Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  As the women left the showers, their thread-bare towels landed in a wicker basket. In the dressing area Marita’s crude woolen sack and Claire and Denise’s civilian garb were gone. Only their undergarments remained on the hooks. On the bench lay utilitarian smocks in black-and-white prison striping and bulky wooden clogs.

  A middle-aged woman waited at the end of a hallway lined with brown metal doors. Her deeply-creased face wore no makeup. Though the ever-present swastika decorated her black blouse, her manner was surprisingly polite and respectful as she addressed the new arrivals in decent French. “Soyez les bienvenues, mesdames. I am Frau Biermann, director of your women’s wing. I understand your anxiety, but the sooner you understand our house rules, the easier your lives here will be.”

  The wardress standing beside her handed each prisoner a list of regulations and a timetable. “Go ahead, have a look. You can memorize them later.” Marita quickly scanned the printed schedule. At eight in the morning the cell doors would open for inmates to empty slop buckets, refill water jugs, and sweep out cells. At ten a.m. breakfast on the cell block and at four p.m. a second and final daily meal. Prisoners were to stand immediately if addressed by any German. No personal items were permitted other than linens, soap and a comb, all to be provided by the inmate’s family. Reading and writing materials and outside food items were allowed only at the discretion of the warders, and again, only if provided by family.

  “Frau Biermann,” Marita felt encouraged by the director’s pleasant manner, “My name is Marieanne Lesney and I’ve no family to care for my needs. At my arrest I was left with nothing but the undergarment I wear and the coat taken from me this morning. In addition, I’m having my monthly. It’s most distressing—as a woman, you might well imagine?”

  The director flipped the papers on her clipboard and gave Marita a frown of regret. “Mademoiselle Lesney, your case is marked for special handling and your trial to be expedited. The regulations permit no special treatment for you. You are to be isolated from the others as well as from the outside, meaning family would do you no good, and you are not allowed reading or writing materials of any kind. As for your menstrual period, you must do your best with things as they are.”

  “But madame, if it were you—”

  The woman’s patience abruptly reached an end. “Mademoiselle, given these charges, I would be pleased they hadn’t shot me on the spot and saved the expense of incarceration, no matter how short.” She gave all three a stern look. “You French must learn to be more grateful for all the Reich provides.” The guards nodded in agreement. Marita flinched, but thought she saw some look of understanding before the prison director offered her closing advice to the inmates: “Follow the rules, keep yourself clean, and respect the guards. Do that, and your stay here will pass without undue pain or suffering.” She handed a clipboard with cell assignments to the nearest guard and marched off.

  Marita’s spirits reached rock-bottom as she entered her cell. She dropped to the edge of the bed. Having eaten nothing but bread in thirty-six hours, she felt a knot in her stomach and the clogs were already aggravating her sore feet. Now she faced an uncertain future in a filthy box barely as wide as she was tall. Less than three meters deep, its walls were scarred with graffiti, heart-rending messages from previous occupants.

  She bent forward to run a finger over the cracked and stained surface, sensing the anguish of past prisoners. At eye level she read: My beloved babies, forever in my heart. On the wall beside the cot: Dearest Jacques, I never meant to leave you. Under a carefully sketched set of angel wings: Papa and Maman, I shall greet you in Heaven with open arms. Marita lay back, cradling her head in her hands, and stared up at the cell door. In finely-worked calligraphy, scratched painstakingly into the flaking brown paint, she read a heartfelt Fuck off, mein Führer!

  On the water-stained ceiling a fan light wobbled. The metal bedframe supported three wooden planks, a straw paillasse, and two coarse blankets. She found little else to hold her attention. With nothing to read or write, there would be no use for the stool and small table. She rolled to her side on the straw mattress, hands to her face, willing the tears to stop, but it had all been too much. Now totally alone, she quietly sobbed herself to sleep.

  chapter EIGHT

  Ermenonville, Occupied France

  29 August 1941

  Deep in the night a car came for Ryan. Rolf’s driver picked him up on a pre-arranged street corner several blocks from his Left Bank hotel. With spies and snitches everywhere a meeting in the city was simply too problematic. Each policing department of the Occupation was jealous and suspicious of the others, and foreign “guests” drew close scrutiny from the many intelligence authorities. Within hours of hotel registration, the particulars of any identity—false or real—became a new file card with the secret police and the metropolitan gendarmerie. Someone, somewhere, was already questioning what business had brought the French educator Raoul Diderot, his latest and now-abandoned alias, to the occupied city.

  Edmond Brédeaux was a terse but polite young driver in a felt cap and wire-framed eyeglasses. His eyes lifted repeatedly to the rearview mirror, making clear his primary concern was reaching their destination without a tail. Twice they detoured onto narrow country roads when hooded headlamps suggested another vehicle might be on their trail.

  Edmond apologized to Ryan for losing track of the arrest vehicle after the raid on the club. Though the man’s regret appeared genuine enough, Ryan still felt bitter. He kept to himself, his thoughts on Marita’s ordeal.

  The Château d’Ermenonville lay on the outskirts of a small village near Roissy. The Renault rumbled across a moat and entered an ornate double-gated portal. Beyond the elaborate wrought-iron loomed a U-shaped classical structure of pale stone. The graveled courtyard separated the two wings, and a figure in a dark trench coat and wide-brimmed fedora closed the gate discretely behind them. They parked behind a dark Citroën. Rolf and Argent already waited beneath the lamps flanking the main portico. Even in the dull light Ryan saw worried faces and knew at once that the hours of desperate searching since Marita’s abduction had been unproductive.

  As expected, all talk centered on Marita. Despite Rolf’s many contacts throughout the city, her whereabouts remained unknown. Rolf revealed to Ryan his role as inebriated Wehrmacht colonel in helping save Marita’s club from the extortionist Serge Bergieux. Von Haldheim had obviously fallen for her charms and seemed genuinely concerned for her. But beyond that there lay a practical side to his involvement—Rolf had been the Abwehr conduit for the intelligence Marita so diligently gathered. With her arrest his entire operation was now at risk.

  Argent remained adamant: “It has to be Rue des Saussaies. It’s the main Gestapo headquarters, and they always take them there first for interrogation—and worse. The whole city knows it.”

  Ryan toyed with his pipe. He’d lost all interest in smoking. “But I have heard of other stations around the city, Rue Lauriston being one. That complicates matters.” He turned to Rolf. “Don’t we have a trustworthy source at Rue des Saussaies?”

  Rolf wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “It’s Dannecker’s headquarters for rounding up Jews, but from what I hear our girl may already be in La Santé or Cherche-Midi. They often send them to the prisons for interrogation, farther from prying eyes.” He crushed out a just-lit Gitanes. “Or she may already be in Berlin at Gestapa.” Rolf patted Ryan’s hand. “Don’t worry. Our people in the capital are looking into that possibility.”

  “Planting that wireless smacks of desperation. Any real proof of what she’s been up to—what you three have been up to—and they wouldn’t need such a phony measure. There’s something very suspicious about the whole matter.” Now Ryan began pacing again.

  Rolf tamped a fresh cigarette on the cover of his silver case. “Knowing the nature of her purported crime would help immensely. It would tell us just who put them on to her. On to us, actually.” He fumbled with his cigarette holder. Ryan recognize
d the nerves. “God help us all if she spills what she knows.”

  Argent was adamant: “She’ll never talk.” He strode over to the tall windows.

  “It’s true Marita will fight—to the end if she must,” Ryan conceded. “But God willing, that won’t become necessary. I know her and she’s tough. She was naked when those bastards toyed with her, but she stood proud and never flinched.”

  Argent looked down, his fists now clenched, his knuckles bloodless. “I swear I’ll tear them limb from limb, those gutless sons-of-whores!” He turned on Ryan. “Why the hell didn’t you come out of your damned closet and drop those pricks? You had a weapon! You and Marita could have used the balcony exit to get away!”

  Ryan met his damning glare. “You weren’t there.” He felt his own guilt, still seeking excuses for his failure to act despite the odds. “I might have plugged them both, but she would have met the cross-fire and two more of the assholes were already coming up those damned stairs.” He rubbed his jaw, forcing his voice to soften. “She shook her head, she signaled me to stay hidden. She thought she could talk her way out of it and protect me, as well.”

  Rolf stepped in. “Let’s forget all rancor and recriminations, meine Herren. Done is done, and now only decisive action will spare her. We all know what these Gestapo types are capable of.” Ryan and Argent nodded in surrender to his logic. “Look, I’ve strong connections. I work with someone who can ferret out the true reason for her arrest, but regrettably that man’s in Berlin. It may take him a day or two, so we all must be patient, at least for now.”

  Argent paced before the windows, speaking to himself as much as to the others. “She may not have ‘a day or two.’ For all we know she may already be dead.”

  Rolf joined him. “Let’s agree our hands are tied for the moment and work with it as best we can.” He put an arm over the younger man’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Look, Argent, I know your feelings for her, and waiting for an answer will be hard, but we’ve simply no choice. If we surrender to blame—to guilt and sorrow—we lose focus. There’s too much at stake here.”

  Rolf guided him back to the table. “As for us, as selfish as it sounds, we can only hope she holds out no matter what they throw at her. Despite confidence in her strength, she is human. Should she reveal everything, they’ll be coming for both of us, Argent.”

  The young officer gave a look of disgust and flopped into an easy chair, his shoulders slumping. Silent minutes passed before they renewed the fruitless discussion, only to exhaust another hour with “what-ifs” before all three lapsed again into silence. They finally agreed that Argent would arrange day-and-night watches on the prisons and on Gestapo headquarters and auxiliary stations. Ryan would contact Edward to explore any possible consular paths to determining her whereabouts, and Rolf would make further inquiries with his people in Berlin.

  Ryan looked out over the vast lawn behind the Château d’Ermenonville. Two rows of ancient trees stretched from the eighteenth-century castle to a distant pond, a scene from an old painting. A walking path in deep shade bordered the green expanse. No one strolled at this early hour. Ryan’s fellow conspirators remained inside but he saw no point in further discussion on how best to rescue Marita. He ignored the brilliant fall foliage contrasting so starkly with the verdant lawn and the duckweed glowing greenish-yellow in the sluggish moat below. Beauty lay far from his mind after the raw ugliness of the Gestapo raid he’d witnessed from the spyhole.

  His head throbbed mercilessly from the long hours of futile discussion. He found no relief in the fresh air of the terrace as he paced past stone balusters and potted evergreens. On the far horizon Paris caught the first rays of the sun, but Ryan focused inward, determined to solve Marita’s desperate situation. She had been there for him over the years, a loving reminder of the stability and commitment he wasn’t ready to face. Now she was gone, and he felt deep anger and even deeper responsibility.

  His mind wouldn’t release the searing images of her shameful mistreatment. How high she’d held her head while he hunkered down in that damned closet. He leaned his brow against the cool limestone of the wall, mentally forcing aside the worry, the fears for her safety, clearing his mind for action. Any action. And still he had no plan.

  Back in the salon he grabbed his overcoat and hat. Argent still sulked in the leather chair. He gave only a desultory wave to acknowledge the American’s departure. Ryan, his mood grim, quietly thanked Rolf for his hospitality and aid. Their reunion had been soured by the demands of the moment. In any other circumstance Ryan might have shared old times, but Marita’s arrest was too pressing. This was also not the time to bring up Rolf’s overture to Ed and the question of how America might covertly deal with any disgruntled military leaders of the Reich. For now Ryan was simply grateful that someone working for German military intelligence was intent on releasing Marita from captivity.

  Edmond waited in the courtyard beside the sedan, its rear door open. Ryan climbed in with a nod of thanks, but the driver hesitated as Argent, striding across the gravel, shouted for their attention. The young officer’s voice was serious but somewhat friendlier. “A moment in private, Herr Lemmon?”

  “Of course. Ryan gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Shall we talk on the way into town, or would stretching our legs be in order?”

  “A stroll suits me better,” he said. “You may have noticed I’m having a difficult time controlling my anger and frustration. Some exercise might do me good.”

  Ryan joined the young German outside the iron gates. The porter was nowhere in sight. “So what’s left to discuss?” Ryan asked. The throbbing in his temples plagued him and he had no interest in a lengthy rehash. “It seems we can do nothing substantive until we’ve news of her whereabouts.”

  “Look, Herr Lemmon—and please know that this is a difficult subject for me to bring up—we both have our reasons for mutual suspicion and frustration.” They walked the shaded levee above the moat. “First, my apologies for the outburst upstairs. I know you did all you could for her, given your situation.” Ryan accepted his offered hand in truce. “Rolf assures me you’re a man of integrity, and he has already made clear to you my personal reasons for despising this regime. Marita’s arrest and maltreatment is symptomatic of all I loathe in my own countrymen, so suffice to say we share the goal of putting an end to these horrors.”

  Ryan nodded but kept silent.

  The younger man’s eyes stayed on the château, obviously hesitant to say what was on his mind. “Herr Lemmon, you must realize just how important Marita has become to me.” Avoiding Ryan’s eyes, he continued. “You’re her friend of many years, and she’s always spoken highly of you, so I’m obliged to ask this now—is your interest more than that of an old friend?”

  The question out, Argent’s eyes shot to the American. Ryan caught the look of heartfelt distress. My God, he thought, he genuinely loves her, but what do I truly feel? Ryan suddenly sensed a deep personal loss. Marita had always been part of his European life, someone whose clear love for him had been too easy a gift, someone to bed but perhaps never adequately treasure, knowing she would always be there without a commitment. Now she was in mortal danger, and his complacency was rattled to its core.

  He strode ahead without responding, lost in his own troubled thoughts before abruptly returning to the officer, his decision made. “Herr Argent, my friendship with Marita spans more than a decade and at one time it appeared something deeper might come of it. You should also know that I do indeed love her.” Ryan cleared his throat, his emotions rising. “But over such distances and after so many missed opportunities—after a mellowing of our early romance, shall we say—it’s clear to me that she’s taken you into her heart. I won’t stand in your way or interfere. Rest assured I’m not here for that—just to see her free again…and finally happy.”

  Argent sank to the stone-capped wall with a smile of relief and gratitude. Ryan felt only disquiet. Had he just surrendered any emotional claim t
o Marita, actually lost her forever? Perhaps years of procrastination had made that decision for him, driving her into the arms of this handsome German.

  “For the moment,” Ryan said, “let’s set all this aside. Until she’s free from these barbarians nothing else matters. For this to succeed, we’ll need the best your Abwehr and my people have to offer. Any consideration of Marita’s love and affection remains meaningless should we fail to rescue her, and soon.”

  Ryan suggested they meet for a drink later in the evening at a secure spot of Argent’s choosing. Only by developing mutual trust could they work closely to gain Marita’s freedom. But hardened by von Kredow’s treachery, Ryan was not about to offer his confidence blindly, no matter who guaranteed the loyalty and motivation of another.

  chapter NINE

  Saint-Nazaire, Occupied France

  29 August 1941

  The partisans gathered in the former shipping office at break of day. Scorch marks and soot all but obliterated the signage high on the front brick wall reading G. Moulin et Cie, Maison d’Expédition. The abandoned warehouse was a skeletal derelict in the otherwise intact port district of Saint-Nazaire. Several of the men wore soft-brimmed caps and worker’s blues, everyday wear in this proletarian district. They fit right in with the stevedores, warehousemen, and streetwalkers at the bottom rung of the town’s social ladder. The men passed around a battered pack of cigarettes. Maurice’s wife Laura, absent due to her advanced pregnancy, had nonetheless sent along vacuum bottles of roasted-barley coffee. With Erika and Nicole heading for Bayonne, today’s meeting to determine roles in the sabotage of the U-boat pens would be all male.