Flame of Resistance

by Tracy Groot

  “Not this time. The boy fell from the air and had the misfortune to fall into my hands. Let me ask you something: Is Schiffer willing to deal?”

  Braun looked at him.

  “Is he?”

  “Rousseau . . .”

  “She did not have a heart attack.”

  Braun lowered his eyes.

  “And Tom is in his hands. He is in the hands of a monster who would torture the old and the young.”

  “An angel attended Antoinette Devault in her last hours, Rousseau. She left this earth in the presence of an angel.”

  “I don’t want an angel.” Michel leaned forward. “Will Schiffer deal; will he consider an exchange—will he follow through, no double cross?” He smiled, heart pounding, wishing for a cigarette. He gave a little shrug. “I want it to count.”

  Braun seemed to wilt into the chair. After a long interval, he said thickly, “You expect me to act as your liaison.”

  Michel reached for the metal cigarette box on the coffee table. It was empty. He got up and went to his desk. He took a cigarette from the case, lit up, shook out the match, tossed it to the desk. He went to the window.

  “You expect me to deliver you up. Kiss your cheek.”

  Michel chuckled. “Oh no. Class me with Pilate. You start listening to the multitude, you may end up condemning an innocent man. In a moment, in one moment, I abandoned leadership. I made a terrible mistake. You are the only one who can help me make it right.”

  He studied the courtyard below. Spring was coming. Green was beginning to show, and some flowers in the green. How his eyes thirsted for color.

  “There was a mayor in a neighboring town who was arrested when they found excerpts of de Gaulle’s speeches in his office,” Michel said. “He was foolish enough to write them down. Yet I understand. There is something holy about forbidden words on a piece of paper. Truth wrested from the air, shaped by ink, trapped on a page, right there in your hand, laid bare for another sense to affirm—and when the eyes see what the heart feels, truth is truer. Yet this one weakness cost the man his life. I allowed myself one weakness. I wish for the mercy to pay for it myself. I wish for the mercy that an innocent man will not have to die for my action. I ask this boon, Hauptmann Braun.”

  He wasn’t sure when Braun had come to the window. He stood in the next window frame, gazing at the courtyard.

  “Once, I visited an installment with Rommel,” Braun said after a time. “We heard an explosion on the beach. Some mine or shell had gone off, killing the slave laborer who was installing it. And such a look passed over the marshal’s face. He cursed, but he did not curse the action of the slave, or the fate that made it go off. He cursed the war.”

  “Do you think Rommel would have prevented the shell from going off, if he had a chance?”

  “I believe he would have.”

  “Will Schiffer deal?”

  After a long moment, Braun said, “For Greenland, he will deal.”

  “I have presumed upon your friendship, yet I must presume a little further. Will you see it through to the end? Will you get Tom to safety? I ask only that you get him into the hands of André.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “I do not ask your best. I ask perfection.”

  “It will be done.”

  How often did one have a chance to pay for one’s own sins?

  It came again, the presence of the train, through the floorboards, through the windowpane—it passed through his soul. The color for which Michel thirsted shone all around, for all was red-rimmed in glory.

  He placed his fingertips on the pane.

  “Jasmine . . . ,” he breathed. Is this what you felt at the end? A release from it all? Meet me, my brave, my beautiful girl. I will see you soon. I am free.

  “I must study the best course,” Braun was saying. “I have never arranged a prisoner exchange.” He added bitterly, “Not many engineers have.”

  Thoughts came clearly. He had to act quickly. Michel left the window and went to the corner of the room near the fireplace, to the world-traveling adventure display that Braun had admired. He removed the safari hat from the small suitcase on top, removed the small suitcase, and set them aside. He took the next suitcase by the handle, brought it back to the business side of the room.

  He set it on the desk. Braun turned from the window, his face as gray as his eyes.

  Michel suppressed a pang of guilt, because he had never felt freer in his life. He could dance on snowflakes. He flipped the two latches and opened the case. “Here is your proof. But I need a little time. I have to—”

  “Enough! No details!” Braun came to the desk, looked over the transreceiver with eyes that didn’t seem to take it in, or didn’t seem to care what they were seeing. “I need to think things through. There is no field manual for this.”

  Michel lightly hooked his fingertips on the edge of the suitcase. “The longer we wait, the longer Tom—”

  “Enough!” Braun thundered. He snatched his briefcase, then paused and looked at it. He said bitterly, “Such a ventilation system, Rousseau. You would have been impressed.” He headed for the door.

  “When will you—?”

  “When I am ready,” he snapped. Then, running his hand through his hair, he growled, “One hour.” He left, and Michel saw him snatch his hat from the coat tree in Charlotte’s office. He heard the subsequent bang of the front door.

  Charlotte came in, mystified. “What on earth—?”

  Michel came to her, holding up his hands. “Many lives depend on what happens in the next hour. Is Rafael here?”

  “No. He took Brigitte to the ration coupon bureau. She’s going to transfer—”

  “You still have the telephone installed at your home?”

  “Yes. The Germans—”

  “Telephone Gerard, tell him to get here immediately. Then I need the employee roster for every plant. Go, quickly.”

  “Does this have to do with Tom?”

  “Yes. Say nothing to Rafael. Wait—if he returns before I am gone, send him immediately to my brother with this message.” He went to his desk. As he scrawled lines onto a sheet of paper, he said, “Tell Rafael the telephone lines are down, and this needs to be delivered.”

  “All the way to Cabourg,” Charlotte said slowly.

  He folded the sheet of paper, stuffed it into an envelope, and sealed it.

  “Michel, what is this about?”

  He hesitated, then placed the envelope in his pocket and went to her. He took her hands. “I have reached an agreement with Braun,” he said gently.

  Her wide eyes searched his, and at last she gasped, “Michel.”

  He squeezed her hands. “I go to my appointment a little sooner than yours. Swear to me that you will not tell Rafael. I need you to swear it, and all will be well in my soul, in every last part.”

  Her face aged in shades before him. At last, she nodded. He gave her the envelope.

  “Telephone Gerard, and then bring the rosters. Haste is everything.”

  Braun climbed into the back of the car. He stared out the window.

  “Where to, sir?” the corporal finally asked.

  Take me anywhere. I do not belong here. I do not know where to be.

  “Sir?”

  Braun said in French, “Do you know of any place in this godforsaken land where we can get a cold Weihenstephaner? Cold enough to hurt my fillings?” But the corporal did not know French, and Braun muttered in German, “Take me to my favorite café, Reinhart. They have some miserably passable ale.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a moment, Reinhart said, “I heard Weihenstephaner. That’s the only decent French I’ve heard yet.”

  A capricious laugh escaped the sorrow pressing upon his heart, and he saw the corporal grin a small, satisfied grin.

  A crash of light opened the universe, cascading a shower of sparks.

  “Open your eyes.”

  He struggled to open them. He saw a brown band. No, it wa
s a belt. No, it was his belt, with four carved notches.

  “What do these marks mean?”

  “Will you look at that,” a voice croaked. He had a suspicion it was his own. “Forgot about that. Nazis.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nazis I’m supposed to kill. Four.”

  “Who ordered it?” A pause. “Greenland?”

  He didn’t answer.

  A crash of light, a shower of sparks. Schiffer wasn’t using the long riding quirt; he was using his fists. Tom had enjoyed a time of unconsciousness when he did as the girl suggested and allowed his head to hang back as far as it would. He woke to the rattle of chains as the guards lowered him to the ground. The relief for his aching hands and knees was short-lived. He’d learned that any mercy was an exchange for something worse.

  “Who ordered it?”

  “I did.” He tried to swallow. “Payback. They made her cry.” He wet his parched lips with fresh blood. Irony, that; finally some liquid to soothe his dry lips, and it was his own.

  Schiffer shook out his fist. He reached for the blood-caked riding quirt. Tom couldn’t decide which hurt worse, the quirt or the fist. He had better chance of unconsciousness with the fist, though Schiffer probably knew it and therefore switched to the quirt.

  “Your papers were forged by a man who worked for Greenland. Who is Greenland?”

  “I left her on the floor. She didn’t stay there.”

  The quirt hurt worse, Tom decided, after his mind cleared enough for thought. And into that cleared space came an image he had not seen in years.

  Tom could see his mother again. She was not where he left her.

  She was at the train station to see him off to Chicago. Ronnie was in school, and Father wouldn’t come. Mother made an excuse for him, saying he had to pick up feed at Drenthe; Tom knew the truth. He could not bear to see his son leave for war. So strong, such a firm disciplinarian, such a towering I-run-the-house figure, yet that morning he’d left very early so he wouldn’t have to say good-bye. Loving cowards, every one. Father. Clemmie. Michel. He loved them, he loved them so.

  He had looked at his mother on the platform at the station, and she did none of the hair or face fussing he had dreaded. She simply looked up at him with that brave smile, eyes shining and full of trust, said she loved him, said she’d pray for him, said she was proud.

  “Who is Greenland?”

  The quirt sang in the air. Tom heard a perfunctory scream and went back to his inner visions.

  This was the mother he had missed, the one trying to get to him, trying to show she wasn’t on the floor. Leave vengeance to God, Tommy. He is the only one who knows how hard to hit back.

  Because he loved her, he wanted to kill four Nazis, and because he loved her, he never could. He left her on the floor, but there she would not remain. He hadn’t been able to see her until now. Though he wouldn’t mind a go at Schiffer, just this side of death, he suddenly knew he didn’t want to kill a Nazi with his bare hands, though a Nazi was killing him. Irony, that.

  “There must be something to flagellation,” he quipped hoarsely. “I’ve had an epiphany.” He chuckled, and it loosed some blood from his mouth.

  Schiffer did not appreciate his sense of humor. It didn’t matter. He could see her again. It was his one wish before he died. Let him see her risen, not bowed; let him see her as she always was, strong and quiet, content and purposeful, not locked in that one moment of time.

  I’ve missed you.

  I’ve been right here, Tommy.

  “Who is Greenland?”

  An explosion of sparks.

  “Thomas William Jaeger. First lieutenant . . . and proud son of Johanna Alberta Jaeger. United States . . . one four . . .”

  A cascade of brilliant light.

  The pencil of the secretary faltered and, through a newly dampened spot on the page, scribbled, and proud son of Johanna Alberta Jaeger.

  Were it not obvious in that rigid white face that Brigitte’s thoughts were only for Jenison, Rafael would see to it he left enough impression for some thoughts to be for himself. Alas, it was not to be, and though he was certain he had what charm it took to beguile Brigitte from Jenison, he could never do it to his friend. He found himself thinking hopefully of the other girl at Brigitte’s place, the one with the large eyes and generous figure, who listened when he said Tom was in trouble, who acted, like Brigitte. That’s the kind of girl he wanted.

  He remembered with surprise that she was a prostitute. He’d have to set her straight on that. He felt a warm flush of virtue at the thought of persuading her to give up her wicked ways.

  They walked along a steep and curving side street in one of the old parts of Caen. It would soon empty onto the main street that led to Gestapo headquarters. Brigitte insisted on walking past it.

  “When we walk past,” he warned, “keep on walking. Do not stop in front; do not even pause. You will attract attention.” He dreaded seeing the place. Too many people he knew had died there. “Why do you want to see it?”

  She did not answer. Her heels made a crisp, feminine sound that echoed back from the walls. The more the afternoon wore on, the less she spoke, and the less she seemed to hear him.

  They walked slowly past the former courthouse, claimed and bedecked by the enormous swastika. She reached for his hand when they did. He knew she was straining to hear something, anything, and by the tightness of her grip, she was bracing for it; but they heard nothing.

  Rafael had hoped the errand to the ration card bureau would clear his head for a plan, but he had nothing. Surely by now Monsieur Rousseau had come up with something.

  Ten minutes later they were back at the office. They were not two steps in the door when Charlotte rose swiftly from her desk.

  “Thank God you’re back!” She held out an envelope. “The telephone lines are down. You must deliver this to François Rousseau immediately.”

  Rafael took the envelope. “What’s going on?” He looked past her to Rousseau’s office. The door was closed.

  Charlotte said, “Go, quickly!”

  “But—if the lines are down here, are they down everywhere? Can we not—?”

  Charlotte’s husband, Gerard, burst from Rousseau’s office with a sheaf of papers. He stopped short at the sight of Rafael, then continued to Charlotte’s desk. He handed her the papers.

  Monsieur Rousseau appeared. He pulled the door closed, glancing at the envelope in Rafael’s hand. “Well? What are you still doing here?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Gerard has a plan. It’s a good plan. We are summoning my brother.” Gerard, a bit surprised, glanced at Rousseau. Rousseau said quickly, “We’ll talk when you return with him. I can’t give you the car. Take the train. You can catch the 4:45 if you hurry.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Brigitte asked Rafael. She was as pathetically eager for action as he.

  “Sure.” Rafael poised at the front door, hand on the knob. “Does Wilkie know?”

  The three looked at him blankly. It lasted only a second. Then Rousseau said, “He is on his way.”

  Something wasn’t right. He had known these people too long. But he had no time to speculate. He felt only a gush of relief that action had come at last. Tom had a chance. There was at last a plan, and if it involved François Rousseau, all the better. He could run Flame himself.

  He touched his hat, yanked open the door, and left. Brigitte hurried out behind him.

  The room was still.

  Then Michel observed, “You did not take the receiver off the cradle.”

  Charlotte said darkly, “I wanted to kick myself.”

  Michel looked at the papers in Charlotte’s hand. “That’s all of them. Every third name—” But the way she held the papers, forgotten at her side, made him raise his eyes to her face.

  How desolate. How betrayed.

  “No time, dear one,” he said, then gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. He slipped the papers from Charlotte
’s hand and showed them to Gerard, who was no happier than she. His thick lips began to tremble, and his face contorted as he tried to bring himself under control.

  Michel tapped the sheets to get his attention. “Every third name is one with papers forged by Diefer. Understand? Every third. Get to them immediately. They need to vanish. Tell them to head southwest and meet up with the Maquis in a forest north of La Rochelle. Assure them this group is under orders from London, de Gaulle himself. Once they get to the forest, the Maquis will find them. Have them say, ‘Greenland sent us.’ Their leader is Willet Garnier. If you are caught, destroy these.”

  Gerard took the papers. Michel put out his hand, but Gerard took his face, kissed both cheeks, and went out the door.

  “Charlotte, you need to get to Wilkie,” Michel said. “Tell him our cover is blown. Tell him he has been reassigned to Madame Vion, at the Château de Bénouville. Tell him—” But the words caught in his throat.

  “All I have done to watch over you.”

  Michel pressed his lips together, nodded.

  “All I have done to keep you safe.” Tears spilled over. She slowly dragged the heel of her hand over the tears. Then, face newly aged and puffy, she looked in bewilderment at her desk. “My purse. It’s around here somewhere . . .”

  Michel took her purse from where she always kept it, on the top of the file cabinet. He handed it to her and took the sweater draped over the back of her chair.

  He helped her into the sweater. She stood for a moment next to the desk, then came to herself and went to the front door. There she hesitated, as if she would turn around. But she pulled open the door and left.

  He paused at his office door to collect himself, then entered.

  Braun sat in the chair in front of his desk exactly the way he had left him, still as stone, legs crossed, chin on his fist, face hard and empty, eyes staring out the window. Michel took in the room—the desk and his window on this end, the fireplace, the wingback chairs, the books on his father’s coffee table.

  He walked over to Braun. “I am ready. What do we do? Should you rough me up a bit? Black my eye?”

  Braun’s hard gray stare slid to Michel. He said witheringly, “We do not need to be as dramatic as that.”