Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nantes, Occupied France

  28 August 1941

  “I need you back in Berlin.” Reinhard Heydrich’s voice rattled unpleasantly over the long-distance line. His words took von Kredow by surprise, causing Horst’s mind to spin with possibilities. The thought of returning to the heart of the Reich, to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and Gestapa, brought both excitement and disquiet. He had spent three years with all of France at his disposal, a proving ground for testing the physical and mental limits of his enemies. His targets had shown themselves uniformly weak and easily manipulated. Even his underlings were often not up for the demanding rigors of his interrogation techniques. But above all, those three years had been his alone to control. Unexpectedly, now Heydrich was once again calling for personal assistance in support of the great work of the Führer. The timing was all wrong, but the opportunity immense.

  The shrill connection with Berlin made a mockery of Heydrich’s high-pitched voice. Horst bent forward in the swivel chair, ignoring its protesting springs and pressing the receiver tightly to his still swollen ear. He felt no discomfort, given the morphine coursing through his veins.

  Beyond the glass partition waited three local Gestapo and their frowning captain whose shabby chair Horst now occupied. They feigned disinterest in the feared Le Masque with his badly mauled face. The deaths of two of their own agents in that warehouse fiasco three days earlier had soured the mood for further cooperation with the dangerous von Kredow. Horst didn’t give a damn. Unreliable, poorly-trained agents assigned to this cesspool of a city deserved whatever they got. All fools deserve a fool’s death.

  Horst had phoned Gestapa to order new personal identity papers and a replacement badge. The bastards had taken everything before stuffing him in that damned crate. Surprisingly, his call had been transferred and Heydrich had come on the line with instructions for him to return immediately to Berlin. As Heydrich spoke of big changes occurring behind the scenes, Horst prepared his excuses, anxious first to destroy the bitch-wife and her two rutting dogs before turning to any new challenges.

  The moment Heydrich permitted, Horst jumped in: “But my dear Reinhard, as delighted as I am to oblige, I’ll need another week or two to tie up loose ends here. Pressing matters, you understand. Two weeks should definitely do the trick.”

  “Impossible, Horst. The locals can handle whatever you have in the works. Your efforts here in Berlin are far more important to the future of the Reich.”

  Horst assumed a subservient tone. “But of course, Reinhard. You’ve been most gracious in giving me free rein, and what an honor to work at your side again. You must realize however that this request does come as a bit of a surprise.”

  “Always the spice of life, right, Horst?”

  “Indeed, indeed. But such a significant move demands preparation. I’ve been here for quite some time.”

  “Perhaps a bit too much time among the French, Horst? Am I hearing a trace of that laissez-faire attitude that makes for such a weak enemy?” Heydrich’s laugh turned to a shrill whinny over the long-distance line.

  Horst caught the implied slur to his Germanic sense of duty. “You do know me better than that, Reinhard.”

  “All the same, three years of the soft life in France can change a man. Leben wie Gott in Frankreich, was?”

  Living like God in France, my ass! Horst thought, but he sensed danger in this questioning of his will to serve. “I remain the same devoted follower you first hired, stronger than ever in my dedication to you, the Party and our Führer.”

  “That’s what I need to hear. You see, I’d hoped to tell you in person but time is too short. Confidentially, I have my eye on a powerful role suppressing dissidents in the Czech Protectorate.” Heydrich hesitated, clearly awaiting praise.

  “What a splendid advancement, Reinhard, and so well deserved!” Horst leaned back in the desk chair, the squeal of its springs mimicking Heydrich’s distorted voice. Taking over operations in Bohemia and Moravia would be a stunning promotion for Heydrich. What personal benefits might come his way with his mentor’s ascent into the most powerful echelon of Nazi power? “My heartfelt congratulations!”

  “Now you’ll see the need for returning here immediately. My special relationship with the Reichsführer-SS already invites the jealousy of those less gifted around here, and such a promotion will bring me even closer to the Führer himself. With me in Prague, my enemies will certainly feel emboldened to further scheme against me—against us, Horst, and all for self-aggrandizement rather than the good of the Reich.”

  Horst ignored the irony. He knew such advancement could leave Reichsführer-SS Himmler himself by the wayside.

  Heydrich continued: “My friend, I need a trustworthy man to stay the course here in Berlin, someone whom the others will fear as much as they fear me, someone who will stay true to our shared designs and foil any enemies. He must keep me informed for my return, because I will return even stronger after putting the Czechs under the SS yoke.” Horst waited for the pronouncement: “That person is you, Horst.”

  “Your trust and confidence honor me, Reinhard, but surely a few days won’t matter?” It would be wrenching to forego the personal destruction of his enemies now that all three believed him dead. “As I said, even a week should do nicely, and then I’m all set for such rewarding duty in Berlin.”

  Despite the crackling phone connection, Heydrich’s tone had clearly chilled. “When I agreed to mentor you fresh out of university, I gave you great latitude in return for your solemn oath that you would never question my orders. Perhaps that confidence was misplaced.”

  “Reinhard, nothing could be further from the truth!” Horst recognized a singular opportunity, but only if he momentarily surrendered his personal plans. “The next express will bring me to Berlin, anxious to do your bidding.”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday and you won’t get in until quite late. Better yet, fly from Le Bourget on Saturday. Have Kohl in Paris bring you directly to the airdrome once your train gets in. I look forward to greeting you in person first thing Monday morning, understood?”

  “Zu Befehl, Reinhard! You will never regret this.” Horst hesitated, unsure whether to mention the condition of his face and jaw. “But Reinhard, a quick heads-up in advance. I’ve had a rather violent encounter with local partisans, so don’t expect me to cut quite as handsome a figure as the last time we met.” He immediately realized Reinhard might have very low expectations. On Horst’s last visit to Berlin in ’38 he still bore fresh scars from Erika’s bullet to the jaw.

  Heydrich took a moment to reply. “These terrorists—they paid dearly for the insult, I assume.”

  “I’ve never forgiven lightly.”

  “Then forget about your looks. With that malleable mug of yours, I never know what to expect anyway. Perhaps just the ticket to intimidate our enemies, right?” Heydrich didn’t wait for an answer and quickly signed off.

  Horst set the receiver back in its cradle. His fingers explored the thick scabs clotting the hair at the back of his head. Was there more to this new development than met the eye? Nothing at all from Heydrich in months, and seldom more than occasional cabled praise for the successes of the extraction squads. He’d thrived on the independence, a Führer in his own French domain. Now came this invitation to be Heydrich’s right hand in Berlin while he made Party history by annihilating the Czech rebels. But what wasn’t Heydrich telling? Everyone had hidden motives, so why not Heydrich?

  Horst had plotted for years to make his personal enemies pay the ultimate price. He knew such vindication would still come. The first night out of the coffin had brought a vivid dream with that promise. The vision had recurred nightly, almost the moment his head hit the pillow. His own blood was always the reddest of all, pulsing from the slashes on his thighs. The streams of crimson converged into a single, viscous flow as it moved across the tiles, sucking the life from the tortured body of Erika, from Gesslinger’s shredded arteries, and finally forming a
vast scarlet river encasing the fleeing Ryan Lemmon in its thick wave. All three victims shrieked in horror until they drowned, their mocking voices stilled at last. What fools to believe they could ever best him! If they weren’t to suffer as a group, each would have to endure a fittingly painful death alone. He read the dream as assurance that time was on his side.

  The materials found in the warehouse lay scattered before him on the Nantes bureau chief’s desk. The saboteurs clearly plotted against the U-boat installation, so his Jewess and Gesslinger would act quickly now, knowing they’d left incriminating evidence behind. He would send agents to Saint-Nazaire to watch for their arrival. The moment Heydrich was off to Prague, Horst would find a moment to return and flay the bitch alive.

  Ryan Lemmon would be back in Paris already, and Kohl could easily manipulate the brother into leading his men to the target. The next time Horst had his hands on that lucky bastard, they would bag up his body in pieces.

  Now that he was off to Berlin, others would have to take up his work in France. The Bayonne children would lose all value to him as leverage, so Madame de Brassis could see to their disposal. He would phone her immediately. The woman shared his disgust with little Jewish worms.

  How exhilarating it was telling those fools that his Marionette’s girl was already dead and gone, a moment that could have cost him his life! But now those weak-minded dolts might seek out the remaining children. That half-breed Leo was surely bright enough to lead them back to the house in Bayonne, so why not set a trap there, as well? Time to teach his duplicitous Jew-bitch wife that, even from the grave, nothing could stop his vengeance.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paris, Occupied France

  28-29 August 1941

  The cell door slammed shut and the wardress gave a double-turn to the key. Marita collapsed on the cot. Wrapping her bare feet in her coat, she whispered a mantra as she lay curled on her side: “So sorry. So sorry. So sorry.” The distant cries ceased altogether as the afternoon passed. She didn’t notice at what moment the brooding silence finally settled in. The resounding clunk from some heavy circuit breaker suddenly extinguished the lightbulb above her. The bluish glow of a streetlamp colored the frosted glass in the barred window above her bed, alerting her to the onset of night.

  There’d been no meal, and the cell held only a toilet bucket, a small enameled sink and a pitcher of tepid water. No toilet paper, blanket or towel. Every hour the caged light on the ceiling flared again, the gated door up the hall near the lift clanged, and thudding boots and jangling keys announced the arrival of the guards. Laughing and joking, they strolled up one side of the corridor then down the other, opening each of the hooded spyholes to peek inside the cells and exchange jests about the prisoners inside. With bed checks done, the blessed darkness enveloped her again.

  They came for her at first light, her legs barely able to comply with the order to stand. Her belly still ached from the repeated blows received prior to the interrogation. The matron was nowhere to be seen. Two hulking types in uniforms unlocked the door and tossed her a cloth bundle. Marita recognized the bludgeon-wielders of the preceding day. She readied herself as best she could, straightening her mussed hair, determined to keep her pride as she shed the overcoat as ordered and stood before them naked.

  Men had first admired her publicly when she took to the stage at eighteen. She found no shame in her nakedness. She glanced down one last time in appreciation of the physical gift that had allowed her ultimately to gain recognition for her business acumen, knowing her lithe body would never be the same once these two had done their worst. A gift from Argent, her panties were stained from the monthly curse that had arrived during the long night. They laughed as she pulled the rough woolen smock over her head. Why wear anything at all with what they planned for her? Would the crushing cudgels disfigure her, or the ice water deplete the last of her energies? At least with the bath I shall feel clean again, she told herself. If only macabre humor could dampen the fear raging in her gut.

  Once she was covered, the warders lost interest and ordered her into the corridor. Her eyes darted about, searching for anything to distract from the pain sure to come. Stained plaster where a pipe once burst. Cobwebs draping the bare bulb overhead. Crusted filth where linoleum met walls. At each doorway her step faltered. Which room ahead was reserved for extracting her confession?

  But no cries of suffering or pleas for mercy shattered the silence. The portals to terror remained closed. Instead the men led her through the barred gate to the lift just beyond. An SS sergeant stepped forward to take charge, handing her a quarter loaf of dense brown bread and a mug of water. Her eyes misted in gratitude. For a few minutes she stood at the guard’s desk, tearing off chunks of the stale bread and gulping them down with water, ignoring her filthy hands. Why? Why? With the last crumb consumed, handcuffs closed around her wrists. She found the cold steel oddly comforting knowing it meant she was leaving the torture cellar. A quick stop on the ground floor to sign her out and the sergeant hustled her into a sedan waiting at the curb.

  They shot through the rues and boulevards as they approached the Seine. She stared out the side window memorizing the city she so cherished, the streets appearing less familiar when seen at such speed. Over a year had passed since she’d been in an auto, a privilege now reserved for the chosen few.

  The Occupation presence was everywhere—a line of tanks idling in clouds of diesel smoke, a squadron of bicycle soldiers with packs and rifles strapped to their backs, and everywhere street signs in German. Stone walls were plastered with rows of identical propaganda posters, some overlapping others. They screamed for Victory over the Bolshevik Hoards. The Russians all bore a striking resemblance to the caricatured Jews on the posters lining the previous block.

  She felt somehow relieved to see the grand monuments and beautiful bridges standing proudly against a blue sky despite the crimson swastikas floating on the breeze. And the Seine still flowed relentlessly north to the Channel. She knew she would likely never see the clock tower of Rouen, or the charming boat basin at Honfleur that her father had so admired. But long after she was gone, Paris would somehow survive.

  The building at the corner of Rue de Raspail and Rue de Cherche-Midi was massive, a four-story structure with an ivy-laced façade, louvered shutters, and a mansard roof sprouting numerous chimneys. It seemed more a grand private mansion than the foreboding last stop for political detainees. Walls five meters high were interrupted by quoined columns and gabled guard huts.

  The Mercedes stopped outside the metal gates. Her sergeant, silent but polite, sprang from the vehicle to take her arm, then abruptly held her back as a military lorry rumbled in and parked just ahead of them. Two soldiers with machine pistols leapt from the back, herding five disheveled, shackled men into the grounds. A city policeman signaled passing traffic to keep moving.

  A stubble-faced citizen, sleeves rolled past his elbows and a briar pipe in his hand, observed the new arrivals from a bench in the shade of tall trees lining the traffic island. He shouted to her as she waited to pass through the metal gates. What she first believed to be a call of support lifted her spirits. Then she grasped his words. He had called her a treasonous whore.

  Once inside the prison compound her guard pressed a bell to gain entry to the women’s wing. A warder led them down white-washed halls to the admissions office where her sergeant removed the handcuffs and wished her “bonne chance.” She took a seat on a bench between two other women awaiting registration, knowing that luck would do her little good now.

  Her rough smock clashed with the discordant red heels. The other two detainees wore everyday clothing, undoubtedly chosen that morning with no thought they might enter prison before the day was out. She looked at them warily. Could either be a police plant hoping she would incriminate herself? The younger bore an inflamed bruise beneath one eye, and her coarse blond hair in a fashionable short style showed streaks of dried blood. Her fingers clenched and stretched in an endless
cycle of nerves, her eyes never leaving the linoleum tiles at her feet. The other prisoner had an impassive face and no obvious signs of mistreatment, but her eyes danced constantly from point to point. Only the finger twining a long lock of red hair suggested inner agitation.

  Marita was first to stand before the woman in charge of admissions, a starchy brunette in the same drab skirt and black blouse with Party pin she’d encountered at Rue de Saussaies. Her chignon was drawn back so tightly it gave a feline look to her eyes. In a bored monotone the woman posed the obligatory questions, duly noting Marita’s personal data in the prison registry: surname and given names, date and place of birth, father’s given name, mother’s maiden name—she looked up when Marita said ‘Levi’—place of residence, marital status and profession. Again that subtle look of surprise when Marita claimed ownership of a Montmartre night club. Once listed in the prison rolls, Marita eavesdropped on the registration of the other two women. The bruised blonde was Claire Levallier, twenty-three years old, salesgirl in a textile shop, unmarried. The impassive redhead was Denise Duchamps, thirty-five, widow and photographer’s assistant.

  Officially now residents of Cherche-Midi, the inmates followed a female guard along a filthy hallway and through grated doors to a windowless room. A wooden bench hugged the wall beneath evenly-spaced hooks. The wardress ordered them to disrobe, and the prisoners numbly obeyed. Once their clothing hung on the white-washed wall, two additional female guards joined their colleague.

  On orders, the prisoners lined up, placed hands on knees and bent over facing the bench. The head guard directed them to cough several times as the wardresses impassively checked private orifices for contraband. With this humiliation behind them, they moved into a tiled room to stand beneath rust-stained showerheads. The water ran lukewarm as they applied the obligatory lice-medication to all hair on body and head. Marita managed to scrape some hardened residue from the empty soap dish affixed to the wall beside her shower. Her fellow prisoners followed suit.