by Robert Wise
‘I’ll ask you to lower your weapon, private,’ requested the stranger as he proceeded with a cautious trudge.
‘Forgive me, Sir,’ soothed the Luger bearing soldier, ‘I-I did not realise it was you.’
‘That’s absolutely fine,’ replied the smooth voice, ‘would either of you like to tell me what’s going on here.’ Tucking his pistol back into its holster Blankenburg grinned before offering a chortle riddled answer,
‘It’s those Stallers, Sir... We were ordered by Colonel Herman,’ his words were lost within the evening chill.
‘And what have become of these Stallers, private?’ the shadowed figure said with hushed concern. A band of silhouettes formed in the distance, just beyond the shadowed blur of the questioner. Kern and Blankenburg glanced at one another and then back at the tall outline of their superior. In that moment Blankenburg found himself torn between two reactions.
Firstly: to move to one side revealing the bodies of the five young men he had just executed.
Secondly: to yank at the Luger that was fixed to his waist and fire uncontrollably at the man standing before him.
The soldier took another look at his comrade, Kern. His fingers twitched at his gun belt. By the time his palm had felt the curve of his pistol three blasts met his chest. Private Kern hit the grass first and the gun welding soldier followed, his eyes glazed with confusion and pain. A figure loomed over him, his steady breath released in clusters of hot, silvery cloud.
‘Y-You...’ A final shot sounded before private Blankenburg could utter any more words. The figure looked upon the field before him, studying those who lay against the grass. The crowd of shadows had wandered down from beside the truck and now stood at the shoulder of the mysterious figure, machine guns strapped against their chests.
‘Get looking,’ hissed the gunman, ‘we don’t have long.’
Tears ran down his cheeks. He lay against a bed of fallen leaves and twigs, sniffling into the cloth that covered his bloody mouth. For the first few minutes Stefan had found himself wandering around the dark dorms of the unconscious, grabbing at strands of rare light, hoping that they would guide him back to life. It was only when he finally came around that he regretted that request instantly. His shoulder throbbed with an excruciating pain, a pain that rang in his ears and pulsated through his teeth. With the bickering German voices circling the packed ballroom of his mind Stefan had rolled onto his stomach and proceeded to dig the cuffs that imprisoned his wrists into the mud beyond him, edging closer and closer to the dense blur of immaculate black that sat in the distance. When the second storm of gunfire had sounded Stefan refused to stop. For all he knew the German duo were going from man to man, making sure the job was done from close range. It was only when his hands filled with a bunch of damp leaves that he rolled onto his back and wept as silently as he could manage. He tried to raise his arm so that he could pull away the sack that enclosed his face. At his chest he could feel a stray wrangle of fabric, dissimilar to the tight cling of his shirt. He pulled and found the stretch of cloth across his tongue come away and fall into his clenched hands. He tried to go for the mask next. The pain tormented him. The slightest movement plundered his already wasting energy and provoked bouts of incredible agony. He tried again and again, raising the arm which wasn’t wounded in hope that it would act as some kind of pulley for the other. It failed. His painful struggle across the field had drained him of all his might and everything else. The sack over his face had become soaked with tears. He knew he had to move. They could be looking for him. He scrambled at the carpet of leaves until he stood. With his chain shackled hands fixed to the bridge of his belt Stefan began to walk, guided only by the constrained stretch of his dirty fingertips. The bottomless gloom of the sack covering his tear pruned face would not give him any answers, yet as he embarked blindly through the forest that lay ahead Stefan couldn’t help but ask himself how he had ended up here, wandering without direction, entirely alone in the dark.
THE STORY OF THE STALLERS
It began with a briefcase. A finely stitched briefcase of French manufacture, brown leather, golden latches, the faint scribble of two initials on the side, a crest embossed upon one of the corners, the type of suitcase you found shelved within a low lit store, made purely for the luxury of those who could afford it. Well, that was more than enough to capture Michel’s attention. He glanced at the shuddering hands of his timepiece and smiled. Unattended for more than two rounds of beer meant one glorious thing. The briefcase and whatever happened to be inside, was now his. It sat beneath a table just beside the entrance of the terrace, propped against the wooden spindle of a chair, its latches flickering in the warm glow of afternoon sun. Now, if he could just...
‘Don’t even think about it,’ spoke a voice beside him. Michel’s teeth grit into a tight bond and he let go of the glass of beer before him, rubbing his dew glazed fingertips against the prickly stubble that dashed across his face.
‘I saw it first.’
‘Afraid not,’ retorted Gerard, ‘It’s been mine ever since I sat down and I do believe I got here before you.’ Desperately trying to not let Gerard’s smugness bother him, Michel grabbed a pocket of toothpicks away from the linen cloaked table before placing one upon his tongue.
‘I don’t see your hand on it,’ he replied, pushing the toothpick to one side.
‘I take it you didn’t see who left it either?’ Every word was beginning to feel like a firm, irksome prod on the centre of Michel’s nose.
‘Arguing again?’ spoke Ludivine as she appeared from within the cafe, her dark hair carried by a rare flow of warm breeze. The suitcase became lost within a rushed blur; a blur that swerved towards Ludivine’s approaching figure. Michel’s sour faced growl loosened into a smirk as he watched Ludivine set down her drink and then slide onto Gerard’s lap. Her cold hands met his neck and a kiss grazed his cheek. Staring past a vast fall of gorgeous chocolate hair, Gerard shot Michel a defiant glare, superfluously declaring himself out of the duel. A wink was returned and Michel quickly diverted his gaze back towards the suitcase. There it sat, propped up against the leg of a chair. The table above it sported a range of beer bottles and glasses and half empty plates with blemished cutlery. If he was quick enough Michel figured he could slip onto one of the chairs, pass off that the collection of glassware resting against the linen tablecloth was his and snatch the mysterious briefcase away without anyone noticing. He reached for his drink and let the liquor swill around his teeth rather than swallow it. Through the wash of creamy froth Michel studied the faces that sat around his table. Gerard and Ludivine sat as one, engrossed in one another’s presence, barely coming up for air. Patrice sat opposite, his leather sleeves resting upon the back of his chair as he attempted to sweet talk a dark haired girl seated behind him. That left Jacques. A notebook lay beneath his green stare. The notebook, the book of a thousand names and dates and places, a book treasured by its holder, a book that was flaunted at every gathering, new additions or not. Jacques touched at the crown of his hair, patting it gently yet not so much that it would flatten the waxed crest of slick brown. His finger returned almost instantly to the page where his eyes fell. It was safe to say that no one on this table would be competing. Straightening his collar with a confident flick Michel rose from the bed of his seat. A hand flicked against his jacket.
‘Here,’ said Jacques, ‘here, Michel, take a look.’ Prying his gaze away from the golden cuffs of the briefcase Michel glanced towards his book bearing friend and sighed,
‘Huh?’ he murmured testily, his eyes fixed to the case once more. Jacques raised his notebook until Michel had no choice but to study the tiny words etched across the double page. He scanned the first two rows in a rush, then the third and fourth with little interest, his eyes longing to return to his newly found prize.
THE BRIEFCASE
‘Super,’ he said, swatting the book away dismissively. His eyes met the terrace once more. Tan loafers and light crème pumps scuffed
at the paved flooring as a bustle of hungry customers passed. Michel peered through the gaps in their strides. His attention blazed, noticing that the illustrious briefcase had vanished from its original spot and was now nowhere to be seen. Remaining seated Michel glanced from table to table, from chair to chair. Nothing, not so much as the brass glint which had captured his attention so ruthlessly in the first place. It had disappeared, entirely, without a trace. Michel took to the air, pushing away from his seat and edging past a warren of rounded tables before finding himself out on the main street. To him, in that moment, Paris had never looked so alive, the roads barely visible beneath a patter of shoes and market carts. It could have been anywhere. He couldn’t decide if it was the frustration of losing it or the frustration of never knowing what was inside. It could have had anything in there. He couldn’t help but let his raging imagination run loose, delving into the most luxurious items before the rest. A batch of quality watches, a vast amount of gold or jewellery, an expensive pendant crested with a crown of emerald teal? The list wouldn’t stop there, he returned to his seat and snatched angrily at his drink, mulling over his missed opportunity and what could have been.
‘Never mind,’ Gerard said, patting a hand condescendingly upon Michel’s shoulder. Though Michel didn’t turn to look, he knew his friend wore a smile.
‘Right,’ Patrice said as he rose from his chair, ‘let’s go and pay the carpenter a visit.’ Reluctant to follow the others, Michel edged away from the table slowly, his eyes scanning the terrace once more, hoping that the briefcase would appear at the foot of a spindle or table stem. With a final gruff he threw back the remainder of his beverage and left, nursing the sanctimonious hum of curiosity in his ear.
Stefan blew the dust away and stepped back.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Perfect,’ clapped Mr Morel, slapping a dust soaked hand against Stefan’s back, ‘just perfect my boy.’
‘We got there in the end,’ Stefan grinned, raising his apron over his head before dabbing a corner of its navy fabric against his tired eyes. Old Mr Morel stumbled over to the wooden chair which was still encased in a shower of rising dust and ran his frail fingers across one of the arm rests.
‘Mr and Mrs Lagarde should be in first thing to collect it.’ The bell at the front of the shop twanged to life sending a hurried shrill through the workshop doors.
‘I wonder who that could be at this hour,’ Mr Morel said, pushing away the cuff or his shirt so that he could check the pale dial of his watch.
‘Yes,’ Stefan huffed, ‘I wonder indeed.’ A muster of conversation could be heard making its way through the shop and it wasn’t long until Michel edged through the doorway.
‘What is this?’ he said, tapping a finger over the face of his watch.
‘We said nine, at the usual place,’ replied Stefan.
‘We said eight and we got bored waiting.’
‘We?’
‘The others are outside,’ Michel concluded, fetching Stefan’s jacket from the coat rack before thrusting it towards him.
‘It’s fine Stefan you’ve already stayed longer than you should have,’ Mr Morel joked, thanking his apprentice once more,
‘Don’t be getting into any trouble out there,’ he said, shuffling through the doorway, ‘Paris is not as safe as it once was.’
Michel smirked. Shushing him Stefan began to assemble the array of tools gathered upon the workbench, placing them carefully into each designated station.
‘So, what’s the plan for tonight?’
‘You tell me,’ Michel retorted, sarcasm poised at the edge of his tongue, ‘you sure you don’t want to hang around here, polish a few door handles, dust down a wooden birdcage?’
‘Keep it down,’ Stefan couldn’t help but smile.
‘Here, hand me that sheet.’ A cover of dust bitten white curled over the newly carved chair and settled against it’s structure. After switching off the lights and bidding farewell to Mr Morel, they left, ready and armed for an evening of subtle thievery.
Stealing wasn’t something that Stefan enjoyed. The time of his first pinch came when he was aged just ten and torment and guilt racked at his mind for days. For a while he studied the heap of coins grossed from the sale and considered slotting each silver piece into the metal box that sat inside the chapel not three streets down. In the end he tucked the stack carefully into his father’s chest of drawers hoping he would mistake it for his own. The coins were a produce of an old pocket watch worn by some kind of lord or chain of royalty. Stefan recalled he wore a tall hat and a burgundy jacket that was lined with black tassels and a belt buckle that could pass itself off as a gold tinted mirror. While Michel pulled at his hand, begging for a scrap of food, Stefan snuck around to the lord’s side pocket and carefully lifted out the watch by its silver chain. There was no thrill, no ecstasy, just the guilt fuelled adrenalin that toyed with him for what seemed like an age. When the jeweller asked where a group of ten and eleven year olds had acquired such a piece they said they had found it and when the jeweller asked where, there answers were iron clad. They split the earnings and it spiralled from there. It began with lords, now it was lord’s mansions and town houses.
‘What’s the story with Stefan and the carpenters?’ Ludivine asked as they crossed the street.
‘Well,’ Gerard began, checking that Stefan, Michel and Patrice were out of earshot, ‘believe it or not Sanso De Lorme was Mr Morel’s apprentice one upon a time, he even helped the old man build the place.’
‘They put their hearts and souls into the business,’ Jacques took over, ‘up all night, never an unhappy customer, he was a great man.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He fell ill,’ muttered Gerard, ‘and Stefan promised his Father that he would do anything he could to make sure Mr Morel didn’t lose the business.’
‘That’s why he’s in there most nights, working for almost nothing.’ Ludivine looked ahead, her eyes glazed in sadness.
‘He’s the only one who has a good heart out of all of us,’ Gerard joked, kissing Ludivine’s sleek, brunette hair. Up ahead Stefan, Patrice and Michel had stopped and now signalled to the rest of them.
‘Come on,’ Gerard said, ‘it’s about time I got you back home.’ Waving goodbye Gerard and Ludivine turned away and set off down the path leaving Jacques to meet up with the others. Michel leaned against a tall stretch of red brick that hosted a door not far down. Behind the wall sat a house, the lights down and curtains drawn.
‘You ready?’ said Michel. Stefan looked at the others before nodding and taking a step back. With a kick in his stride he plunged a boot into Michel’s cupped palms and heaved himself onto the summit of the wall. Gaining his balance he looked down at the pitch black terrace below.
‘I can’t see anything to land on,’ he hissed.
‘Try the door further down,’ Patrice whispered, ‘you might be able to hold onto the frame.’ Slowly shifting onto the soles of his boots Stefan edged carefully towards the middle of the wall. His jacket scraped at the jagged brim as he dangled his leg down into the darkness. Soon enough his boot hit against a solid stretch of metal and after a few cautionary taps Stefan allowed himself to descend, gripping at the frame as he fell. His heart raced and his fingers began to grow weak through nerves. Once he established that the door handle was just beside his hanging ankle he dropped the remainder of the fall, landing upon a paving of hidden stone. The lock latched underneath the force of his elbow and it swung open allowing the others to file onto the gloomy terrace.
‘Through here,’ Jacques whispered from across the garden. His shimmering silhouette stood at the birth of a doorway, light burning at his shoulders. They embarked into a tiny kitchen, the work tops crowded with pots and pans and half empty glasses. Voices seeped through the floorboards above as Stefan followed Patrice into the living room. Candles fizzed beside the curtains, their orange flames ducking and folding in the evening wind. Jacques and Michel began rooting t
hrough the kitchen cupboards, careful not to make a sound. Ornaments sat across a grand fireplace, a mixed display of sculptures and small ivory animals. A large couch took up the space beneath the curtains. Dissatisfied with his find Michel crept past them and headed towards the main stairwell. A dim light flickered across the landing, voices danced within its warmth. Pushing his back against the wall Michel took to the stairs, slowly advancing one step at a time.
‘Check this,’ Patrice whispered, throwing a cushion Stefan’s way. He yanked back the zip and ripped aside any lingering fabric before emptying the contents onto the rug below.
‘Nothing,’ Stefan replied, catching another launched cushion. A blast of light scuttled across the room. They both froze. The shudder of bright white simmered across the floor before running across the walls and ceiling. Stefan edged towards the curtains and peeked outside. The red brake lights of a car trundled off into the darkness.
‘It’s okay…’ he began to say. His words were suddenly ceased, caught up within a choke in his throat.
‘What is it?’ murmured Patrice, sensing his distress.
‘Get the others out, now.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Patrice persevered, joining Stefan’s trembling shadow at the window. His eyes met the front of the house. A host of cars were parked out front, their long black snouts stretching across the street, glimmering below a flattering glow of moonlight. Patrice didn’t see it at first, his eyes searched the darkness, scanning a hedge that sat across the way and the empty windows of the houses opposite. It was only when he came back to the cars that his eyes finally widened with fear. Attached to each side mirror, dangling before the front grill, sitting between a weave of red, white and black fabric sat the criss-crossed mark of the Nazi’s.