“You don’t mean me, bien sûr?” She chuckled in amusement. “I doubt anyone in this country would give a damn about my well-being, and the SOE even less so.”
“I give a damn about your well-being.”
“Only as long as I’m useful to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly before adding cryptically, “I have something that will be of great interest to them, trust me.”
“You will have to tell me what it is before I go see her. As soon as I make my appearance in her apartment, and with your escort at that, it will be considered ‘burned’ and she will move to a different one, either by her own will or by her comrades’ will. I will have only one chance to talk to her, so tell me what it is I’m offering, or we don’t have a deal, Monsieur Sievers.”
“What happened to Jürgen? I thought we were on first name terms.”
Giselle released an irritated sigh, clearly indicating that, unlike him, she wasn’t in a jesting mood.
“We’re talking about a hundred and fifty – it’s an approximate number – of SOE agents, who I am currently holding at a discreet location and I will gladly repatriate back to their homeland at the end of the war, completely unharmed. In exchange for my own freedom, of course. I can even stage my own suicide, or murder, or whatever they’d prefer; they only have to close their case and not look for me after I disappear.”
“You’ve been shooting those SOE agents, like rabbits in spring, all these years! You have just executed another SOE cell, all of them! Don’t you think they read newspapers in London?”
“But my dear, my superiors read newspapers and my reports too. I need to make it look believable, don’t I?”
Giselle stared at his conniving smile in disbelief. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?”
“I’m quite sure that you are. I’m not starting any negotiations with anyone until I see those SOE agents with my own eyes.”
Sievers laughed, positively delighted. “You’re one special kind of woman, Laure! You’re sitting here as my hostage, and you’re still being your unreasonable, demanding self! I admire you, I admit. Fine. I’ll take you there. I hope you don’t mind traveling with a hood over your head for quite some time?”
Giselle expressed her feelings about his last words with an absolute grimace but in the absence of other options had no choice but to agree.
The following day dawned crisp and dazzling blue. Sievers took her downstairs immediately after breakfast and climbed in the backseat of his car after her. One of his agents who always escorted her on her walks, promptly put a black hood over her head, after which Sievers ordered her to lay down on his lap.
“No need to cause any suspicions from any curious eyes, who might see us passing by.” He even took pains to explain his precautions.
The drive seemed bumpy and interminable. Giselle could barely straighten her back once the car finally came to a stop and Sievers lifted the hood from her head. She followed him outside and threw a quick look around.
“We’re in the middle of the countryside,” Sievers said, following her gaze. “You wouldn’t know where exactly.”
He was right. Around them, as far as the eye could see, spread out an endless valley, gently draped in a soft shroud of snow. Trees lined the only road leading to a villa, which appeared eerily silent in its gothic austerity, almost abandoned.
“Come.” Sievers was already making his way through the wrought iron gates.
Giselle noticed that the path was freshly cleaned. So, someone lived here after all.
A sturdy, plain-clothed man of about thirty opened the door before Sievers had a chance to knock on it and greeted him with a sharp salute. He must have been watching the car approach.
Without saying two words to the man, Sievers motioned Giselle to follow him inside. The mansion itself was intimidating with the sheer size of it. It must have been an aristocrat’s former estate, which Sievers had requisitioned for his personal needs. Giselle wondered what had happened to the owner.
“I made a call and told them that we would be coming. I won’t show you all the people – we mostly keep them locked in their rooms for security purposes – but I believe one man will be enough to persuade you of my honest intentions.”
Giselle restrained herself from commenting on those “honest intentions” of his.
“He’s waiting for us in the library. They have a library here; see? I not only keep them fed and clothed but entertained as well.”
They passed through what could only be described as a former dance hall, still bearing the faint smell of wood polish. A piano still stood in the corner uncovered, and chairs, with beautifully carved backs, still lined the walls. Only the crystal candelabra that was draped in pale ivory gauze betrayed its desolate state. No one danced here anymore.
Pushing the heavy oak door inside, Sievers outstretched his arm in a gallant gesture, inviting Giselle in. The library was impressive; a two-story room with an elegantly curved staircase leading to the second, open floor, its olive-stained oak shelves also full of books. It was there, on that second floor, that Giselle spotted him, leafing through a first edition, no doubt, that little rascal who had walked so bravely into Sievers’ office and saved her life.
“Tommy!” She let out a little squeal of delight, a profound expression of joy sweeping over her face.
He turned to her. Yes, it was indeed him, Tommy, their former radio operator from the SOE, whose death her brother Marcel still mourned. He waved at her amicably, a familiar mischievous grin playing on his lips, his amber eyes flashing about in excitement.
Giselle rushed to embrace him as he was already running down the stairs to catch her midway.
“How’s Marcel?” It was his first question as he held her against him by her waist.
Giselle beamed at him. Still so in love with her little brother…
“He’s fine from what I know. We have all been arrested, the Chief included, but Marcel wasn’t with us. He probably ran to join the maquis, together with Philippe.”
Tommy started covering Giselle’s face with shameless kisses upon hearing such great news, still holding her tight.
Sievers cleared his throat behind their backs. “I hate to disrupt your little reunion, but if you could quickly tell Mademoiselle Laure about your life here and how many others live here with you, and how you’re all being treated, I would be very grateful. We have to get back to Paris before sunset, so get on with it.”
“He wants to trade you all to the SOE, in exchange for his freedom,” Giselle quickly whispered in Tommy’s ear.
“I suspected that much when his people brought me here instead of executing me. There were about twenty men here already, by the time I joined them. It seems that he’s been hoarding them since the very beginning of the Occupation. Now, we number one hundred and fifty-four.”
“Has anyone tried to escape?”
“They have. But there’s nowhere to run. We’re in the middle of some sort of an estate that seems to stretch for miles and miles. In fall and winter no one would even think of escaping; in summer, a few tried, but they caught them within an hour. They have cars, you see; we only have our two legs and no idea of where to go. Besides, they treat us quite well here. They allow us to take walks in little groups, read, and play the piano if we ask them nicely. The food isn’t bad at all too. We grow our own vegetables in summer. Monsieur Sievers turned out to be a smart man; he explained to us that at the end of the war we’ll be allowed to go home. If we run, though, there will be nothing he can do for us, and he’ll just let his Gestapo deal with us without him interfering. They allow us to listen to the radio in the morning, during breakfast. We know what’s going on; the allies will land soon, and everyone will walk free. No one wants to die now, so we’re staying put where we are.”
Giselle nodded several times.
“Good. That’s all very good. I think we’ll be able to get you all out. I’m supposed to meet with a woman who can put me in touch
with the SOE tonight, on Sievers’ orders. I’ll tell her all about you. I’m sure that London will agree to his proposition.”
Tommy looked at her, a shadow passing over his sharp, handsome features. “And if they don’t?”
Sievers will have them all shot. Giselle only pressed his hands and kissed him on both cheeks before turning to take her leave. “They will. I will ensure I am very persuasive.”
20
Area south of Nantua, February 1944
Klaus stood, bent over a map, his hand moving in a sweeping motion from St Martin-du-Frêne and Artemare to Brénod and the southernmost part of the Ain. This time, not only his own SS men but the Wehrmacht reinforcements together with the milice volunteers gathered around him, listening to every word of his, with hungry eyes. Klaus liked using the milice – a pro-Vichy and pro-German paramilitary organization – more than the regular German Army. Unlike the Wehrmacht men, some of whom obstinately refused to carry out his orders citing their “soldier’s honor” or “humanitarian qualms,” the milice men didn’t seem to suffer from such sentimental trifles.
“All this,” his hand hovered over the map, “needs to be encircled, sealed off and all movements restricted. We have gathered enough intelligence to speak with certainty that the local villagers have been helping the maquis by providing them with shelter and food, and refusing to give away their comings and goings to the local gendarmes.”
Klaus cringed slightly at the word “gendarmes” as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. It did, in a way; just a few days ago he had personally ordered to court-martial the local group of gendarmes, together with their Major, who had not only known about the position of the local maquis but made a pact with them, something to the effect of; “we know that you’re going into our town for medicine, food, and your other needs, and we agree to look the other way as long as you don’t bother us” – this was the explanation that he had managed to extract from one of the traitor-gendarmes during the interrogation before he gave the order to shoot him. They had started to get bolder too, the local flics. “We’re fighting against the same enemy,” they started to claim to the maquis. That’s quite all right; the lesson that Klaus had taught them would prevent others from following down their slippery road. Same enemy.
“The main goal of the operation is to seize the heads of the maquis commanding staff,” he continued after a pause. “In order for us to do so, without the maquis getting wind of it, we’ll apply the principle of search and destroy. We’ll cut the telephone lines, stop all trains and institute a curfew. No one will be allowed to leave their house between the hours of 8 pm and 6 am. No one will be allowed to use a car or bicycle. If you see anyone breaking at least one of these rules, shoot without warning. Questions?”
There were no questions. Klaus nodded in satisfaction; he had expected as much. He had personally selected these people. They understood him and his methods without words.
They had spread through the countryside like wildfire, merciless and determined to get what they were after, no matter the price. The locals met them with their eyes wide open, having never seen a German soldier before in their peaceful province. It was their own mistake, Klaus pondered with a grim grin, riding in his black Citroën behind a column of the Wehrmacht trucks. After all, had they not been stupid enough to help the maquis, who knows, maybe they would have sat out the whole war like this, in peace and quiet, without anyone disturbing them. Now, they’d just have to face the consequences of their very unwise decision.
The first house stood dark and silent. Klaus kicked the door in and marched inside, his eyes gleaming eerily at the sight of the owner sitting bolt upright in his bed. Klaus dragged him outside, accompanied by the screams of the owner’s wife, and asked only one question which he would be asking every man; “how do we get to the maquis?”
The man shook his tousled head, blinking nervously and slowly raising his hand to shield himself from the gun that Klaus was aiming at his head. As if it would help him, Klaus sneered with disdain and shot him between the eyes. He repeated the same question to the owner’s wailing wife and, not getting a comprehensive response out of her, shot her as well.
“Set this house on fire,” he threw over his shoulder in passing, already heading to the second farm.
The milice were only too glad to obey.
One of his SS men held the door to the barn open when Klaus approached him.
“Looks like our flour, Herr Obersturmführer,” the SS man reported, pointing to the stacks of bags, each stamped with an eagle holding a swastika.
Klaus turned sharply on his heel and walked over to the owner of the barn, who lay half-dressed on the snow near the entrance. The SS had dragged him out of bed as well, it appeared.
“Where did you get the flour?” Klaus pointed at the barn door.
“It’s not mine,” the man managed to mumble in response.
“Of course, it’s not yours. I don’t think you in your advanced age would be able to steal so many heavy bags of German flour from one of the Wehrmacht trains. Young, strong men did it and stored it here until they could bring it all back to their camp. Now, you tell me where that camp is and perhaps I’ll spare your life.”
“I wouldn’t know, Monsieur, I swear!” He was shaking with fear – but not due to the freezing temperatures outside and his half-undressed state.
Klaus drew his pistol once again. “I’m not Monsieur. I’m SS Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie, and I don’t like it when people lie to me. You realize that you’re dying for nothing, don’t you?”
He shot the man before the latter had a chance to respond. As the flurries of snow started covering his body, half of the village was burning, corpses lining the snow-covered ground in crimson splatters. Not a single person had answered his question. Klaus was growing annoyed.
By the end of the second day, having left a bloody trail of devastated villages in his wake, Klaus dragged the mayor and his family – a wife and two daughters – into the street and formed a firing squad.
“Speak!” he shouted in the terrified man’s face. “Where do they hide?!”
The mayor opened and closed his mouth, then whispered in a hoarse voice, “please, spare my family.”
“Tell me what I want to know,” Klaus softened his voice a bit.
The man stood silent for some time as his daughters cried quietly behind their mother’s back. The mayor’s wife stood in front of Klaus holding her head high, unyielding and silent as a statue.
“We don’t know anything.” It was her who pronounced the words when her husband’s resolve failed him.
“Stupid woman,” Klaus growled with contempt and shook his head, before turning on his heel and rapidly striding away. “Shoot them all!”
Marcel and Father Yves, who had joined the maquis’ camp after emptying the orphanage of all the weaponry and leaving the children in the care of a fellow priest, watched the Mayor’s family being executed from behind the barn’s corner.
They had descended on the village, from the hills, to pick up some supplies and medicine that the cheese-maker was supposed to collect for them; instead of the regular visit that they had taken so many times before, they had walked into a veritable massacre.
“Merde!” Marcel whispered, biting his lip in agitation. “That’s the Butcher himself!”
Father Yves, dressed just like Marcel in their new maquis uniform – a blue one, dropped during one of the recent RAF operations to make the maquis not only look somewhat military but for them to be easily identified when the Allies made their landings in the area – hissed a curse under his breath as well. Out of the two, he was the one carrying a rifle on him with an optic glass on top. Marcel clasped his wrist when he started taking it slowly off his shoulder.
“No! Are you mad?! They have machine guns with them!”
“You go back to the hills and tell them what happened,” Yves replied in the resolute voice of a former sharpshooter from the Great War, which he resembled much more now
than a priest. “I’ll stay here and shoot him. Fifteen minutes should be enough for you to make it across the field and run to safety.”
“I’m not leaving you here!”
“Yes, you are.”
“You’re not going to sacrifice your life just to shoot one Nazi bastard!”
“This one’s worth it.”
“No, he’s not! Yves, come, let’s get out of here while we still can!”
Yves issued another rather un-priestly crude curse as Barbie disappeared into the cheese-maker’s house. Soon, a violent snowstorm engulfed the unsuspecting countryside; the wind howled angrily, bending the trees down to the ground, throwing ceaseless torrents of flurries into the faces of the uniformed men. The visibility became virtually zero. Marcel stared at Yves hard, silently imploring him to run while the opportunity presented itself. Even nature, it seemed, conspired to shield them from being detected by Barbie’s henchmen.
Leaden with snow, the sky grew dark and ominous. More shouts followed, then shots – the usual scenario by now. They couldn’t see anything from their hideout anymore, but both knew perfectly well that their friend the cheese-maker was dead. Yves closed his eyes, his jaw tensing visibly under his skin, but he only whispered a quiet prayer instead of starting to shoot randomly into the wall of falling snow, as Marcel was expecting him to do.
The former soldier turned priest had reverted to his old Great War days with surprising ease. As soon as he took one of the German rifles into his hands (stolen from the Boches to kill Boches, as their leader Petit liked to joke), as soon as he weighed it in his hands with a knowing smile, as soon as he screwed the optic glass on top, Marcel realized why Yves had spent so many years in self-inflicted penance; he was one of those men who they called “born killers.” He shot with such grace, with such exemplary skill, that the whole camp was soon looking at him with reverence, asking Petit to put them in Yves’s next hit squad just so they’d see firsthand how the ambushed Boches would run for cover as he shot them one by one, each bullet hitting its aim with envious precision. He shot to kill too; when one of the maquisards, whom he was training in the snipers’ art, decided that it was much more fun to maim his targets, putting a bullet through their knees or arms just to torture them before putting them out of their misery, Yves took his rifle away and told him sternly that if he wanted to act like a Nazi, maybe he should join the Milice and work for them. The young man never shot anyone anywhere, except straight in the head, again.
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