brigitte.
“Did you convert?”
Brigitte paused, looking through the records. It took a moment to understand what Colette was talking about. She took out Vera Lynn, placed it on the turntable, and set the needle.
Brigitte dropped into a chair and took up the Baedeker guidebook. She stared at it, then put her head back to allow the crooning song to wash over her.
“She wasn’t talkative. One of the Germans at the bridge broke her foot. Marie-Josette’s German. Stomped on it with his heel.”
There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover . . .
“Why?”
“Since when do they need a reason?”
Colette was curiously silent. No “She must have had it coming” or other acid comment.
Brigitte closed her eyes. She gripped the guidebook. “I heard someone scream today. At the Gestapo building.” There’ll be love and laughter, and peace ever after . . . “I don’t want to convert. There isn’t a place for me.” A tear ran down the side of her face, and she turned her head from Colette. “I want to be a bird.”
Rafael’s expression when he first saw the German uniform made Tom’s heart sink.
The only uniform they could get to fit had once belonged to a major from an antiaircraft artillery unit, killed in an ambush by the Resistance. Tom wore a light-brown French military shirt under a blue-gray woolen uniform. A Walther P38 holster sat at his waist without a pistol in it—Wilkie was working on that. On the other hip was a leather map case, looped on the same belt. His hat was blue, edged in silver with silver braid over the brim and a silver eagle at the peak in front, clutching a swastika in its talons. Tall, black leather boots came just below his knees. His trousers were bloused and tucked into the boots. The French military shirt was a necessity; they couldn’t get the blood out of the original owner’s shirt.
On the inside of this German belt, he’d carved four notches. He’d fill in each with ink, like painting a swastika on his plane for every Nazi kill.
“Very handsome,” Rafael said with an artificial smile. “Very smart.”
“Don’t go all funny on me.”
Rafael softened. “Do not worry. You will do fine. You’ve got me nervous.”
“Would a German wear this?” Tom fingered the French shirt collar, anxiously looking in the mirror.
“Many uniforms are cobbled together these days. They can’t afford new ones.”
Tom stood back to take in his image at the mirror. “Isn’t it funny? Me, a pilot, wearing the clothes of a guy who probably shot one of us down?”
“I do not think it is funny.”
“Not funny ha-ha. Funny ironic.” He looked at the triangular red patches sewn to the edge of the collar. “I can think of another question they’ll ask: how did you make major so fast?” He answered with Oswald’s Jersey accent, “Cuz dis is all de uniform we could git, ya dimwit.” Rafael liked it when he did Oswald. He glanced, but Rafael didn’t even smile.
“You need a rank high enough that anyone will think twice about questioning you, low enough that you will not attract too much attention.”
Tom’s mission was to visit the brothel in Bénouville twice a week and bring whatever he learned about the Caen Canal Bridge and the Orne River Bridge, a quarter mile past Caen Canal, back to Michel. Otherwise, when he was out in the open, he was to look as if he were on a perpetual errand. If anyone asked, he was assigned to the Cimenterie in Caen to observe and report on Dutch workers to Rommel. And if anyone asked, he was billeted at Michel’s apartment. It was the first time in four years someone stayed at Michel’s home quite openly.
For now, Tom was to accompany Rafael to the Cimenterie office. There, he would enter the building as Major Kees Nieuwenhuis, and ask for Monsieur Michel Rousseau. He would present his papers . . .
“Signed by Rommel himself,” Major Nieuwenhuis said in English, with a strong Dutch accent, nodding at the papers in Michel’s hands.
The major stood near the door. Michel stood near Charlotte’s desk reading the papers. His secretary was trying to pay no attention to the exchange over her desk, nervously inserting a thick, carbon-copied invoice into her typewriter.
Two men sat in the waiting chairs, reading newspapers and studiously ignoring the conversation. One man was Charles Belanger. He sold advertisements for the paper he was reading, an outfit that sadly had stopped reporting any real news about four years ago. Real news came from the BBC, if one were lucky enough to own the contraband needed to hear it. The other man was Georges Tenerife, a Belgian, one of the construction site managers for the Todt Organization.
Michel looked up from the papers. “You are to interview my Dutch laborers. May I ask why? They are good workers. I have no complaint.”
“Orders are orders,” the young officer said, looking about the room with interested disdain. “I do not question them. Neither should you.” Charlotte’s hands shook as she pulled the invoice from the machine, aligned the carbon, and tried again. “By the way, Monsieur Rousseau, where do you live?”
Charlotte’s fingers fumbled on the keys. She could not hide the fact that she knew English.
“At 128 rue de l’Heribel. May I ask why?”
“Ja, you may. I am assigned to stay at your home.”
After a moment, Michel said, “I see.”
“My kit.” He nodded at a duffel bag near the door. “Have your courier take it to your home. I will not arrive until late this evening. 128 rue de l’Heribel.” He put his hands behind his back and strolled over to the men in the chairs. “Tell me, gentlemen; do you know of a good German brothel in the area? A reputable place, where a fellow will not buy a ticket to the Russian front?”
Charles Belanger looked up, startled. He glanced first at the man next to him, then shook his head, mumbling that he did not speak English. Georges Tenerife, after coolly turning a page of his newspaper, raised his eyes to the young officer.
“There are a few in this city, monsieur, but if you want reputable, you will have to go to Bénouville. So I am told.”
“Merci beaucoup,” the officer said, trying out his French. He took his papers from Michel. “I will be back tomorrow to interview the first man on my list—Ambroos DeBeers. Have him here at 9 a.m. sharp.” He turned back to Tenerife. “Excuse me—how do I get to Bénouville?”
Tenerife lowered his newspaper. “Take the main road north. The road will divide as you leave the city. Bear east. Keep the Caen Canal on your right. Bénouville is seven or eight kilometers.”
“And when I am there . . . ?”
“Ask around. I wouldn’t know.” He went back to his paper.
The officer said to Rousseau, “I will see you tonight,” and left the office.
The office was silent. After a moment, Charles Belanger looked at Michel. “So, Rousseau. You will have a guest. Too bad. We have been lucky so far. We had only two young men at the beginning, and that for only a week.”
“It was only a matter of time. C’est la guerre.” To Charlotte, Michel said quietly, “See to it that Ambroos DeBeers is here at 8:50 a.m. Tell his supervisor I am unsure when he will return. I believe DeBeers is at the Ranville plant. If not, check Cabourg.”
Charlotte nodded and reached for the telephone.
He turned to Georges Tenerife, who had risen and folded his newspaper. They shook hands, and Rousseau ushered him into his office.
Michel went to his desk. Tenerife took the chair in front. Both sat. Both looked at one another.
“That went well,” Michel said softly.
Tenerife nodded and said as quietly, “Belanger will have it all over Caen by nightfall. The privileged Rousseau is finally put upon. He was wonderful, Michel. Wherever did you find him?”
“He went down near Cabourg. Pilot of a P-47, collected by Rafael’s team.”
“Even knowing who he was, he made me nervous. You don’t think he’s a spy?”
“They’d never send someone tha
t Nordic. To Holland, maybe, never France.”
“And the brothel?”
“She’s with us.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever referred anyone to a brothel. Your poor secretary. What she must think of me.” Tenerife looked thoughtfully at Michel’s face. “You have changed, my friend. You seem . . . tired.”
But Michel stopped listening. It had gone well. So well that the moment Charlotte saw Tom, she was as nervous as the first time Braun had walked into the room. She did not seem to connect the rough-and-tumble pig farmer she’d seen briefly a few weeks earlier with the spit-shined Wehrmacht officer in jackboots. Good. Very good.
“Do we have any real business to discuss?” Tenerife said lightly.
“Do you have any Dutch conscripts at the radar installation?”
“Which one? I’m working three.”
“We service Douvres-la-Délivrande.”
Tenerife shook his head.
“Then no. But you should stay a little longer. How are the wife and kids?”
And Michel heard not a word as his mind went on to Bénouville with Tom.
He was alone behind enemy lines for the first time.
In the States, Tom and his best friend, Pete, threw in and bought a beat-up 1926 Cleveland motorcycle. They rigged a second seat over the back fender, bracing it with bars rigged to the back axle, wincing every time they went over a bump that brought it down hard on the wheel. They had fun, but no real speed. They took Ronnie for rides when Mother wasn’t around.
He now drove a German-made Zündapp K500. The Resistance kept the vehicle hidden in a patch of woods outside Cabourg. Tom had had to accompany Rafael to retrieve it; the Frenchman would attract too much attention riding a vehicle assigned to the Wehrmacht. Rafael didn’t know the year, probably mid to late thirties. It had low handles that made turning awkward, with Tom’s long legs. But it had power, and he couldn’t resist opening her up on a straightaway to see what she could do. If Pete could see him now. But Pete was somewhere in the Pacific, in a faraway place called Guadalcanal.
Tom took care to keep the speed moderate and to avoid potholes when he could. The past few days had been dry, so the road was reasonably mud free. A few spatters on his boots would clean up easily enough. Once he put the German uniform on, he had the same feeling he did when he wore his USAAF uniform: the alert need to keep it polished and dirt free for inspection. There, the similarities ended.
With his USAAF uniform, he felt pride and he felt power, two feelings he kept in check when remembering something his father told him before he left for Basic, an admonition he didn’t understand until he was issued his first uniform at Jefferson Barracks: Don’t let that uniform change you, Son, except for the good. With this uniform, he experienced a sensation that went beyond the disgust of wearing the enemy uniform. Donning the German uniform felt like slipping into personal falsity. He supposed it was good for his role.
“Don’t let the uniform change you, son,” he whispered.
Rafael’s reaction was bothersome enough, but the reaction of Rousseau’s secretary was far worse. The fear he saw in her eyes, and in the eyes of the men waiting, brought revulsion to his gut. In America, his parents had made his height a source of pride. In America, he was considered good-looking. Here, his height and his looks and now this cursed uniform brought nothing but shame.
When he came to Bénouville, he took a wrong turn. The brothel was supposed to be past the Château de Bénouville on the right. But he couldn’t find the château, and he was too nervous to ask for directions. When he finally figured he’d driven past Bénouville altogether, he stopped at a church to ask directions of a fedora-topped priest, who told him the tiny village he was in was called Le Port.
He couldn’t possibly ask a priest where a brothel was, so he asked for directions to the château. But the priest didn’t seem any happier.
“Ees a hospeetal,” he said in broken English, consternation in his face. “Ees for wee-men, weeth babies.”
“Yes, a maternity hospital,” Tom answered, then realized he didn’t put enough Dutch into it. “Ja, ja, I know. I have . . . an errand there.”
The priest was unhappy, though he tried to conceal it. Then Tom realized the man might be with the Resistance; to such a man, a fellow who looked like Tom, asking directions to a Resistance stronghold, might just cause a bit of alarm.
“Look,” Tom said sheepishly, looking away, “I am trying to find the brothel, if you must know. A buddy referred me. He said it is close to the château.”
Relief came. “Oui, oui,” he now said, far more agreeably. He stepped away from the church to point down the street. “Past zee Mairie. Zee Mairie ees on zee corner, on zee left. Past eet, four, five ’ouses.”
“Oui. Merci, monsieur.” Should he call him mister? He didn’t know the etiquette for priests. He bowed his head awkwardly, then swung a leg over his motorcycle. He started it, revved, and turned the machine around. He glanced, and the priest was watching him go.
Four or five houses. Was it four or was it five?
Just before the Mairie, the German-infested town hall Rousseau warned him about, he paused at the corner for a quick look left, down the street. He’d gotten just a glance when he was heading into Le Port, realizing he’d gone too far. Now he looked at the bridge at the end of the street as long as he dared.
He wished for a spy camera to take pictures. He wished he could motor down there and step off the width, eye the length. Pilot training, that’s what that was—he had a clear target to act upon and all he wanted was to get his hands on it. He wondered what sort of intel Brigitte—
Movement across the street caught his eye. The door of the Mairie had opened and out walked three German soldiers.
His heart did a belly flop to his gut. Three-part plan: Act normal, act normal, act normal.
He looked right and left for traffic, then eased forward. They’d be watching with the racket a motorcycle kicked up in a sleepy town. Should he look? Should he acknowledge? He suddenly remembered he was a major. The red patches at the corners of his collar demanded respect, and a major would look for it.
He glanced left as he passed, noted three salutes, and casually acknowledged. Even as he returned the salute, a barrage of questions flooded: would a major in the German army drive alone? Or would he rate a staff car?
Did they wonder who he was, what he was doing here?
He barely had time to sort through possible answers when he came to the fourth and fifth houses on “zee” left.
He pulled up on the stubbly expanse between the two homes and shut off the machine. He kicked out the stand, then pulled off the heavy motorcycle helmet and hung it on one of the handles, doing his best to make every movement appear as smooth as if this were not only the third time he’d dismounted. He opened the leather side compartment attached to the backseat and took out the German hat. He put it on, adjusted it, and faced the two houses.
Maybe guys who went to brothels didn’t go to the front door. Maybe they went to the back, and maybe that would give Brigitte time to notice that a motorcycle had stopped out front.
“Kirsch,” he said under his breath, rehearsing what Michel told him to say. “May I ask for Brigitte? I am referred by Lieutenant Kirsch.”
He walked between the two houses and checked the house on the right, first. Nur für Wehrmacht, said a yellow sign attached to the back door.
“This is it, Ozzie,” he muttered. “Boy, wouldn’t you like to be me right now.”
Heart pounding wildly, he knocked on the door.
Hello, Brigitte? I’m Tom. I wish with all my heart I had listened to Clemmie because I don’t know what I’m doing, impersonating a German officer, knocking on the door of a brothel, acting like someone who—
The door opened, and a girl stood there. She was pretty, and she had a great figure, and she’d been crying.
The officer took off his hat.
“Bonjour. I am looking for Brigitte.”
“I a
m Brigitte.”
“I am Kees Nieuwenhuis. I was referred by a friend, Lieutenant Kirsch.”
She studied him. “Oui. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. He must have been transferred.” She opened the door wide to let him in.
“Would you like some tea?” Brigitte said outside the kitchen entrance, where Marie-Josette was fixing a late lunch. “I am sorry; we do not have coffee.”
“Ja, sure. Tea would be nice.”
Brigitte went to the counter and turned on the hot plate. She filled the kettle and put it on the plate. Marie-Josette glanced up, then looked again. She looked the German up and down appreciatively. “You sure know how to fill a room, Officer.”
“He doesn’t speak French. At least, I don’t think so.” Brigitte looked over her shoulder. “Do you speak French?”
The man held up a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger. “Très peu.” Then in English, “I speak Dutch. I am from the Netherlands. But I speak English, too.”
“I’m free, Brigitte. Very much so,” Marie-Josette said in low-toned French. “I like them tall and blond.”
Like the one who broke Madame’s foot? Brigitte wanted to ask. Instead, she airily replied, “So do I. He’s a little too German for my taste, but do you think I’m giving him up? I usually get ugly oafs like Alex, Ernst, and Josef. Any decent French girl would kill herself first.”
“We are not decent French girls. Who would be, around him?” She gave the officer a deep and unmistakably prowling smile. A faint blush rose above his collar, and he glanced away. “He’s gorgeous. Dreamy eyes.”
“Exactly. I haven’t had one like him since Paris,” Brigitte said lightly, while her stomach twisted at the memory of the bridge soldier. “Hands off.”
“Think of me next time he comes and you are busy.” She took her plate and walked slowly to the kitchen table, swaying her hips as she went. Brigitte glanced at the man, who was looking anywhere but at them. For some reason she had expected someone older. He was close to her age, and it made her uncomfortable.