Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  Something in Thompson’s training made him quickly pull on his overalls and slide beneath the old tractor moments before a tough-looking SS major strode in. Behind him, NCOs were shouting orders to secure the village. ‘You,’ said Brünner, pointing at Mitchell. ‘Is this your garage?’

  Mitchell shook his head and pointed to where Thompson slid out from the beneath the tractor. ‘Him. Monsieur Ferrand.’ Mitchell buried his head in the car’s engine again. Brünner looked at the tall man who stood and wiped his hands on his overalls.

  ‘How can I help you, major?’ said Thompson, shoving his hands into his pockets, an act that helped steady their trembling.

  Brünner glanced from one man to the other but Mitchell did not look up. ‘Your garage?’ Brünner repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a vehicle that requires attention.’

  ‘Major, in case you didn’t know there’s a motor pool with army mechanics fifty or sixty kilometres from here.’

  ‘I need this vehicle repaired. I do not have time to retrace my steps.’

  ‘All right. Bring it in and we’ll have a look.’

  ‘Your papers?’ said Brünner.

  Thompson dug out his identity card. Brünner examined it, handed it back and called out to Mitchell. ‘You. Your identity card.’

  Mitchell took his time. He reached into his jacket that hung on a nail and then handed his card to the Nazi. Brünner studied his face but Mitchell held his gaze. ‘Sergeant!’ Brünner called. ‘Bring the book.’ He handed the identity card back to Mitchell, who turned back to continue his work. ‘Wait,’ said Brünner, beckoning him back. ‘You don’t live here. Your card says you’re registered in Péronne. That’s a long way from here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mitchell. ‘Born and bred. But I need work and a place to sleep so I am trying to earn enough to get down south.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere warmer than up here. I nearly died this last winter. I thought Lyon was the place to go. No work in these parts. It’s the arse end of the world. A crust and bowl of watery soup are what he gave me last night. I slept in here. Times are hard. I need decent paying work. So, I said to myself, go to Lyon. At least there they’ve got women who don’t look like the back of a cow.’

  Brünner showed no sign of amusement. A sergeant stepped into the workshop with what looked like a small photograph album. Brünner flipped through a few pages with practised ease. Thompson was tall enough to see past the SS officer’s shoulder and his eyes flicked over two or three faces before settling on a photograph of a bearded Mitchell. He swallowed hard.

  ‘You’re an ungrateful bastard, Garon. I said you could stay a couple of days and help out but you can pack your bag and go now,’ he said to distract the Nazi.

  ‘You owe me money,’ said Mitchell. The game was set. They had to play it out as best they could.

  ‘You insult my wife’s cooking and my hospitality,’ Thompson spat, raising his voice.

  ‘Shut up, both of you,’ demanded Brünner. He lifted Mitchell’s chin and turned his face left and right. Mitchell with a couple of days’ worth of stubble bore no resemblance to the bearded man in the photograph. And his hair was shorter and his face more burnished. Brünner suddenly switched to English. ‘You have come a long way from London,’ said the German.

  Mitchell looked blank and then glanced at Thompson.

  ‘What did he say?’ he asked.

  Thompson shrugged. ‘I don’t speak the language.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you asked me,’ Mitchell bluffed.

  The SS officer handed back the album of wanted men and women to his sergeant. ‘Show me your hands.’

  Mitchell extended his bare hands and arms. ‘Look, major. I’m a mechanic. I know I shouldn’t have insulted Monsieur Ferrand here but the SS scare a man so I spoke out of turn. Where can I go looking for work except in the city?’

  Brünner had checked Mitchell’s calloused hands. ‘I could send you to Germany and forced labour like many other of your countrymen. But that is not why I am here.’ He nodded to his sergeant. ‘Bring it in.’

  The sergeant shouted an order and a spluttering Kübelwagen – the German equivalent of a jeep – was eased into the workshop. The driver killed the engine and stepped out of the mud-splattered vehicle.

  Mitchell and Thompson stepped around to the back of the vehicle and lifted up the small engine cover.

  ‘You,’ said Brünner to Mitchell, ‘you attend to this. Report back to me when the problem is identified.’

  ‘All right,’ said Mitchell without hesitation. He looked at the driver. ‘You had a go at this? Tried to fix it?’ The soldier looked dumb.

  ‘Not all my men speak French,’ said Brünner. He spoke rapidly in German to the driver, nodded him away and then turned back to Mitchell. ‘We are equipped to be self-sufficient in the field but apparently this has proved irritatingly difficult to solve. Fix it as soon as possible.’

  ‘It could take some time, major,’ said Mitchell. ‘We might need spares. Which way were you heading?’

  Brünner frowned. ‘You ask an innocent question and yet to my ears it does not sound innocent at all.’

  ‘I mean no harm,’ said Mitchell. ‘It’s just that there are bigger towns that might have the parts. It might be a fuel-line problem, it might be a dozen things.’

  ‘Then strip out these vehicles and use whatever you can – but do it quickly,’ said Brünner. He turned and joined the soldiers outside.

  Once Brünner and his men were out of sight and earshot Mitchell sighed. ‘Well done,’ he whispered. Sweat was trickling down his back. This officer and his SS Hunter Group were most likely the butchers of Saint-Just. ‘Go and warn your wife of my cover story.’

  Thompson looked ashen. He stepped towards a waste bin and vomited.

  *

  The open-topped vehicle had been jacked up on to stands. It took a couple of hours for Thompson and Mitchell to work on the engine by which time Brünner had stationed the Kübelwagen’s driver to watch them. The German knew his engine but Mitchell did not. The advantage the two Englishmen had was that the driver did not speak French, so as Thompson pointed out the engine’s components he could guide Mitchell’s hand to the fuel filters, screens, and lines. He instructed Mitchell to close the fuel valve then to remove the filter bowl and screen.

  Mitchell grazed his knuckles more than once. The SS soldier grinned and grunted, showing the back of his own hand. The engine was a bitch.

  ‘All right,’ Thompson said quietly. ‘Open the valve, drain the sediment from the tank until the fuel runs clear.’

  Mitchell kept looking for guidance to Thompson, who would either nod or shake his head without the German seeing. Finally, when the soldier got tired of watching over them and stepped to the door to light a cigarette, Thompson whispered final instructions. ‘Now, clean the bowl and screen and reassemble the filter. Unless you think we should sabotage the damned thing.’

  ‘No, we have to get them on their way. They’re canny enough to spot if we do anything stupid. I don’t want these murdering bastards taking revenge on the village. But we could buy time. Make the repair look more complex than it is. Send them on their way. We could have it fixed by the time they return but by then we can be long gone.’

  As Mitchell did as instructed Thompson took a closer look and tore away part of the filter bowl gasket.

  ‘Hey,’ he called to the German driver. ‘Fetch the major.’ The soldier looked uncertain. ‘Sturmbannführer,’ he said, gesturing to the men outside. The man nodded, pinched his cigarette and tucked it away. ‘Come here,’ said Thompson to Mitchell. He handed him the filter bowl. ‘It will look better if you explain. Blind the bastard with science. Tell him the gasket’s gone and it will take time to try and make a new one. Then make him feel he can trust you. Tell him that once you’ve done that you have to get the fuel pump back on, check it for leaks and that the pressure has to be right. But tell him there�
�s water in the fuel. We need to drain the tank and for him to give us a can of fuel to replace it. That way we get some free fuel from them.’

  Mitchell smiled. A good trick. Peter Thompson’s nerves seemed settled enough now.

  Brünner came back into the workshop and Mitchell repeated everything, and as he did so Brünner translated the words into German so that the driver understood. And then he asked the driver if everything that had been related to him by the Frenchman was correct. The driver nodded.

  ‘We will return tomorrow. It must be ready,’ said Brünner.

  ‘It will be,’ said Mitchell.

  Brünner was a man in a hurry with a group of murdering partisans to track down. No time to stand idle waiting for one vehicle to be repaired. The driver returned with a can of fuel and within minutes the convoy sped away from Furchette.

  Thompson sat heavily, relief flooding through him. Mitchell gazed down the road in the direction the convoy had driven. He turned and took a long look at the Kübelwagen. ‘They weren’t all SS registered vehicles. This one’s army. See? WH plates, not SS. Brünner will have cause for complaint when he gets back to the army vehicle pool.’

  ‘So what?’

  Mitchell gave his hands one last wipe with the rag and threw it across the workshop. ‘It can help us.’

  *

  Madame Ferrand’s recriminations turned into heartfelt despair as Thompson hugged the children and embraced her. His assurances washed over her, useless words that wounded rather than healed. Who would wish to step back into the turmoil that was Paris, where every other man or woman could be an informer, willing to insinuate themselves with the German or French authorities? she had begged. Watching the emotional intensity of their separation, Mitchell felt his own loss all over again. He wondered what he would have done had the tables been reversed. Mitchell and Thompson had briefed her on what to say when the SS returned. The German vehicle had been repaired so there would be no recrimination. And as a final act of defiance Thompson had prepared an invoice for the work done on the vehicle.

  Reunited with the group that now called themselves Maquis de Pascal, Mitchell and Thompson led the way in the two cars towards the occupied city.

  31

  Jean Bernard’s sister’s modest apartment had sufficient rooms for Juliet and Simone to be made welcome. Jean Bernard would sleep on the couch, which would prove no hardship once he was working at the hospital for his time spent at the apartment would be minimal. The young widow was pleased to see her brother; it gave her confidence to have a man around again and his presence would have a positive influence on her son, Marcel, who missed his father. Juliet’s daughter would be company for the boy and having Juliet living there would give Marie a chance to show off her knowledge of city life to the woman from the countryside. A woman alone sought any way to improve her status. And the extra ration cards would put more food on the table. They had already registered the new arrivals at the local food office, queueing for hours in the rain to have their cards stamped. Afterwards, they had endured more queues to register again at the local butcher and baker. It was exhausting trying to get enough food, and no Parisian ever managed to. It was an old and bitter joke that the meat ration was so small it could be wrapped in a Métro ticket. The coarse root vegetables tore into people’s guts and filled the hospitals with appendicitis cases. Simply staying alive was a challenge thrust upon everyone in the city.

  The woman’s anxiety was exacerbated by concern for her son and the danger of him stumbling into a round-up. The men who had taken Alain Ory had applied the threat that every mother feared and that threat compounded her silence. The Gestapo were watching but she could not admit to her brother why – that she had been persuaded to help a résistant in the city. Jean Bernard was a doctor from the countryside: what could he know of such things, nestled safely down there? She shuddered to think of his response if she had confided in him. A well-respected professional man such as he would most likely refuse to stay under the same roof. Explaining would have done no good: that someone from the Resistance had promised black-market food and protection in return for a favour; that a little extra food had arrived and the wireless operator had followed, but the protection had vanished the moment the wireless operator was seized. Her life and that of her son hung in the balance. She had promised to inform on anyone who asked her to help the Resistance or to accommodate another stranger who carried a heavy suitcase. Mercifully, she assured herself, having her brother stay with the woman he intended to marry meant that no danger would be inflicted on them. At long last she and Marcel were safe.

  *

  Rudi Leitmann sat on a bench writing notes in his pocketbook. The gold pen taken from Marcel Tatier and which had ultimately betrayed the wireless operator wrote well. It was well balanced and nestled neatly between his nicotine-stained fingers. He drew on a cigarette and blew the smoke towards a clearing sky. The tree-fringed square where he sat had a fountain, the water tumbling in a pleasing splatter on to its cobbled base. Spring flowers were in bloom and the city was regaining some warmth after its winter chill. When summer finally arrived the stifling heat in the city saw Parisians crowding the banks of the Seine, plunging in to gain some relief. It was always a pleasant time to associate with young Frenchwomen, who were so attuned to their passions. The German military women, those usually overweight and hideous ‘Grey Mice’ drafted in to work in all the clerical and administrative departments, were willing enough – not for nothing were they known as ‘officers’ mattresses’ – but their drab uniforms did nothing to inspire romance or incite lust. No matter how poor the French girls were they always found a pretty summer frock to wear and, somehow, rouge and other make-do cosmetics. It was a matter of pride for them to always look feminine and, like every other man in the city, he was grateful for their efforts.

  ‘How is that?’ he asked the boy sitting next to him, a school satchel tucked by his side, his legs swinging on the bench.

  ‘Good,’ said Marcel. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘No, I don’t like ice cream that much.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t. Of course, that means there’s more for you.’

  Marcel thought about it for a moment and then nodded, and returned to licking the ice cream.

  ‘So,’ said Leitmann, ‘has your mama had any visitors?’

  ‘No. Only Uncle Jean.’

  ‘And is he staying long?’

  ‘Don’t know. He brought some food for us.’

  ‘And where did he get the food from? Did he go and buy it for you?’

  ‘No. He’s visiting us from the country where he lives. He’s a doctor. And he brought his wife with him, well, she’s not really his wife but Mama says that they are going to get married.’

  ‘And does this lady have a name?’

  ‘Juliet. Madame Juliet, and her daughter is now my friend. She’s older. But she doesn’t try and boss me around.’

  ‘And was either Uncle Jean or Madame Juliet carrying a heavy suitcase?’

  Marcel shook his head and crammed what was left of the ice cream into his mouth. Leitmann looked at the boy’s smeared mouth and cheek and gave him his handkerchief. ‘Wipe your mouth. We can’t leave any clues about eating ice cream, can we? Remember, if I am to keep you and your mother safe then our meetings must remain a secret. You understand? No one must know, not your mother or even your friends. Otherwise, it could cause a lot of trouble.’

  Marcel nodded and tugged on his school satchel. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you next week. Maybe by then I would be able to find some more chocolate. That’d be good, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Right, off you go then,’ said Leitmann. As he finished making his notes he glanced up to see his innocent informer disappear across the street.

  *

  Across Paris, on a busy intersection,
Gilbert Riffaud’s stooped shoulders meant his eyes never rose above the tray he had carried for forty-four of his sixty-three years. He had been a waiter at La Pointe Saint-Eustache for all those years. The world had passed him by every day and the regular faces that had once sat at his tables had also come and gone. Some returned. Some tried to engage him in conversation, pass the time of day. He might let a grunt of acknowledgement pass his lips but in this day and age it was better to refuse to be drawn in. Who did these people think they were? Family? They were just strangers wanting a coffee or a cognac, nothing more. And who had money for cognac, even the poor-quality stuff available these days? Black marketeers, traitors and Germans were who. And they never left a tip. None of them. Riffaud was a student of human nature: he had been studying it all his life and the longer he lived the less he liked the subject matter. The Wehrmacht officers who sat on the street tables never returned the salutes of the lower-ranked soldiers who were obliged to salute when they walked past. Arrogant Boche ruling class. Didn’t kill enough of them the first time round. He sniffed the water from his nose. Spring. He hated spring. Damned flowers made his eyes raw and his nose drip. He didn’t mind the droplets finding their way into the Germans’ coffee. He spat in their soup whenever they ordered it. He gathered up the crockery and glasses from the Germans’ table. The bastards thought him little more than a servant; thankfully he did not run the risk of being sent to Germany as forced labour. He knew for a fact that the sour-faced man in the corner table who was pretending to read his newspaper belonged to either the Brigades Spéciales or Milice. And he was watching the young woman sitting alone at the pavement-side table. What was he, Gilbert Riffaud who cared not a fig about others’ stupidity, supposed to do? Let the woman be picked up? Mother of God, who was this stupid girl? Where was she from? She was no prostitute, that seemed obvious. He doubted she was even French.

  He sighed. She had asked for a white coffee. He shielded her from the prying eyes of the man behind her and smothered his response, letting the words whisper through his bad teeth, bending his face to hers as if he had not heard her order. He was an old man; who would suspect there was nothing wrong with his hearing? Mademoiselle, he had muttered, telling her quickly that no one asked for white coffee. No one unless they did not belong there. Understand? She had nodded quickly, a flush creeping into her cheeks, but she had suppressed her panic. He had seen that look of alarm in a woman’s eyes before when plainclothes men had pushed through the passers-by and arrested a woman who was a wanted résistante. He cursed himself as he went inside to fetch her black coffee. Why had he done that? Protected her? It was none of his business who the stranger was. He saw that the sour-faced man had returned to his newspaper. She was a slip of a girl and she had kept her nerve. She was waiting for someone. Nervous glances at her wristwatch. Watching the crowd. He delivered the coffee. She smiled at him gratefully. He ignored her. Customers. Holy Mother of God, life would be easier without them.