Liberation

by Ellie Midwood

  “We do have one résistant. But he doesn’t talk. We only know that he’s from the Resistance because one of his friends sold him in exchange for freedom. We didn’t free him, of course. We shot him in the backyard but… Yes, that’s the only one. We’ll ship him together with the Jews with the next transport. Let them deal with him.”

  “Aren’t you curious as to what he has to say?”

  “We roughed him up. He doesn’t say anything. What else can we do?”

  Klaus carefully concealed his fury at such a dismissive attitude. It was a miracle that with such lax policing the city wasn’t crawling with partisans. Perhaps, that was the real reason why Müller had sent him here, to test him? Wished to see whether he’d become lazy and corrupted like these fellows, or apply his all to justify his new promotion? Oh, Klaus always applied his all. Gladly.

  “Bring him in, if you could be so kind.” His voice was like sugary liquor, dripping its poisonous sweetness on the concrete floor. “And since you don’t have any… suitable instruments here, bring me a first aid kit as well. I’ll make him talk.”

  Daimler threw a wary glance at his adjutant but nodded to him nevertheless. The prisoner, a young man with a soft, noble face marred with purple after the recent beating, was brought in and cuffed to the chair. A shiver traveled down Klaus’s spine, sweet and greedy with anticipation, at the look of him.

  Klaus opened the first aid kit and put on medical gloves, unhurriedly, savoring the moment. His victim didn’t know yet what to expect of him, didn’t sense the danger, didn’t shed his martyr-like, brooding mask. His unwitting spectators didn’t know yet what they were about to see, couldn’t tell his intentions, confused by his gentle humming and deliberate movements.

  He lowered down to one knee and removed the prisoner’s shoes. He tied his ankles to the legs of the chair and placed cotton balls between each toe, carefully separating them.

  Daimler’s adjutant snorted softly, probably recalling his French girlfriend doing the same procedure before applying red nail polish to her pretty white toes. Barbie caught his amused gaze and smiled brightly in return. Are you having fun yet? I certainly am enjoying the preparations just as much as what is about to follow, but you don’t know yet what I’m about to do, and that’s why you can still laugh. Let’s see how fast you’ll have your breakfast on your boots when I begin.

  Klaus poured carefully measured amounts of ninety-proof alcohol on top of each cotton ball, spotted a carafe on the windowsill, walked over, filled a glass with water and returned to his prisoner. His breathing had changed slightly, but only Klaus noticed it. The man started sweating, the smell of fear getting in Klaus’s nostrils, teasing him. He put the glass on the edge of the table, took a cigarette out of the pack and lit up the match.

  “I want you to tell me your real name and the names of everyone you’re working with,” he spoke directly to the prisoner for the first time.

  The latter remained silent.

  “Thank you,” Klaus whispered after a long pause that followed, then he lit his cigarette and dropped the match, as though by accident, on top of the man’s left foot, the fire igniting the alcohol-soaked cotton at once.

  Both Daimler and his adjutant scooted closer to the wall as the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh started filling the room together with gut-wrenching screams. Klaus lifted the glass of water and held it in front of the prisoner’s agonized eyes.

  “Your name, please.”

  “Put it out! I’ll tell you everything!” The man managed to get the words out before more screams replaced them.

  “Your name, please,” Barbie repeated louder.

  Daimler covered his pale, horrified face with a handkerchief, his hand visibly trembling.

  “Charles Perrin!” The man screamed out, tears flowing down his face.

  “Names of your accomplices, please.”

  “I beg you—”

  “Names of your accomplices, one by one. The sooner you talk, the more meat on your toes you’ll have left.”

  “Samuel Linville, François Joubert, Jaques Favager!!!”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In hiding!”

  “Where in hiding?”

  “I don’t know, I swear! Please, put it out!!!”

  “Where in hiding?”

  “In a village, near Fixin! That’s where they went; a miller was one of our men, and he stores weapons in his mill. He said he’d take us all if something went south, aaahhh!!”

  Barbie finally tilted the glass and poured the water over the man’s foot. Daimler’s adjutant rushed out of the door; Klaus chuckled softly at the sound of his retching in the hallway.

  “See? And you were going to let him go with the next transport,” he addressed the deathly-pale Daimler in a cheerful manner. Daimler, it appeared, had lost his very ability to move; only the glazed-over stare of his wide eyes was fixed on Barbie without blinking. “Now you not only know his real name but the names of his men and the one who’s hiding them. He’s storing weapons, on top of everything else! Imagine if they went into town shooting one day? How would that reflect on you?”

  Daimler swayed slightly on his feet but couldn’t squeeze one word out of his mouth.

  “You don’t mind if I borrow a few of your men to go pay a visit to that miller, do you?”

  Daimler managed to shake his head with visible effort.

  “Splendid. Thank you very much. I’ll write a report myself if that’s all right with you. Heil Hitler!”

  His salute came out in a mocking manner. As soon as Barbie left the room, Daimler slowly slid down the wall, his hand with the handkerchief never leaving his face.

  6

  Lyon, July 1942

  The heat was unbearable. The air had lost its morning coolness and had become damp and stagnant. Droplets of water were sliding down the glass like amber liquid where cubes of ice had been mere minutes ago. All the windows were open, yet the stifling air didn’t stir, making Etienne’s office feel like a sarcophagus in which he was about to suffocate to death. The words on the other end of the line, delivered to him by the Prefect Bouillon, only intensified his feeling of desperation.

  “I understand.” Etienne yanked and pulled at his tie in an effort to release the knot. “Is that what Laval said?”

  The oak-wood clock under the portrait of Maréchal Petain, at which Etienne was shooting daggers as he listened to more instructions on the other end of the phone, chimed twelve. Lunchtime. Maréchal himself was probably just sitting down at his dining table, surrounded by his multiple servants, and would proceed with his afternoon glass of wine, enjoying his light salad since he took such pride in his health, talking about the “good old days at Verdun,” all his sycophants obediently gasping at the right moments and praising his military genius. And nothing would stir in him, even though the “genius” had just signed a virtual death sentence for several thousand Jews.

  Prime Minister Laval was no better; his only concern, when the Germans demanded the Jews be handed over from both the Occupied and Free Zones, was that “it would be embarrassing if the French police carried out the rafle.” The Germans not so patiently reminded him that despite the illusion of the Vichy government being an independent one, they were still masters of the whole country, and the French would just have to comply. Laval squirmed some more and promised to collaborate. After all, that’s all they did in their Vichy. Collaborated.

  “I don’t understand, why do we have to give them our Jews?” Etienne brought the glass of cognac to his lips but didn’t drink, biting on the crystal edge instead as he listened to more instructions. Prefect Bouillon sounded as if he was reading his instructions off an official list, hardly bothering to memorize the information which had nothing to do with him and his factories. “But we… Yes. Only foreign ones. All right. Wait, why do I need to include children on the lists as well?”

  He listened for one very long minute. “Humanitarian” Laval decided that it was “inhumane” to separat
e families. He thanked the Germans profusely for helping France get rid of the foreigners and to even ship them to Eastern Europe for permanent resettlement at their own expense. Connard. Etienne gulped his drink and winced.

  “By when do you need these lists? Yes. I understand. Will do. Adieu.”

  He hung up the phone and finally tore the tie off his neck. Merde.

  Father Yves carefully counted the bills before handing them to Patrice. Interesting things this occupation did to their country and its people. Now Catholic priests were bosom friends with communists, and former aristocrats were ready to spend family fortunes to save a few Jewish lives.

  “It’s a lot of money,” Patrice noted, stuffing the banknotes into his satchel and pockets. The communist still wore the same cap, shielding his dark, suspicious eyes, which Yves saw on him when Patrice knocked on the door of his church all those months ago, a woman and a girl cowering behind his back.

  Augustine. He would have to send her a coded telegram first thing tomorrow morning. Whatever was brewing here in Lyon was nothing compared to what they were planning in Paris. She’ll warn whoever she can. Unfortunately, in Paris, they simply didn’t have time to bribe anyone.

  “The Chief gave everything he had available at the moment.” Yves searched in the pocket of his cassock and gave Patrice a list of names. Körner. Baumbarger. Hassel. Obermayer. Bracher. Huber. Reimer. Weiss. Lambert… “These are the SS personnel in charge of the upcoming transportation here, in the Free Zone. Please, make sure that you pay them enough that they decide that they have no one to transport in their assigned areas.”

  “What if they ask for too much?” Patrice arched a skeptical bushy brow.

  “The Chief said, whatever they ask, you give them.”

  “What about the Jews?”

  “Tell them to run as far and as fast as they can. Take some with you next time you take our allied friends to the Pyrenees if they want to go. Give them addresses of people who make good papers. And Patrice, please, do make them understand that this only the beginning.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  Augustine entered the ward, picked up discarded bandages, her movements abrupt, almost angry. Her deep scowl and the unusual silence was the polar opposite of Kamille’s beaming face. The latter’s dark hair was curled and styled into an elegant hairdo, her dress bright and blue under her Red Cross nurse’s apron. She had finally graduated and received her certificate. Now, she could go to Germany, at last.

  “Will you come over after the shift tonight?” Oblivious to her friend’s perturbed state, Kamille followed Augustine, her eyes flashing about with joy.

  She must have looked very pretty in the graduation picture that they took, Augustine thought.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” Augustine replied curtly. She took used towels from Kamille’s hands, grabbed a basket with used linen and proceeded to the exit without further explanation.

  Kamille stood silently in stupefaction before rushing after her friend.

  “I have wine from my former mother-in-law’s cellar.” Her smile faltered with uncertainty. “And I managed to get a goose. Imagine that? A whole goose, straight from the farm! I paid a fortune, but it was worth it. Violette and I won’t eat it by ourselves of course… So, I assumed that you and Lili could join us. I know that you don’t have enough to eat—”

  “To hell with food, Kamille!” Augustine hissed, turning swiftly on her heel in indignation. “There are more pressing matters to take care of!”

  “What matters?” Kamille whispered.

  “Matters that you don’t want to become concerned with.”

  Kamille’s face turned bright red as she watched her friend head towards the central staircase in her brisk manner. She had just started after her but suddenly paused, faltered and retreated into the safety of the ward. Augustine was right; she didn’t want to be concerned with all that, and so, she wouldn’t. She was no résistante. They would manage without her.

  Augustine, meanwhile, had already dumped the laundry in the laundry room, pushed the heavy, double doors open to go outside and, without shedding her nurse’s apron and cap, headed with purpose towards the Métro. Philippe was supposed to meet her four stations away.

  The thunder rolled somewhere on the outskirts of the city, purple clouds hanging heavily over her head. She walked past her fellow Parisians, sweaty and clutching half-empty bags – the baker had run out of bread before their turn in line was up; past Germans in their starched uniforms, heading home from work with leather valises in their hands; past factory workers on bicycles, riding alongside the Germans. So far, this picture of Paris was almost normal, ordinary. The French seemed to have gotten used to the new state of affairs. Augustine wondered how many of those workers were résistants.

  Philippe stood under the striped awning of a café, smoking. He smiled brightly at her as soon as she approached him, and pecked her on the cheek. They had agreed to pretend to be a couple for tonight, so as not to raise any suspicions. Anything could raise suspicions nowadays, Augustine noted to herself wistfully. And Philippe, this giant of a man, wasn’t an inconspicuous figure by any means. His papers were in perfect order though; she knew it. The Gestapo had checked them enough times to persuade her of this fact.

  They quickly wolfed down their sandwiches in the same café, washed them down with chicory, paid their bill and headed back to the Métro entrance. More Luftwaffe soldiers were in the train car – all standing, bien sûr, so that the ladies could take the free seats. Germans are extremely correct in everything they do, Augustine once heard Philippe say. They walk correctly, talk correctly, and shoot people correctly. Augustine refused to sit down when one of them gestured her to a seat with a smile. One of their kin shot her husband two years ago. She never forgot that.

  Their first stop was in the 2nd arrondissement. The pregnant sky had finally burst, sending torrents of water down the dust-covered streets. Philippe and Augustine exchanged quick glances from under the safety of the Métro station’s stairs. Augustine silently removed her shoes (one couldn’t risk ruining them, walking around in water; good shoes weren’t an easily obtainable item anymore, even on the Marché Noir) hid them in her bag, pressed it to her chest and ran first into the street. Philippe followed, pulling his head under his jacket.

  The building they were headed to was light-stone, with columns at the entrance. The doorman looked them over skeptically as he started getting up from his seat.

  “We are visiting Monsieur Rosenbaum,” Philippe said in passing, not forgetting to slide a bill over the counter. “For your trouble.”

  The doorman returned to his newspaper, appeased. “Third floor.”

  Philippe ran up the stairs, stopped at the landing, and walked from door to door until he saw one with a golden plate with the name Rosenbaum engraved into it. He rang the bell. After a few moments, a disgruntled voice replied, asking who was calling.

  “Police,” Philippe barked back with authority.

  The door opened with a soft click to reveal golden-rimmed spectacles, a burgundy robe, the faint smell of an after-dinner cigar, and a woman’s disturbed voice murmuring something behind the door.

  “What do you want?” Monsieur Rosenbaum grumbled at the couple, after glancing them over.

  “We’re friends,” Philippe spoke in a discreet voice, stepping as close to the man as he could, as much as the door, still latched with a chain, allowed. “Pack your suitcases and leave the city. The rafle is coming. Our information comes from the very top. You only have a few days to leave.”

  “Are you out of your mind, young man?” The man straightened out haughtily, instantly adopting the attitude of someone who held the upper hand. “I’ve lived in Paris my whole life. No one will force me out of here.”

  “The Boches will, and sooner than you know,” Philippe retorted, trying to keep his voice down.

  “They won’t do a thing, your Boches. They spread these rumors about upcoming rafles on purpose so that people lik
e you go and try to persuade people like me to leave my apartment and all my possessions in the rush to escape, like rats. No, my dear fellow, I’m not stupid. I’m staying put where I am.”

  “They’re not rumors! There has been an executive order, signed by Maréchal Petain himself!” Augustine stepped forward. Monsieur Rosenbaum sneered at her bare feet. “Run while you can, Monsieur! Send away your family at least!”

  “I didn’t run when the whole of Paris ran in June of ’40, and I’m certainly not going to run now. As for my family, I’m more than capable of protecting them myself. Now, thank you for your concern, but I’d like to return to my evening newspaper.”

  He closed the door in their faces. Philippe caught Augustine’s hand when she raised it to knock once again.

  “Leave the stubborn connard be. You won’t talk any sense into him anyway.”

  They finished their round in the 4th arrondissement with the same success, or, to be precise, lack of it. All their warnings were simply laughed at, mocked or jeered at. Not a single person took their words seriously.

  “That’s the typical bourgeois mindset for you,” Philippe cursed under his breath as the couple made their way along the cobbled street further towards the 20th arrondissement. “They won’t acknowledge danger until they see the actual barrel of a gun aimed at their face. Too comfortable with their money, which they managed to stash away from the Boches. They think they’re invincible, protected by it. Only, the Boches will put them all on the same train indiscriminately, those in furs and those in rags, like they did a year ago. Then they’ll understand what they’re in for, only it’ll be too late.”

  “Let’s try your working class then.” Augustine grinned, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks.

  The “working class” proved to be no less stubborn. Some of them outright refused to open the door; some waved them off tiredly, some simply shook their heads and retreated into the chimeric safety of their apartments.