Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Looking past the grime on the window glass, René scanned the bank of warehouses crowding the port facilities. Early-morning haze still drifted in the streets below, and he spotted a few laborers heading toward the docks and basins. It was nearing seven a.m., and smokestacks already puffed white clouds into the still air as steam whistles drew laborers to their work stations. In the distance the broad Loire estuary opened to the Bay of Biscay, the shallow mudflats speckled with late-departing fishing trawlers heading out to sea. The saboteurs’ target, the massive concrete bulwark of the Kriegsmarine submarine pens, lay dead center with the huge Bassin de Saint-Nazaire just beyond.

  The Moulin warehouse reminded René of an arm raised in protest at the devastation below. In the first autumn of the Occupation the Germans had used this space as a supply depot until a suspicious fire gutted the facility. Boche quartermasters were left to face the oncoming winter with nothing but a framework of charred and twisted beams and ruined materiel. In the past year someone had salvaged the easily-accessible metal. Others had probed the scorched and abandoned crates for anything of black-market value. Now only cracked bricks, incinerated crates, and the occasional corrugated panel littered the concrete floor. The warehouse opposite had remained shuttered and abandoned for months after the arrest of its Jewish proprietor, and only an occasional curious rat explored the dingy street separating the two structures.

  The office had somehow survived the arson, towering over the rubble and flanked by three partial walls. A metal staircase with several twisted and warped treads made access difficult and the office thus well-suited to their clandestine meeting. The saboteurs from Nantes had joined forces with the local partisans. Maurice spoke highly of the Saint-Nazaire leader, a man not yet known to René. They awaited his arrival any minute.

  René still felt uneasy. The proposed plan to infiltrate the U-boat bunkers seemed sound. He had rushed his study of basic structural engineering under Maurice’s tutelage to permit speaking intelligently when portraying a visiting naval officer. But the Nantes affair had left him doubting their preparation. The recent confrontation with von Kredow had raised numerous questions. Where had their security failed? How could they have avoided the trap? Others of Horst’s ilk were surely out there, not lusting for personal vengeance, but equally determined to destroy anyone having a go at the Reich.

  He thought of Erika and Leo, by now in Bayonne on the trail of those kidnapped children. He missed her. Years spent together fighting and fleeing had left him incomplete without his wife. And now also his son, thanks to Ryan’s blessing. He massaged the shoulder still bruised and swollen from the dislocation. He ignored the pain of his battered ribs. He’d suffered far worse working the Rhine boats in his youth. The officer’s cap he would wear during his charade would cover the healing scabs on his scalp.

  He fought back memories of his late mother Jeanne as he listened to the small talk of the others. Never hesitant to make suggestions, she would have loved to help with the major strike they planned. Her greatest wish had been to witness the end of the Nazi tyranny and he would make her proud. Before emotion could overwhelm him, he returned his attention to the group. Erika and Leo would be safe on the farm, so time to concentrate on the task at hand.

  A coded knock rattled the door and the local leader entered, a tall, slender man who carried himself like a confident street fighter. René approached him with caution, remembering the treachery of Nicole. Von Kredow and his machinations had made him extremely wary. The man introduced himself as Malraux, and René pegged him close to his own age, early thirties. Some would say his good looks were given character by the tweaked nose over a square-cut jaw. A boxer, perhaps. The prematurely salt-and-pepper hair was short on the sides, longer and slicked back on top. His lips were thin but his smile friendly.

  René’s appraisal stumbled over the faded scars on forehead and temple. Those were clearly Schmisse so similar to his own, unmistakable marks of a German university dueler. A Boche should never trust another Boche, not in this war. He met Malraux’s handshake with a fierce grip of his own. “Sehr erfreut. Always a surprise to find a countryman fighting on behalf of France. He squeezed even harder. “What are the odds, mein Herr?”

  René spotted an unexpected twinkle in the man’s eye. “Guten Morgen, mein Herr, the pleasure’s all mine.” His accent spoke of northern Germany, likely Prussia. The man pretended to massage his fingers to restore circulation after the vigorous handshake. “If you fight the Boches with equal strength we’ll definitely come out the victors.” Maurice alone laughed.

  René turned to Maurice, the Nantes group leader. “You might have warned me I would meet a fellow citizen of the Reich.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Rénard.” René’s nom de guerre still sounded strange to his ears. “Our friend and colleague here is anything but Boche.” He clapped the newcomer on the shoulder. “Despite all appearances, Malraux here is a Briton…on His Majesty’s Secret Service.”

  Jean-Philippe’s face immediately darkened. His closely-spaced eyes bored into the new-comer. “Un sale anglais?” He turned to his compatriots. “These filthy English cowards abandoned my father and brother at Dunkerque!” As hot-headed as ever, he spat on the plank floor and headed for the door. René had often heard the complaint that the “filthy English” turned their backs on the French soldiers during the disastrous rout of Allied Forces in 1940. Hitler’s Wehrmacht almost wiped them out at the Channel, and only a valiant British effort managed to save many of the soldiers to fight another day. Most of the late-arriving French had literally missed the boats.

  Maurice again intervened: “Hold up, Jean-Philippe, there’s still more to Malraux here than meets the eye.” He intercepted the angry partisan at the door. “We need this fellow’s skills and guidance, and he can be trusted.” The partisan resisted as Maurice took his arm to guide him back. “Just hear him out, then decide—you owe the group that much.”

  Jean-Philippe shook himself free and moved to the corner nearest the stairs. He slid to the floor, his back to the fire-scarred wall. “D’accord, messiurs—convince me.”

  Malraux addressed the group. “Before we begin, might I bum a smoke off of one of you gentlemen?” Henri shook a cigarette from the crumpled pack and René offered his lighter. Malraux inhaled, then released a cloud with a resounding cough. “Pretty strong stuff passing for tobacco these days, eh?” He cleared his throat again. “Now, where to start? You find before you a Londoner by birth but a German by heritage. My parents emigrated from Hannover in 1910 to establish an import-export enterprise in the capital of world commerce. In that spirit I grew up tri-lingual with a strong affinity for my heritage, for Germany. But only as it once was. I read law at university in Hannover, watched those megalomaniacs corrupt all that was good in German law, society and culture, all to found this brutish Reich. So when the call came from MI6, I was well-prepared for undercover work, so there you have me.”

  Malraux’s story left René intrigued by its complexity. It sounded absurd enough to be true. His personal adventures as a résistant made as little sense in the crazed world of Nazi Europe, but such a cursory overview didn’t satisfy all doubts. “Might I ask about those Schmisse? He pointed to the dueling scars. “Quite rare for a foreigner to fight a Mensur, wouldn’t you say?” René himself had fought in Marburg on Ryan’s behalf in the very duel that led to a decade of von Kredow treachery.

  “Ah, my scars.” Malraux ran a finger over the thin raised lines on his brow and cheek. “Self-inflicted, I’m obliged to admit, rite of passage to validate my status as a true son of the new German empire. A special assignment, and the chaps back home couldn’t believe I was up for it. Few fellow Englishmen would ruin an otherwise acceptable complexion by adding the scars, but these did establish credibility with the Boches.”

  His expression went grim as he turned to Jean-Philippe. “But to you, sir, I offer my sincere regrets for family still in captivity. I, too, was at Dunkerque last year. Let me assure you, we did
our very best to get them all out, both English and French. Time was simply too short and vessels too scarce to rescue everyone.”

  Jean-Philippe glared at him from his spot against the wall, obviously unappeased. “And yet, most of you English made it out just fine, right? Barely got your feet wet, right?” He drew arabesques with the snout of his pistol in the sooty grime on the floor.

  René’s interest was aroused. “You were there, Malraux, Dunkerque? At the end? Which unit?”

  Malraux looked sheepish and responded in English: “Ah, a sticky wicket, that.” Maurice nodded his agreement, obviously already aware of where the story headed. “I was with the 18th Division, X Corps.”

  All eyes shot to the newcomer. The 18th was a Boche division. Maurice grabbed the pistol from Jean-Philippe’s grip, his other hand holding the struggling young man as he tried to rise with fire in his eyes. The delay allowed René to speak. “You fought for the Germans? For the enemy?” His voice a growl. “I believe you owe us more of an explanation.”

  “Not for them—just working amongst the Huns on London’s orders.” Again came that look of subtle amusement, of playing with matches without intending to start an actual fire. “That was my last exciting assignment, to return to the fatherland as a newly-reborn German reclaiming my Teutonic heritage. Volunteer early, swear allegiance to the glorious Führer, then infiltrate the officer ranks any way possible.” He clicked his heels together with an exaggerated Hitler salute. “Thus this stunning—albeit self-inflicted—scarring.” Again his finger wandered down his cheek. “So I was there, all right. Intelligence officer on the general staff of Hansen’s X Corps, doing my best to mess with the Boche advance. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Henri now spoke up, no longer able to hold his peace. “So you slaughtered our men as you drove us into the sea, all in the name of His Majesty’s Secret Service?” His eyes glowed with hatred.

  “Actually, mes amis, I did my best to misdirect communications, to slow things down on the Boche end. Everyone knew the Allied push on the continent was already lost, and the Wehrmacht commanders were impatient for Paris. So once we turned south, my contact gave me a new cover, I pinched a motorbike and headed for Brittany, and here I am.”

  A long hour and much interrogation later, the younger men from Nantes finally settled down, conceding that their friends in the local cell had always spoken well of the leader, just never mentioned his colorful past. Maurice pointed out that experienced Malraux had spurred partisan recruitment in Brest, as well. And in the final analysis, Malraux sold himself well. René, still a bit dubious, finally felt enough at ease to help in merging the two groups for the coming challenge.

  chapter TEN

  Bayonne, Occupied France

  29 August 1941

  The women’s false identity papers had easily passed scrutiny from French railroad officials and German controls. The inspectors had taken pity on the pale young woman, asking few questions of her before moving on to the mother and boy beside her. Nicole had claimed a stomach upset to explain her unease. In truth, her bullet wound showed signs of rising infection. Once the inspectors moved on, Erika wanted a closer look. In the lavatory at the rear of the coach she applied sulfa powder and a fresh plaster. Neither could miss the stench of septic flesh.

  Luck remained with them at the Bayonne station. The SS official waved them forward. Leo remained quiet as his mother handed over the documents, answering questions for all three with quiet reserve. The pale young woman was a cousin suffering an unsettled pregnancy. They were heading south to stay with relatives near St. Jean de Luz. Yes, those were the family names and the location of their village. No, there was no phone for direct contact. Yes, she had documentation of employment as a nurse. She handed over the employee card for a Tours hospital.

  The dour official never asked to see inside their two small suitcases, a waste of time anyway. Nothing there but clothing, undergarments and a few toiletries. Nevertheless, a small loaded pistol lay hidden beneath a false bottom in each bag. René had been proud of that handiwork.

  Satisfied at last, the young SS officer waved them through the gate and the long line moved silently forward. No one dared show either impatience or relief. The three then passed an SS guard shouldering a carbine and two men in long overcoats. Clearly Gestapo. Erika and Nicole stared straight ahead while Leo returned their glares with a grin.

  Relying on Leo’s memory to guide them, they walked south toward the bridge spanning the Adour. Bayonne glowed like a rose-colored jewel under a setting sun dissolving in the fogbank to the west. Erika spoke at last. “Leo, you drive me crazy. For a minute I thought you might stick your tongue out at those policemen!”

  “I know better, Maman. They just always look so serious. Don’t they ever laugh and joke around with their kids?”

  “Their children are undoubtedly back in Germany. Perhaps they miss them.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to smile once in a while.” He was walking backward now and looked up at the troubled face of Nicole. “We’re going to find Sophie now!”

  Nicole smiled. “Yes, Leo, let’s not waste another minute! Hurry, lead the way!”

  Erika was pleased to see renewed signs of happiness in Nicole, and was almost equally anxious for the coming reunion. In the troubled woman she sensed a cracked glass on the verge of shattering. Poor Nicole had lost the rest of her family to Horst’s sadism, and now she bore guilt for having betrayed trusting partisans to save her daughter. Since Horst had taken the toddler for the sole purpose of tracking and destroying her own loved ones, Erika also felt responsible for her personal role in the horror. Sophie’s safety might restore Nicole’s mental state and even help with her own peace of mind. Such a relief to know the man was finally dead and gone.

  Halfway across the bridge Erika came to a halt. “Here, Leo.” She took a fold of waxed paper from her basket, last evidence of the sandwiches from the long train ride. “Feed the seagulls and stay clear of bird droppings!” Laughing, he shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “If you say so, Maman.” He raced to the railing and scattered the crumbs into the river below. Several birds dove for the water, others raising a raucous chorus around him and demanding more.

  Nicole turned on Erika, her words edged with anger: “What are you doing? We’ve no time to feed birds!”

  “There’s good reason.” She touched Nicole’s arm in reassurance. “The bridge is clear for the moment. Open your suitcase and move your pistol to your coat pocket. Mine comes next. No telling what we’ll face with that old bitch Leo described. The nursemaid sounds easy-going enough to handle.” Nicole favored her injured side as she burrowed deep in the suitcase. Erika stooped to help.

  Leo was back. “Look!” he pointed to the shoulders of his jacket, “no bird poop!” He eyed his mother and Nicole suspiciously. “Are we going to shoot people again, Maman?”

  Erika rolled her eyes. “Let’s hope not, mon petit, but no more surprises, right?”

  Leo jutted out his chin and scissored his jaws back and forth. “Remember, I’m always ready to bite!”

  “Then let’s get to it. Which direction at the end of the bridge?”

  Leo pointed right and excitedly took the lead. After a false turn or two he shouted excitedly when he recognized the correct street. Huge bronze wall lamps under cloth shielding barely defined a massive entry of oak and iron with leaded-glass sidelights. The stone lions guarding the stoop were as impressive as Leo had described. An amber glow escaped the heavy drapes of a room to the right of the portico, most likely the flat of the concierge. Clearly old wealth resided here.

  The new arrivals huddled in the deepening shadows across the street from the townhouse. Nicole scanned the façade and wondered whether von Kredow had set a watchman, whether the matron and the nursemaid alone were caretakers for the children on the second floor. For Sophie. The mothers had agreed that Leo shouldn’t witness further violence. He’d endured enough in that horrid warehouse. Despite the boy’s incredibl
e resilience, it would do him no good to see more bloodshed.

  Nicole descended a stairwell while Erika and Leo remained hidden above at street-level. She changed into a nurse’s smock that had belonged to Dr. Ballineux’s deceased wife. Nicole remembered the melancholy look in the physician’s eyes as he handed her the garment. She thought of the death of her husband Antonio, but just as quickly pushed those memories aside. The overcoat would remain unbuttoned, revealing the nurse’s guise. She pinned up her hair in an institutional style and took her pistol off safety. Comforting.

  Erika and Leo crouched at the top step, peering through the wrought-iron railing, alert for passers-by. Nicole whispered up to them: “How do I look?”

  “Suitably severe.” Erika’s voice low and tense.

  “Pretty, but quite strict, I think.” Leo waved her up the steps.

  Erika raised a hand in warning. Nicole saw the bicyclist rattle by, hunched forward as he managed the tricky cobbles with a baguette on his bike rack. Another rider approached from the opposite direction. The men exchanged a quiet “bonsoir” in passing. Once the clatter had faded, Erika signaled all clear.

  Nicole lost no time in racing across the street and up to the front entrance, her heels clicking on the stones. She buzzed three times in rapid succession, her other hand cradling the pocketed pistol. No response. She tried again, this time depressing the button to maintain a constant trill beyond the door. A latch clicked, hinges squeaked, and eyes appeared behind the grate of a small door in the massive portal. “What is it? What do you want?” The concierge, a woman, growled her displeasure with the disturbance.

  “I’m here to help with the children.” Authority in Nicole’s voice, entitlement.