by James R Benn
“Good. I’m done being shot at for today,” I said. “How much farther?”
“Ten miles or so,” Kaz said. “I wonder if those Germans were a patrol, or sent out to investigate the attack on the gun emplacements?”
“Probably checking for survivors,” I said. That’s what I wanted to believe, because it meant we wouldn’t run into any more patrols. “Hey, tell me about this One-Two-Two place. Sounds like a whorehouse. How’d you know about it?”
“The One-Two-Two is a brothel,” Kaz said. “A very high-class brothel with an illustrious clientele.”
“Don’t tell me you’re including yourself,” I said, giving him a questioning glance.
“I have been there, in the company of my uncle,” Kaz said. “But I did not partake. He told me I was too young, but that I should come back when I turned twenty. In addition to the brothel, there is a restaurant and a salon, which is where I waited for my uncle to conclude his business.”
“It must have been tempting,” I said.
“Quite, especially since the waitresses wore nothing but high-heeled shoes and flowers in their hair,” Kaz said. “However, I was young enough to be a bit frightened by my uncle’s description of the higher floors in the mansion. As one ascends, the rooms are given over to whips and such. He said that at the One-Two-Two, the closer you drew to the sky, the closer you came to hell.”
“Sounds like the perfect place for Nazis to relax after a long day in the torture chambers,” I said.
“It also would be the perfect place to overhear a lot of interesting information,” Kaz said. “In the salon as well as in the bedrooms. We should visit, even if we do not need assistance from Malou.”
“Now that you’re over twenty,” I said. Soon we drew close to a crossroads, a sign pointing to Chaville, seven kilometers away.
“I owe it to the memory of my uncle, don’t you think? Look, Billy, to the right.”
A plowed field sprouted leafy greens. Turnips, probably. But a line of German soldiers was planting another crop. Mines. About twenty Krauts were advancing along the rows, digging holes for men behind them to bury anti-personnel mines. At the edge of the road, another group was clustering mines in the drainage ditch.
If GIs on the roadway came under fire, they’d dive into the ditches for cover and be killed by the mines planted there. If they went across the fields, they’d end up sitting ducks caught in the minefield trap there.
“Don’t look at them,” I said, keeping the speed of the Peugeot as steady as I could. The nearest men were no more than twenty yards away as we drove by. A German corporal stood up and took a long drink from his canteen, his eyes drawn to the car.
He looked straight at me. I nodded, and Kaz gave him a cheery little wave.
“This is a strange war,” I muttered, as we drove past the work detail. Ahead, several trucks were parked in a grove of trees clustered around a bridge that spanned a small stream. Hidden just enough to save these guys from being worked over by the Thunderbolts.
“So far, we have seen more Germans than I expected,” Kaz said.
“Laying mines is what you do when you don’t have enough men to stop an attack,” I said. “They know what’s coming, and they know they can’t stop it. But they can slow it down.”
“Let us hope they are too busy to set up roadblocks,” Kaz said, straining to see ahead along the meandering curves of the road. A farmhouse came into view, its gray slate roof sagging and in disrepair. An old man with a mustache sagging at a similar angle leaned on his hoe and watched us drive by. He didn’t crack a smile.
“The village is ahead,” Kaz said, pointing to a church steeple. “Drive by the railway station so we can see what to expect.”
The road narrowed to a cobblestone lane with houses and shops crowded along a thin ribbon of sidewalk. We drove into the town center, the church at one end and the railway station at the other. I cruised by slowly, looking for a spot to leave the car.
“There is a line at the ticket booth, and a train on the track,” Kaz said.
“Any Krauts or police?” I asked.
“No. We should hurry. Stay close to me and do not speak.”
I eased the car in alongside the church, tossed the key into the glove box, and gave Kaz most of my francs. I wouldn’t know what to say when it came to forking out cash anyway. As we strolled down the sidewalk, my eyes darted in every direction. A few people sat chatting at a sidewalk café, two Kraut officers among them. They paid us no mind, more intent on their wine and eyeing a pair of pretty girls who walked by ignoring them with grave indifference.
Kaz stood at the end of the line, which snaked up several steps to the ticket window. I pulled the brim of my hat down, feeling like every set of eyes in town was glued to me. I wished someone would get behind me, and then became terrified of anyone starting up a conversation. I could make out a few words of French here and there, but everyone spoke so damn fast I had a hard time making sense of anything.
The line moved along, and we got to the top step. The whistle on the locomotive blew, and I could hear the hiss of steam as the boiler released excess pressure. We moved closer, and I saw Kaz counting out francs. I had no idea what the ticket cost, and I hoped he had a clue. Laying out too much dough wouldn’t look right.
I heard footsteps.
I felt a presence at my back.
I heard German.
I saw Kaz’s shoulders stiffen.
The line moved forward, and I listened to the Krauts chatter at each other. The two officers from the café maybe, since no other vehicles had pulled up.
The good news was I wouldn’t be expected to understand.
The bad news was they might speak French.
We were almost to the ticket window.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, facing one of the officers from the café. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he gestured as if he were lighting it. His pal laughed. He wanted a light, and they were both a little drunk.
I shook my head and turned away, like any self-respecting Frenchman would do. Now Kaz was at the window shoving cash under the grill and snatching up the tickets. I kept to his coattails and made for the train, like any guy in a hurry to get home.
The tipsy Germans were right behind me. Loud, like drunks often are. Especially drunks with pistols and the power of life and death.
It was easy to see the first railcar was crowded, so we walked down the platform to the next. Also packed. We went to another car, the bootheels of the two officers echoing in our wake. We got on board and worked our way toward the last two empty seats. Across from us sat an elderly couple, the woman cradling a basket covered with a towel. Eggs, maybe, or some delicacy from a local farm. Her husband held a string sack filled with potatoes. I wondered what they’d traded for the food. Family heirlooms from Paris were probably stacking up in the cupboards of farmers around the city. The food situation in Paris had to be bad to make this rail journey worthwhile.
The Kraut officers went past us, searching for empty seats. They found none and turned back, eyeing the passengers as if expecting them to give up their seats and doff their caps to the master race.
No one looked at them. It was the standard code of conduct for most of the French when it came to daily interactions with the occupier. Curt politeness when required, aloof detachment when possible. Passengers quieted as the Germans strode down the aisle, their narrowed eyes as hostile and threatening as the slit in a concrete bunker.
They halted a couple of rows in front of us. I folded my arms, mainly to hide the twitching in my right hand, not wanting to give them an excuse to ask for my papers. Kaz yawned and covered his mouth.
“Aufstehen,” the first officer said. I looked up, meeting his gaze. He beckoned with his fingers in a hurry-up motion. I couldn’t move. His eyes darted back and forth, his face full of nervous energy.
The two men in front of us stood up and shuffled off down the aisle. The German’s eyes registered relief. No matter that they were armed and lords over the men and women in this rail carriage, they were still outnumbered. They sat heavily on their seats, grunting the way people do at the end of a long day, relieved to be headed home.
I sighed, unaware I hadn’t breathed since the German spoke. I glanced at Kaz, who raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and looked out the window. Nonchalant is his middle name.
The train lurched forward, and people began to pick up their conversations, a sense of relief flooding through the compartment now that the potential threat had passed. The locomotive cut loose with a shrill whistle as we picked up speed, leaving the town behind and traveling along a riverbed flanked by fields of crops wilting in the August heat. The countryside swam by, hills, fields, and forests in quick succession.
Kaz nudged me with his knee and arched an eyebrow toward the window. On the road paralleling the tracks was a convoy of trucks hauling the dreaded German 88 artillery pieces. Three of them, turning off the main road and heading into the fields beyond. Mainly an anti-aircraft weapon, the 88 was also deadly at long range against our tanks. We hadn’t seen a lot of troop activity, but a few of these guns, well-concealed, could hold up an advance for hours.
Had Atlantik already delivered his traitorous message? Or were the Krauts simply moving what resources they had into position in front of Paris?
The train slowed as we rolled into another town. We stopped at the station where only a few people got off and more boarded. In seconds we were off, chugging toward Paris, the City of Light.
I’d seen London and Rome. Pretty impressive places. But no city stirred my imagination as much as Paris. Dad and Uncle Frank had told me about their adventures there while on leave during the First World War. If half their stories were to be believed, it was a helluva town. Of course, back then it hadn’t been enemy territory. By the looks of the people on this train, it might be a touch threadbare. But it was still Paris.
The Germans in front of us were have a heated discussion, their heads close together, one of them shaking his head and waving his hand. Maybe they were debating which restaurant they’d miss the most when they left Paris. I could sense Kaz concentrating on their conversation as the door behind us opened.
“Ihre Papiere, bitte,” a voice announced sharply as the door slammed shut. Two Kraut soldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, moved along the aisle, hands extended for the carte d’identité which every French person had to carry. These guys must have boarded at the last stop. It looked very routine, the Germans looking bored and impatient at the same time.
The officers continued talking, their argumentative tone fading into dismissive laughter. They ignored the oncoming soldiers. I did not.
One of them worked the left side of the aisle, his pal staying on our side. Behind me, a quarrel broke out between a young woman and her elderly companion. Glancing back, I saw the younger one hand her papers to the solider and turn to search the older woman’s handbag. Had she lost her identity card? Finally, she came up with it. The German barely gave it a glance and moved on.
That was a good sign. Maybe he didn’t think the old lady was a spy, or just didn’t give a damn. The old couple opposite us got the same treatment, except their Kraut asked to see what was in the basket.
Eggs. The Kraut even said danke as she covered them up again.
It was almost our turn. Kaz had his card out. I kept mine in my pocket for the moment. The Milice Brigade Spéciale identity card was different from the standard card. It had the French national colors splashed across it in a red, white, and blue banner. It attracted notice, which was probably the point, but I decided to act as if I was undercover, hoping to keep it under wraps and avoid a close inspection.
The German stood next to me, the stock of his rifle banging against the seat.
Kaz held out his identity card. I pushed his hand back, looking the soldier straight in the eye. I withdrew my Milice card and held it down low, hidden from view of other passengers. I opened it, praying this would be quick, a quiver working through my hand as I held the jacket open to shield the card.
A frown creased his face. This was unusual, a break from the monotony of checking hundreds of identity cards. He squinted and leaned closer as I wondered if we’d be undone by a Kraut who needed glasses.
His partner took notice. He leaned in and gave me the once-over, his glance lingering for a moment on the Milice card. He patted the other’s arm, a signal for him to move on. I made a discrete nod of thanks, one fascist to another. He moved on and offered a respectful nod to the officers, giving their travel documents a cursory check and handing them back. Maybe he bought the notion that I was a pro-Vichy agent tailing a terrorist. Maybe he didn’t care about French collaborators and wanted a beer at the next stop. Either way was fine with me.
They proceeded along, a wave of tension ahead of them as they neared the front of the carriage. Papers were held up, inspected, and returned. No words were exchanged, and I had the feeling this was a common experience for everyone, Germans and French alike.
The train slowed, rounding a bend along the riverbank. The whistle blew as I watched a group of women weeding in a field. Potato plants, by the look of the leaves.
A man got to his feet at the front of the car, the German security guards six rows away. A young guy, he stood out among the older folks, kids, and women in the crowded compartment. He moved into the aisle, head down.
One of the officers shouted to the soldiers, pointing at the Frenchman.
The Frenchman ran, throwing open the door and slamming it shut. The Krauts ran after him, but before they got to the gangway between the cars, he’d launched himself off the train, tumbling and rolling down the grassy embankment. One of the guards fired his rifle, but the curving train hid the Frenchman from view.
Shots cracked from the carriage behind us. There were other Germans on the train, farther back, who’d had a better view. A submachine gun burst, then nothing but the clacking of the steel wheels and a sob from the old lady across from us.
The two soldiers strolled back into the carriage, mechanically picking up where they’d left off.
Ihre Papiere, bitte.
Had the Frenchman made it? Maybe. But how long could he survive without an identity card good enough to pass a security check? If he wasn’t shot dead or wounded, and if he found a place to hunker down for a couple of days, he might make it.
Hell, his chances were probably better than ours.
The guards got off at the next stop, just outside of Paris, six of them remaining on the platform and staring into the carriage windows as we pulled out of the station.
The train chugged along, passing a boarded-up station with what looked like bomb damage. We slowed as the track continued through a built-up area with plain, stout buildings and warehouses on either side. A field of rubble rolled by, blackened brick walls standing amidst wrecked machinery. I didn’t know we’d bombed this close to Paris. Or was this Paris itself, this neighborhood of smashed factories?
A sign hung crookedly above the entrance to a gutted brick building. Renault. I knew the company was working with the Vichy government to build vehicles for the German war machine. From the looks of things, they hadn’t made any recent deliveries.
The train rumbled slowly on, finally crossing a wide river—it had to be the Seine—and moving into what looked to be the city proper. Then came a rail yard, where the train inched along before pulling into the station. It finally lurched to a halt, the sign on the platform telling me we were at the Gare Saint-Lazare.
Paris. I was in Paris.
I wasn’t even scared.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Saint-Lazare was cavernous, a massive platform under a steel-girder glass roof, filled with hissing steam, Germans in field gray, and Parisians in
their worn elegance. Exiting the train, I noticed German soldiers descending from the locomotive, watched by engineers with sooty faces and hatred in their eyes. A line of German officers was moving slowly aboard an east-bound train, each man weighed down with heavy suitcases. These were the lucky ones, getting out ahead of the Allies with all the loot they could carry.
Kraut guards walked two-by-two through the crowd, which opened and closed around them, the Parisiennes avoiding eye contact and the threat of their shouldered weapons. I followed Kaz to the exit, keeping close and watching for another security check.
A rattle of gunfire broke out, not close by, but echoing off the stone walls of the giant station. People jumped, startled at the noise, then returned to their orderly flow into the street. Even the guards did little more than exchange glances, as if this were a routine evening rush hour.
Kaz nodded toward the enamel sign on the corner of the building where we were waiting to cross. The rue Saint-Lazare followed by a right on the rue du Havre. Not that I’d remember, but it was the best way to show me the layout without speaking out loud. Down the street, he pointed to the Café Paul, a small place on the shady side of the road, with an empty table at the far end.
“No time,” I whispered. He shook me off and sat, so I joined him. At least there were no Germans. The clientele was a mixture of guys in suits and workmen, some of whom were casting suspicious glances at each passerby. We sat, our chairs close and angled away from the others. Kaz signaled the waiter and gave our order.
“We have time,” he said, glancing at the other tables.
“How do you know?” I asked quietly, trying to look calm. Hushed conversations always attract attention, so I crossed my legs and rested my chin in my hand. Your typical blasé Parisian.
“The boche on the train,” he said. “They had been waiting for an agent to come across the lines.”
“Jarnac?”
“They did not mention a name. But they said they had waited past the designated time, and would return tomorrow,” Kaz said, leaning back as the waiter set down two glasses of white wine. He took a small sip, watching for the guy to go back inside. “It may well have been Jarnac. There may be other agents slipping through the lines along that sector, but how many would rate such a reception committee?”