Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  She abandoned her petulance. She was a better tennis player than she usually let on but there were times when she couldn’t control her wilfulness. She served, he lunged, but his racket scraped the ground and barely connected with the ball. He stumbled and fell.

  ‘I won! Heinrich! I won. For the first time ever.’ The laughter was back and so too was the innocent young woman, the twenty-five-year-old in the springtime of her life.

  He feigned despair and lay back, arms outstretched, then raised himself on to his elbows and grinned, his sun-burnished face making his fair hair appear even blonder than it really was. It was no hardship, sleeping with such a good-looking man. He was gentle and considerate with her and he knew what she liked.

  ‘How could I lose to the worst tennis player I’ve ever come across?’ he said, picking himself up. ‘It must be this damned chill in the air – my muscles aren’t working properly. I swear Paris is as damp as a sewer at this time of the year.’

  She glowered at him. ‘You’re not saying you let me win?’

  He met her at the net and kissed her lightly. ‘No, you won fair and square. Your game’s improved, my dear – I must have been a very good teacher.’ He smiled and she nuzzled his neck.

  There was no denying she felt happy in his company and it was easy to push aside the frisson of uncertainty that sometimes caught her unaware. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked towards the door.

  ‘Are we dining this evening?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. But now I’m late and I have to go.’ He kissed her cheek and strode away.

  She called after him: ‘That’s why you let me win.’

  He turned and smiled.

  *

  Tucking his cap beneath his arm, Stolz pulled on his gloves. Hauptmann Koenig accompanied him as they made their way downstairs.

  ‘Colonel, an aircraft identified as a Halifax bomber was attacked last night by one of our night fighters in the southern zone. South of Vichy, near the village of Voville. Ground troops have recovered what look like the remains of weapons containers and a radio transmitter. Perhaps this was the agent we were waiting for.’

  ‘Any survivors?’

  ‘Not that we know, sir.’

  They clattered their way down to the second floor. ‘They must double-check,’ Stolz told him. ‘Order a sweep of all villages that were on that aircraft’s flight path. And check that the local area commander questions the French locals and any strangers who might have shown up. Tell him to use the Milice. They fear them more than our own Gestapo.’ The French paramilitary force created by the collaborationist Vichy government was tasked with tracking down and arresting Jews and members of the Resistance and their sympathisers. ‘I am going to the hospital with Leitmann and then home. I have an appointment this evening.’ Stolz pushed open a door whose sign proclaimed the room beyond to be Section IV: the SD’s specialist wireless section where thirty grey-uniformed soldiers sat hunched in front of their cathode ray screens watching for enemy shortwave radio sets transmitting within their given frequency range.

  ‘Is everything ready for Leutnant Hesler?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes, sir.’

  ‘Make sure it is.’ Stolz left the young captain at the door. He turned on the half-landing. ‘Oh, Koenig, find any dental or medical records that might still be on file. Have our people compare them to the bodies in the crashed plane. And if anyone suspicious is interrogated by the Milice I want the report brought here.’

  ‘We also intercepted a message from London. We still have the partial code from the captured wireless operator. It was in code for a circuit known as Gideon.’

  ‘Are we aware of it?’

  ‘No, sir. The message was for someone called Pascal.’

  ‘Any reply?’

  ‘Not as far as we know, but it seemed to me that if the British were trying to raise their agent so soon then they must be panicking. Pascal could well be the Englishman, Mitchell.’

  ‘Why would you make such a leap of faith, Koenig?’

  ‘Pascal was a seventeenth-century philosopher.’

  ‘So what? Mitchell’s no philosopher.’

  ‘No, sir. But Pascal was also a mathematician. I… I thought it a coincidence worthy of consideration.’

  Stolz stopped and stared at the nervous-looking young officer. ‘A worthy coincidence indeed. Well spotted, Koenig. Very well. There’s an SS major down that way who leads a Hunter Group, Sturmbannführer Ahren Brünner. Contact his group. He’ll know what to do.’

  Stolz left the young captain on the second floor. Koenig was grateful not to be accompanying the colonel to the hospital. He sickened at the thought of what fate lay in store for the wounded wireless operator whom Leitmann had tracked down. Koenig still struggled to cope among these people who controlled the unremittingly harsh world he found himself in. The reality was that they frightened him – yet his life could have been far more unpleasant in another posting. He was well aware that Lyon, with the brutality and frequency of torture and executions, would make his skin crawl. Being posted to Paris was a blessing in comparison. He had attended mass and confession, and the penance assigned to him by the priest gave him succour. He felt more able to bear the violence being inflicted in the prisons and in this building once he had performed an act of contrition for his own part in it. As he pushed through into the signals room he felt a brief moment of lightness in his chest. Forgiveness was a state of grace and it gave him the strength to do his duty.

  *

  Standartenführer Stolz and Leitmann drove from Avenue Foch through the traffic-free streets past the Arc de Triomphe and on to the Champs-Élysées. With petrol reserved for the Germans and permits to drive motor vehicles scarce, Parisians were left to their own devices when it came to travel in their streets. Stolz’s driver swept the Mercedes past the few bicycles and vélo-taxis on the broad boulevard. The small two-seater rickshaws shuttled Parisians across the city, and the sweating men doing the pedalling cursed with effort, startling the horses of the drawn cabs that trotted past.

  After three years of occupation, Paris still held delights for the conquering army and Stolz admitted to himself that the city was a place of rare beauty. He had admired the broad boulevards and gardens when he first arrived and Paris continued to charm him.

  ‘Are you going to the opera this evening, Leitmann?’ Stolz asked.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You would be foolish to miss it, though I dare say it’s sold out already. Von Karajan is conducting. They’ve brought the whole production from Berlin. It was a most impressive feat of logistics. It shows, Leitmann, that even in war we Germans appreciate high culture and are able to overcome all obstacles in mounting such a production. Our Chief of Staff Speidel has pulled off a minor miracle in getting it here. I dare say that if we had let him handle the invasion of Britain we would be watching it in London by now.’

  The Gestapo officer looked askance.

  Stolz smiled. ‘Leitmann, we are not completely humourless.’ He sighed. ‘The invasion was a missed opportunity and we must live with it. But it is past, and what we do here and now is vital for the success of the war.’ He smiled again at the uncertain Leitmann. ‘Even if it means we expose the French to Tristan und Isolde. And mark my words: the French will lap up Wagner. Especially with their own soprano singing in the title role.’

  ‘Too expensive for me, sir.’

  ‘Leitmann, you should have said. I could have got you tickets. A reward for your excellent work.’

  ‘Thank you, colonel, but sitting on my arse for five hours would numb more than my backside. I’d have thought it more Hauptmann Koenig’s taste.’

  ‘I did offer. But he also declined.’

  ‘Koenig would probably be offended watching an adulterous love affair even if it was in an opera.’ Leitmann hesitated. How much did Stolz really prize the accountant in uniform? Was he speaking out of turn? Then he pressed on. ‘He’s a pious prick, colonel. He loathes the work we
do. He spends half his off-duty hours on his knees in church and the other with a French whore.’

  Stolz looked surprised. ‘Koenig has a lover?’

  Leitmann nodded. ‘Her name’s Béatrice Claudel.’

  ‘Nothing untoward is there? Not a Jewess? My God, that would cause problems.’

  Leitmann shook his head. ‘We checked. She’s fine. In fact, she’s quite a catch, I’d say.’

  Stolz smiled. ‘The boy has gone up in my estimation.’

  *

  The Rue de Rivoli, bedecked with swastika flags, led towards the Île de la Cité and less than half an hour after leaving headquarters their car drew up outside the hospital. The Hôtel-Dieu had been founded in the middle of the seventh century, which made it the oldest hospital in Paris, and its formidable walls reminded Stolz of a fortress. For a brief moment, he imagined what would have happened if Paris had been defended and not declared an open city. It would have been an almost impossible task fighting street by street and there was no doubt in his mind that German artillery and air bombardment would have flattened the most beautiful city in France. The hospital sat on the Parvis de Notre-Dame alongside its more prestigious neighbour, the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris, which by comparison was modern, founded as it was some four hundred years later. Stolz was no student of architecture but he appreciated the grandeur of it all. The French had a flair that the Germans lacked.

  The hospital’s main building was divided by a long formal courtyard garden and Leitmann gestured for the colonel to take the stairs that would lead them to the hospital wards on the eastern side of the building. They ascended and turned into the arched colonnade that ran above the courtyard. It was as natural as breathing for them to walk in step, their footfalls a dull rhythmic echo along the seemingly endless tiled corridor which stretched the full length of the building. Arched windows gave a fine view of the gardens, and long wooden benches ran along the walls, their uniformity broken only by the double-height doors that gave access to other rooms and side passages. At the approach of the strident footfalls, two Wehrmacht soldiers quickly stood at the far end of the corridor and resumed their sentry positions either side of a tall glass-paned door.

  Leitmann halted. ‘He’s in this ward, colonel.’

  Stolz followed Leitmann’s lead and looked through the glass. Beyond them was a private ward with two beds, one of which was occupied by Alain Ory, the wireless operator. A white-coated German military doctor accompanied by a nurse was examining the men’s charts.

  ‘That’s the man we found in the apartment with the radio equipment. We know his identity but the doctors say it will be another week before we can have him.’

  ‘Torture him, Leitmann, and all you will get is a pack of lies.’

  ‘Colonel –’

  ‘No,’ Stolz said, cutting off any protest. ‘I made my plans for this man as soon as I knew he had been wounded.’ He smiled. ‘I suspect I already have what I need to know.’

  Stolz pushed through the door. Ory’s heart quickened at the sight of the SD colonel. The doctor placed the bed chart back on to the bedstead.

  ‘Colonel. May I help you?’

  Stolz hovered at the foot of the bed next to Ory.

  ‘I’m here to see if there is anything I can do for this officer.’

  ‘This man has little to be concerned about, colonel. All the tests we have run have proved negative. I fear that we might have a malingerer on our hands.’

  ‘And the wounded man?’

  ‘The surgery was a success and, with rest, he will make a good recovery.’

  ‘You think I’ve been talking to your stool pigeon, colonel?’ said Ory.

  The frisson of tension that began to surface alerted the doctor, who told the nurse to leave the room.

  ‘You think I wouldn’t guess that you’d put one of your men in here with me?’ Ory said dismissively.

  Stolz placed his cap on Ory’s bed. ‘Strictly speaking, he is not one of my men. My men, like him’ – he glanced at Leitmann, who stood unconcerned against the wall – ‘wish to torture you.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything then and I won’t now. Fuck you and the Gestapo,’ Ory said with a confidence born of desperation.

  ‘Very brave of you. What do you think, Hesler?’ asked Stolz.

  ‘I have what I need, sir,’ the young officer in the next bed answered.

  Stolz eased open his cigarette case with a thumbnail. ‘There, you see. No need for torture. You have given us exactly what I want,’ he said as he lit a cigarette.

  Ory’s look of confusion made Stolz utter a sigh of pity. ‘You think we are all unintelligent monsters? Of course we are not.’ Almost tenderly he lifted Alain Ory’s hand. ‘You’re injured, you’re bored, you’re a wireless operator... you tap your finger.’ He smiled at the confused-looking Ory. ‘As if you were sending a message.’

  The wounded man’s fear was obvious to everyone in the room.

  Stolz nodded to the next bed. ‘Leutnant Hesler is a distinguished signals communication officer.’

  ‘I needed your own distinctive style of sending a message. I’ve been watching you,’ said Hesler to the stricken man.

  ‘So now we’ll send messages to London, and although it won’t be perfect they’ll believe they’re coming from you. And I can trap the next agent – and the next.’

  The blood drained from Ory’s gaunt features as he realized the truth of what Stolz had told him.

  ‘So... we have no further need of you,’ said Stolz, picking up his cap and glancing at Leitmann, who beckoned the two guards.

  ‘He is my patient,’ insisted the doctor.

  ‘He is an enemy agent,’ Stolz told him as Leitmann instructed the two soldiers to haul Ory from his bed. The wireless operator struggled but suddenly Stolz had his small Walther in his hand and calmly fired two bullets into the wounded man. The guards recoiled in shock, as did Hesler. Ory’s chest flowered from the bullets’ impact as the well-aimed shots tore into his heart. He was dead before he hit the floor. The doctor stumbled away in horror, hands clasped to his ears, still ringing from the echoing explosion in the confines of the room.

  Stolz glared at him. ‘Your report will show that the prisoner resisted arrest.’ The killing clearly meant nothing to Stolz other than giving him a brief moment of satisfaction. He turned to Hesler. ‘Report for duty.’

  11

  Juliet Bonnier hauled out an old suitcase and rummaged through the folded garments. She quickly made her decision and tossed workmanlike clothes on to the bed.

  ‘These will do you for now. They should fit.’

  Mitchell sat on the edge of the bed, pleased that his tightly bandaged wound was showing no sign of blee- ding through.

  ‘Thank you. What have you told your daughter about me?’

  Juliet shrugged. ‘When she went off to school this morning she didn’t ask anything. She heard nothing. She’s a teenager. She sleeps like a log. If she sees Chaval or Dr Bernard they won’t tell her anything. When she’s home from school I’ll tell her then. Now, get dressed. You can’t stay here for long and we must make plans to get you out of the village.’

  Mitchell looked at a small cluster of framed family photos. He picked up one showing a smiling man holding his skis against a backdrop of a snow-capped mountain.

  Juliet took it from him and replaced it. ‘My husband was about your size. He was killed commanding a rearguard at Lille, protecting those at Dunkirk. Do you object to wearing a dead man’s clothes?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she said without sympathy. ‘Hurry up.’

  Mitchell painfully eased his arm through the sleeve of the coarse woollen jersey. ‘It sounds as though he was a brave man.’

  ‘Yes. Stupid as well. He could have escaped.’ She held up the trousers she had chosen, gauging them for size. ‘Try them. I’ll fix them if they don’t fit.’

  ‘Thank you. Madame Bonnier, stupid men don’t stay and fight a rearguard.
It takes a great deal of courage. I know my presence here places you all in danger.’

  She ignored him and stooped to pick up his overcoat. ‘I’ll stitch the tear in this. You should sleep for a few hours. I don’t know when we can get you out.’

  ‘I think I’d better stay awake for a while longer. Just in case.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘There’s a privy out the back. Use the bedpan for now. We can’t risk you being seen.’

  She hugged his torn coat to her and closed the door behind her. Mitchell reached for the bits and pieces that had been emptied from his pockets, wincing from the pinch of his wound and the tenderness of a wrenched shoulder. He thumbed open the pillbox.

  ‘Christ,’ he whispered. ‘Which bloody one was which?’

  He chose and examined a capsule and then swallowed it with the water from the bedside table. He stood and flexed his back and legs, trying to ease the stiffness, then slowly began to pull on the trousers.

  *

  Simone Bonnier stood hunched against the cold stiff breeze. The sky had cleared but on the northern side of the village rooftops, frost still clung stubbornly. She walked home on the sunny side of the pavement, hoping that her mother had had enough flour to bake. Their larder was near bare since the Germans had taken control back from the French Vichy government and their demands on flour and foodstuffs had put everyone she knew in the village on short rations.

  Lucien’s bike skidded to a halt next to her. ‘Hey, Simone.’

  Like all the children in the village, they had grown up together, but Simone Bonnier was always cool towards him. He had a rough-edged charm and, like her, he had lost his father; but, unlike Simone whose father had died fighting, his had fallen drunk into a slurry pit and drowned. That was four years after his mother had disappeared on the weekly bus to Vichy and was never seen again. The scandal had split the village. Some of the women praised her courage for fleeing a wife-beating drunkard; others hissed that she had abandoned her only child. The village priest and doctor had failed to reconcile the two factions, but the upshot was that young Lucien Tissard was forgiven many a misdemeanour, and truth be told he had not turned out as badly as everyone had expected. He was taken in by his grandparents, who set him to hard work but never beat him. The lad had earned their trust and the villagers’ affection. Simone liked him. A good-looking boy, but of course not from the same social class.