Liberation

by Ellie Midwood

  After Aubry and Etienne exchanged handshakes, René “Didot” Hardy outstretched his hand to him, which Etienne took with hesitancy. “I wasn’t told that you were invited.”

  “I won’t stay for the meeting,” Hardy explained. “I just have to talk to Max about something. It’s very important that I do it as soon as possible, and he’s leaving right after the meeting…”

  Etienne chewed on his lip, considering. Moulin had given him strict instructions, but Etienne knew Hardy. Philippe and Marcel were working in his Résistance Fer – Railway Resistance – he was always in the know, always working alongside them and besides, Hardy had already proved himself to be a good comrade and a good patriot.

  “Well, I suppose it won’t do any harm for you to meet with him for fifteen minutes,” Etienne conceded at last.

  They took the funicular and at the top Etienne told Aubry and Hardy to take the Number 33 streetcar to Place Catellane while he would be following them on his bicycle, making sure that they weren’t followed. Etienne kept throwing glances over his shoulder but didn’t notice anything suspicious. No cars tailed them; no people followed after them for a few streets straight.

  Etienne sighed with relief as soon as they finally reached Doctor Dugoujon’s villa without any unpleasant surprises. The doctor’s housekeeper took them for real patients much to Etienne’s relief and invited them into the waiting room, where all three exchanged conspiratorial grins. Now, they just had to wait for Moulin and his party, and then the good doctor would invite them all upstairs where the actual meeting would take place.

  Klaus threw away his cigarette as soon as his agent, one of many who had been following Hardy by echelons, changing each other every few streets so as not to get detected, reported to him that Hardy and the men who accompanied him had entered the doctor’s villa.

  “Time to go.”

  His commandos were already climbing inside their respective cars. They drove through the virtually non-existent city traffic and into the suburbs. Klaus ordered the driver to stop a few hundred meters away from the villa and exited the car first, his nostrils twitching slightly as he sniffed the air, like a well-trained hound who had caught the whiff of a fox. A few foxes, Klaus thought with a grin.

  “Surround the villa.”

  Within a few minutes, the men were in their assigned positions. Klaus noticed chalk marks that Hardy had made according to their plan, which led to the second story. As he crept up the stairs, a gun in one hand, he saw another mark left by his informant – an empty cigarette pack lying on the mat near one of the doors. Well, well, it looks like Hardy and his Lydie will have a chance to see another sunrise together. Klaus chuckled to himself and kicked the door open.

  It only took one shot fired at the ceiling to send the group of men scrambling, some of them throwing themselves on the floor and others raising their hands in the air. Klaus snorted with a shadow of disappointment passing over his features; he was hoping for at least some struggle, but if they just surrendered like this…

  His SS men poured into the room and handcuffed the résistants. Hardy threw a worried glance in Barbie’s direction; we agreed that you would let me escape, didn’t we?

  Klaus turned away with a certain look about him. Just trust me and act your part if you indeed want to look like a luckily escaped victim so that your own ‘Combat’ hit-men don’t execute you like the rat that you are.

  “We’re out of handcuffs,” one of the SS men said, stopping near Hardy.

  “Tie him up with a rope then,” Klaus replied a bit irritably.

  Hardy seemed to breathe out in relief when the Gestapo agent circled his wrists with a rope behind his back but did it so loosely that Hardy had to actually hold the ends in his palms.

  Klaus recognized Aubry, who met Hardy just a day ago, near Pont Morand. He approached the résistant, who went under the name Thomas, and spoke with him, an impish light playing in his eyes. “Well, Thomas, you don’t look too well. You were more cheerful yesterday on the Morand Bridge. I was reading my paper, and it was such a fine afternoon. I thought we’d let you walk free for one more day.”

  Aubry didn’t reply, only turning away.

  “Ach, and last but not least, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet de Lyon, Etienne Delattre,” Klaus announced in an overly-cheerful, sing-song voice as he stopped in front of Etienne. “I admit, I was not expecting to see you here, but that definitely explains certain things. Was your petite amie Sophie spying on me all along? No, no; don’t answer me just yet. I’d like to ask her that myself later.”

  Etienne became very pale in his face, his eyes already taking on a begging expression. Poor fellow, he’s in love with that connasse. Just like Lydie for Hardy, little Sophie will be his undoing. What is it with French men and all their sentimentality? Klaus thought of his wife and shrugged slightly. She was a good woman, and as an SS man he owed it to his country to start a family, but if some Dummkopf threatened his freedom with her life, he would be long gone, unlike these French fools. Women came and went; Klaus Barbie was an entity of its own kind, and he was firmly set on keeping it that way.

  He kept thinking as he watched the men in handcuffs being led to the black Citroëns, parked near the entrance. Calm, but somewhat pale, Hardy was being led away by the same agent who had barely tied his hands following Klaus’s orders. Suddenly, as the agent was putting him into the car, Hardy tore himself away from his grip, dealt him what seemed like a light blow and started running as fast as his legs could carry him. Klaus chuckled slightly at the perfectly played out show. Even his fellow résistants were looking at Hardy’s daring escape in apparent astonishment. The agent, whom Klaus would have to compensate for a sore cheek, even shot a few rounds in Hardy’s direction, missing him of course – again, according to his superior’s strict orders.

  And then Klaus noticed him; the Berlin boy, blond and stupid, pulling his gun out, undoubtedly in an attempt to impress the superior who always treated him with such scorn. To Klaus’s horror, he took a steady aim and shot, injuring Hardy in his arm, judging by the way he clasped it before throwing himself in the nearest ditch. The boy had already started after him when Klaus shouted his name from the second floor, with such emotion in it that the young man stopped in his tracks, startled.

  “You fucking crap-head,” Klaus muttered under his breath, but to the people outside he shouted in his strong voice, “Forget that one; mind the others before they all scatter!”

  When Klaus stepped outside, it was almost unnaturally quiet around. Klaus glanced in the direction of the ditch into which Hardy had hurled himself, turned away and calmly climbed into his car without bothering to check if his informant was dead or alive. He had arrested the men he was after. He didn’t need Hardy anymore.

  15

  Berlin, June 1943

  Marthe, Major Holstoff’s wife, appeared in the dining room doors with two bottles of wine in her hands. She demonstrated the labels to her husband Erwin – which one? – and instantly broke into a dazzling smile at the sight of her lively child bouncing on his father's knee.

  “Mutti, look! I’m a cavalryman!”

  Both bottles were forgotten on the table that instant as Marthe made a bee-line around it to smother both her son and husband in kisses. Kamille still found such unabashed displays of affection absolutely endearing, but rather odd. German women were mostly perfectionists and disciplinarians from her observation. Marthe, on the contrary, indulged little Erwin’s every whim. Her husband, confusingly also named Erwin, would only shake his head, sigh with a smile – you’ll ruin him – and cover the top of the boy’s head with kisses too.

  Since they moved to Berlin, Kamille and Jochen had become welcome guests in the Holstoff's house which, Kamille soon realized, was anything but a traditional German one. The husband and wife loved each other with the kind of love about which Kamille’s late sister Giselle wrote in her books; fierce, overpowering, and loyal to the point of blindness. Erwin looked at Marthe with pure adoration, even thou
gh she wasn’t a beautiful woman, well, not in the conventional sense, that is. She was much too tall; her eyes were too big and black; her mouth too narrow and mean; her “feminine curves,” as she mockingly called them, were virtually non-existent. But she had such a commanding presence about her, such powerful energy radiating from those black eyes of hers that Kamille understood it at once when Erwin admitted to them one evening, chuckling in embarrassment, “you know, I was married before.”

  “She was blonde and beautiful,” Marthe confirmed. “And quiet as a mouse; not like me at all. She adored Erwin.”

  “What happened?” Jochen asked with curiosity.

  Erwin Holstoff looked at his wife again, taking hold of her hand. “My car broke down in the heat one afternoon in July. I was standing over it on the side of the road, with its hood open, having no idea what I could possibly do to fix it.”

  “He’s horrible with mechanical problems.” Marthe snorted with amusement.

  “Yes, that is true, much to my embarrassment. Anyway, a car stopped in front of me, and this young woman came out of it, wearing pants and a top with no bra under it; pardon me, but yes, one can’t help but take notice of such things. So, I’m standing there like a complete idiot while she looks under the hood of my car, goes back to hers, brings back water, pours it inside, climbs inside my car – all without saying a single word – and starts the engine; imagine my embarrassment now! I ran after her before she could drive away and asked her if her name was in the phone book so that I could call her. She pointed at my wedding ring, called me a pig and disappeared. I met her again during one of the social gatherings held for the Wehrmacht or the SS; I don’t remember which, to be frank. It turned out she worked as a photographer for the Ministry of Propaganda. I walked over to her and told her that I was in love with her. That’s when she called me an idiot – but that was an improvement from being called a pig!”

  Marthe threw her head back, her contagious laughter echoing her husband’s.

  “He wouldn’t leave me alone! I finally agreed to meet him for one drink, on the condition that he would stop pursuing me after that. My strategy was that he would finally come to his senses and realize what a treasure of a woman he had at home while I, in the meantime, was the embodiment of everything that a woman shouldn’t be, at least according to our Minister of Propaganda Dr. Goebbels – my ‘dearly beloved’ boss, by the way. Anyway, we drank a bit too much; I started finding him more and more attractive, and somehow we ended up in my apartment.” Marthe followed her story with a facial expression that sent everyone chuckling again. “And what do you know, the next morning, instead of, ‘it was nice knowing you, I’ll never see you again,’ he proposes to me. Yes, I was in shock too. He goes, ‘I love you and can’t live without you.’ I tell him, ‘you have only just met me.’ But he insists, ‘no, it was fate that brought us together, don’t you see?’ I say, ‘no, it was actually your overheated car…’ So, eventually he talked me into it – I didn’t want to get married at all, believe me! – but he refused to leave me alone until I officially had his last name next to mine in my passport. Yes, don’t look at me with those judgmental eyes, Kamille! I was always very proud of my last name and didn’t want to lose it!”

  “We compromised,” Erwin explained, winking at his wife.

  “We always compromise.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Now, I’m Marthe Wilhelmina von Essen-Holstoff. I think it’s much more impressive than just Marthe Holstoff, don’t you think?”

  Kamille watched the couple throw playful remarks at each other and thought about how lucky she and Jochen were to become friends with them.

  Yes, Marthe was certainly far from the German ideal with her black hair cut rebelliously short; with her pantsuits; with her outspoken personality and scornful remarks concerning “Kinder, Küche, and the rest of such nonsense” as she not-so-politely put it. One evening, though, she took her jests to a whole new level when she casually remarked that someone needed to shoot that fellow, Adolf, and the sooner, the better.

  “I can do it myself if I have to.” She downed the rest of her wine in several liberal gulps. “I always wanted a monument erected in my honor.”

  Erwin shot a nervous glance in their stunned guests’ direction, tried to laugh and quickly moved the bottle away from his wife’s reach. “I think that’s enough for tonight, Marthe.”

  Marthe waved him off, not bothered in the slightest. “Why? Do you think they like him better than we do?”

  A pregnant pause followed, then Erwin’s restless shifting in his seat sounded again. “Excuse my wife, please; she’s had a bit too much to drink. We are good Germans.”

  “Of course,” Jochen rushed to reassure him. “You have nothing to worry about. We understand.”

  “See, Erwin? They understand.” Marthe repeated with a meaningful look, grinning.

  She wasn’t drunk; Kamille realized it when Marthe caught her sleeve in the door, already the women exchanged their usual pleasantries before saying goodbye. “It’s all right to talk about it here. We joke a lot, you see. But do not, under any circumstance—”

  “I know.” Kamille pressed her hand. “We really do understand.”

  Lyon, June 1943

  What was she thinking? Of course, he would have figured it out eventually; if not today then tomorrow. It was only a matter of time. It was only natural for this to happen, Giselle admitted to herself feeling oddly detached from the commotion around her. Barbie grabbed her by the forearm in the hallway, stepped on the papers she dropped and shoved her through the door of one of the hotel rooms which he had transformed into his favorite interrogation room. Two of his agents were already working on a man she had never seen before; their other victim threw a desperate look in her direction, seemingly forgotten in his corner. So, Barbie got Etienne as well, after all.

  “Who’s this?” the Gestapo Chief demanded, leading her up to the second man. His face was badly swollen, blood dripping off his broken lips and nose.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You won’t deny knowing your petit ami now, will you?” Barbie turned her a bit too forcefully towards Etienne. He sat cuffed to a rickety chair, ghostly pale and frightened but, judging by his face that was still intact, they haven’t started their grisly work on him yet.

  “He’s not my petit ami. But yes, of course, I know Monsieur Delattre.”

  “Very well. Let’s try this again.” He finally released her arm, walked over to the other dark-haired man, who was barely conscious and grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting his head up. “Who is this man?”

  “I told you, I’ve never seen him before.”

  Barbie lifted his eyebrows, clearly indicating that he doubted her statement, then approached Etienne and hit him hard across the face.

  “Who is that man?” He pointed at the stranger again.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t?” Another vicious blow followed as Barbie glanced over at Giselle. “I’ll just keep hitting your lover until you tell me the name of that man. Is that Max?”

  Giselle didn’t budge. “I’ve never seen that man before.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He undid the handcuffs that were holding Etienne in place, cuffed his wrists again and dragged him to the bathtub, which was filled with ice-cold water. It was one of Barbie’s favorite methods of torture, which Giselle had seen him implement on quite a few occasions.

  “I’ll ask you one more time. Is that Max?”

  Giselle pinched her lips and held her head even higher, looking at Etienne instead of the interrogated man. It was an honor working with you, Etienne.

  I only regret we didn’t have more time; he seemed to respond with his eyes. Forgive me for failing you all.

  Despite Barbie holding him by the scruff of his neck as he kneeled in front of the tub, Etienne managed to encourage her with a nod. Don’t be afraid. You told me yourself; we’re much stronger than we think.

&nb
sp; Giselle stilled herself and smiled at him. Yes, I know. You just have to breathe through the pain until you feel it no longer.

  Barbie forced Etienne’s head underwater before he had a chance to take a full breath. The man, whom he addressed as Max, jerked in the hands of his interrogators, focusing the gaze of his swollen eyes on his friend, who was struggling in Barbie’s hands. The latter was grinning as he stared Giselle square in the eyes, his long sleeves rolled up so that he wouldn’t wet them.

  “You’ll drown him,” she remarked coldly, remaining rooted to the spot.

  She had worked for him long enough to know every technique of his, which never failed him in his desire to make his victims talk. She was present on multiple occasions when he would bring wives, girlfriends or mothers of a person who had resolutely and stubbornly kept quiet, forcing them to watch him torment the man, hitting them about the face as well when they cried and pleaded instead of giving him the information he needed. He thrived on people’s fear, and that was precisely the reason why she would show him none.

  “You’ll drown the Sub-Prefect of Lyon for nothing,” she spoke once again, with irritation, as though trying to talk some sense into an unruly child. “I have told you already, he’s not my lover, and I don’t care what you do to him. You, on the other hand, will have to explain a dead Sub-Prefect to your superiors and the people of France. That man over there, I have never seen in my life. You’re wasting your time.”

  After an unbearably long pause, Barbie finally released his grip. Etienne dropped on the floor at his feet, barely alive, sputtering water and gasping for air.

  “Well, if you don’t care what happens to him then neither do I.” With those words, Barbie calmly extracted the gun from his holster, aimed it at Etienne’s head and cocked it. “As for explaining the dead Sub-Prefect to my superiors and the people of France, I think I’ll come up with some story. Him being a member of a terrorist Resistance group, just off the top of my head.”