by James R Benn
“Then they’re Abwehr agents themselves,” I said. “What else did they say?”
“It was difficult to understand everything,” Kaz said. “They joked about not being able to wait forever, and then argued about their boss. Evidently, he will not be happy when they show up without their man. One of them said he could handle it. Then they talked about where to eat, and how much they would miss French cuisine.”
As if on cue, two bowls of potato soup were set down in front of us.
“I don’t think Jarnac is going to wait a day,” I said, taking a spoonful of soup and searching for the potatoes. A few odd bits of vegetable matter floated in the warm broth, and I felt jealous of the Kraut officers who were certainly dining better than anyone at this café.
“No. His information will have much less value tomorrow,” Kaz said. “We can be certain he will get here tonight by any means possible.”
“How far is it to the Hotel Lutetia?” I asked, sipping the cool white wine.
“About a thirty-minute walk,” he said. “We shall stroll by the One-Two-Two first. It is only a few blocks from here, and on our way.”
“Kaz, you’re not planning on a stop there now, are you?” I said, smiling as I discovered a chunk of potato.
“Not today, certainly,” he said. “But remember, we have a contact there in case of emergency. Should we become separated, you will need to know how to get there.”
“Right,” I said, polishing off the soup and glancing up with a start as gunfire sounded in the distance. Rifle shots, followed by a machine gun burst. A reminder that becoming separated could get both of us killed or wounded. “I wonder if that shooting is coming from the police headquarters? Inspector Ribot told us the cops had gone on strike and occupied the Prefecture de Police.”
“The Prefecture is too far away,” Kaz said. “The Germans mentioned something about a cease-fire, but I could not tell if they were referring to the police, the Resistance, or both.”
“Sounds like somebody didn’t get the message,” I said, as a volley of fire sounded from a different direction. “Odd that no one here is panicking.”
“I will ask the waiter about the cease-fire,” Kaz said, signaling to him. I figured it made sense for anyone new in town to ask about all the shooting. The train station was close enough to this café that they probably served a lot of travelers. Not that there were many visiting Paris these days. Kaz chatted with the waiter, who grew more exasperated as they talked.
“There was a truce,” Kaz told me. “The German commandant agreed to it along with representatives of the Resistance council. There were vehicles flying white flags with FFI and German representatives announcing the ceasefire. Germans were to be allowed to move freely, and the FFI could continue to hold their buildings and barricades.”
“What happened?” I said, draining the last of my wine.
“The truce held for a time. Then some Germans who evidently did not receive word of it opened fire as they passed a barricade. The FFI retaliated. The Communists, who form the largest wing of the FFI in Paris, were never for the truce, so they called for more attacks against the occupiers. A chacun son boche, their slogan goes. To each his own boche.”
“Is it safe on the streets?”
“He said in several neighborhoods it is quiet. In some places, the Germans still stand guard outside their buildings, sometimes in plain sight of the FFI at a barricade. Elsewhere, it is open warfare. He wonders if the Allies know how bad things are. Oh, and he apologizes for the soup.”
Kaz settled up our tab and led the way. At the rue de Provence we hung a right and shortly ended up at number one-twenty-two. It was a plain, five-story structure with a stout wooden door and curtained windows.
“The club is known as the One-Two-Two,” Kaz said. “Always said in English. If you become lost and need to get here, most Parisians will understand if you ask for directions.”
“Let’s plan on sticking together, Kaz,” I said, pulling down the brim on my hat and covering my face as I spoke. I didn’t see a feldgrau uniform in sight, but there was no telling if any of the men or women we passed on the sidewalk were Milice, otherwise pro-Vichy, or an opportunist who’d sell a couple of Allied agents down the river for a decent meal. Hell, I was carrying a Milice identity card myself, and any of the military-age guys within a few steps of me could be doing the same.
Kaz couldn’t help pointing out the opera house, which was pretty impressive with its gilt copper statues lit by the early evening sun as it neared the horizon. Then we came to a wide street, which he told me was boulevard des Italiens, one of the four grand boulevards of Paris.
The street was empty, except for a single gazogene-powered Citroën that cruised slowly by. The sidewalks were full, crowds of people out strolling on a warm summer’s evening. There was a buzz in the air, a sense of anticipation, as if everyone was on their way to a show but didn’t know how to get there, or when it actually started.
We began to cross the boulevard, but the rough sound of a truck engine echoed against the granite buildings. Kaz pulled me back, and we moved off the road, taking cover in a doorway with half a dozen others. The crowds melted away as the truck neared us, like a school of fish threatened by a predator. It was full of German soldiers standing in the open back, rifles angled in every direction. A woman next to me turned her back and covered her eyes, while her companion stared at the occupants of the truck, hatred gleaming in her unblinking gaze.
One of the Krauts shot into a group of people huddled together on the pavement. They dove to the ground as the bullet ricocheted off the concrete. Laughter rippled from the soldiers as the truck rumbled on. No one was hurt, and people helped one another up, dusting themselves off and sending a stream of denunciation after the departing boche.
Within minutes, the street scene was back to normal, or what passed for normal in Paris during the waning days of occupation. A strange mixture of heady expectation, hatred, joy, and a smattering of tear-stained cheeks.
We crossed the boulevard and hustled down another wide road, the avenue de l’Opéra, Kaz informed me, which would take us back to the opera house and from there the One-Two-Two was a short walk. I told him I had my bearings and studied the buildings along this stretch. Lots of fancy shops, all closed. Big signs in German across the street, announcing a movie theater was a Soldatenkino and a department store a Soldatenkaufhaus. The pedestrians out on the broad sidewalks avoided that side of the road, even though there were no boche evident.
A few minutes later we spotted a group of Germans a block ahead, out in front of a building draped with red banners sporting the black swastika. Four stood at attention, guards at the front door. The rest looked like officers, their boots gleaming even at this distance. More men in feldgrau poured out the front door, milling about, aiming their rifles casually up and down the avenue. Civilians on the sidewalk ahead of us hesitated, some halting, some turning back. The crowd jammed up around us, people behind us colliding with those who’d stopped or started to flee.
Two young women held onto an older lady who’d lost her balance. I turned to see a gaggle of young men with tousled hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves, waving their arms and telling people behind them to go back. They had the disheveled look of résistants, their eyes gleaming with hatred as they glanced back at the Krauts piling out of the building. A few people shouted, calling out names of those they’d lost sight of, cursing and shaking their fists at the Germans who started to form up, their weapons leveled. In a second, the churning clutch of bodies moved, retreating from the boche and taking refuge down a side street.
The young men—boys, now that I looked at them more closely—stayed at the corner watching the Germans, stepping back, perhaps not believing the soldiers would fire. Kaz and I stuck together, the young women and their elderly charge shuffling along before us as we worked to keep the crowd from overwhelming them. Right as we mad
e our turn into the side street, the Germans fired.
Bullets zinged against the cobblestones and one of the boys went down, then another. Screams raged through the crowd as they stampeded away, overturning café chairs and tables in the narrow lane. More shots echoed from the avenue, and one of the boys who’d been dragging his wounded companion to shelter was cut down as well. Shouts came from the avenue, pleas for help in French and orders in German, the words incomprehensible amidst the cries of pain and fear rising around us.
“Stay here,” I said to Kaz, pushing him against the wall as I peeked around the corner. The gunshots had ended, but the Krauts were still formed up outside the building, maybe a headquarters or a barracks. I ran into the avenue, apparently low on common sense at that particular moment. I grabbed one kid by his collar and dragged him into the side street while he clutched at his leg, shattered by a Kraut slug. Kaz pulled him in and I returned to the avenue, helping another boy with his friend who’d taken one in the chest. He didn’t look good, but he was breathing, short ragged gasps punctuated by pink frothy bubbles.
We brought him to safety as I glanced at the body of a kid spread-eagled in the street. He had the still limpness of death about him, not to mention the large pool of blood beneath his back.
“Mort,” I said, grabbing the arm of the résistant who was about to dart back out onto the wide avenue. I shook my head, warning him about making a useless gesture as I glanced around the corner. He turned away with a finality that told me this wasn’t the first death he’d witnessed at the hands of the occupiers.
Kaz was holding the kid with the wounded leg while one of his pals applied pressure to stanch the bleeding. A car appeared, flying a white flag with a red cross. A brace of résistants tumbled out, wearing FFI armbands and white smocks with hand-painted red crosses. They quickly patched up the wounded and placed them in the automobile, then jumped on the running boards as the vehicle sped away.
“Medical students,” Kaz said, as the last of the crowd melted away into a warren of narrow lanes. All that was left was the body out on the avenue and the old lady with her two new friends, sipping wine at a nearby sidewalk café as the owner righted the chairs and tables strewn about. “Several have already been killed. As you might have been.”
“It made sense at the time,” I said, finding my hat and brushing it off. During the action, my hand was steady, as if it didn’t want to betray me when it might get shot off. Now, in this quiet spot, the quiver began to work its way up my forearm. “What do we do now?”
The tromp of boots from the main avenue answered that one for us. The Germans were clearing the area, and this wasn’t a place to linger. I saw the old woman wave to her young friends, who darted into the café, probably looking for a rear exit. Phony papers, most likely. She stayed put, finishing her wine. Real identity papers and the audacity of age, if I read the expression on her face correctly.
We took off at a good pace, winding through streets as Kaz guided us toward the Seine, which we had to cross to get to the Hotel Lutetia. We’d have to find a spot to stake out Jarnac, which meant a good hiding spot to avoid German guards, but one close enough to take a shot at him. A killing shot.
“Stop,” Kaz said, thrusting out an arm. While I was thinking about plugging Jarnac, he’d been watching the street. A German staff car and a truck pulled over ahead of us. A half dozen Krauts went inside while the rest guarded the vehicles. The neighborhood was on the swanky side, with no rebellious youth in sight. A couple walking their dog stopped to chat, shaking their heads as Kaz spoke with them.
“Those officers were billeted in that apartment building,” Kaz reported after they’d moved on. “They are taking all the furnishings and artwork with them. Apparently, it is happening in many of the finer Paris neighborhoods. The administrative troops are evacuating, taking with them what they wish.”
We turned back, not wanting to be shanghaied into a moving detail.
Unfortunately, Kaz’s sense of direction was off a bit. Paris reminded me a bit of Boston. The small, narrow lanes laid out with no special plan, winding through neighborhoods where the street names changed every few blocks. We found ourselves back at the avenue de l’Opéra, but on the south side of the military headquarters we’d encountered earlier. There were still Krauts gathered outside, but it was two blocks away, so we sauntered down the avenue like we belonged there. There wasn’t much light left, even with the August sun setting late. As we passed rue Sainte-Anne, people spilled out onto the avenue, most of them glancing back over their shoulders. Not a good sign.
“Boche!”
Grinding gears and clanking treads told the same story as a half-track turned the far corner, unleashing a burst of machine gun fire into the crowd. But this time not everyone was unarmed. At the rear of the pack were FFI, weapons at the ready. They fired back with rifles and a few captured MP40 submachine guns as the wounded were spirited away. The dead remained behind.
It seemed most of this bunch were FFI, both armed and unarmed. We moved along with them, running to outpace the slow advance of the half-track. Then, from the southerly end of the avenue, a Tiger tank clanked into position, jolting to a halt and swiveling its turret toward the pack of résistants.
“This is a helluva ceasefire,” I said to Kaz, as the fifty or so people around us moved away from the threat of the Tiger’s 88mm cannon and toward the corner that would expose us to the half-track’s machine gun.
Across the avenue, an apartment window opened on the third floor. A woman leaned out, waving and pointing to the wooden doorway below. A gray-haired fellow with a thick mustache opened it, revealing a small courtyard.
The choice was obvious. The pack surged across the broad avenue, running for the safety of the courtyard and the hope of escape beyond it. We joined in as two of the FFI stayed at the corner, firing their rifles at the half-track, hopefully buying us the time we’d need. Three men dashed around the corner under their covering fire, falling to their knees behind us, exhausted from their escape.
Machine gun fire came from the Tiger tank, spraying the street with hot lead. The shots peppered the building ahead of us. Lousy aim, or was the gunner reluctant to slaughter civilians? I saw chips flying from the stonework as bullets ricocheted, and I didn’t much care what the reason was. Better the façade than me.
The first of the résistants to get to the door held it wide open, and the rest of us had to slow to make it through. The last FFI fighters at the corner ran pell-mell across the avenue, shepherding the three men ahead of them, one of them limping.
The Tiger’s machine gun spat rounds again, this time finding their mark. One of the three men tumbled forward, his torso shredded. The two fighters grabbed the limping guy and ran him hard, practically lifting him across the threshold.
The door slammed shut behind us as machine gun rounds from the half-track stitched across it. Screams filtered out from the apartments as the gunner sprayed windows, shattering glass and sending residents spilling out the staircases. The guy who’d opened the door for us pointed to an interior doorway, sweeping his arm forward, telling us all to head that way.
“Aux toits,” he shouted. I looked at Kaz.
“To the rooftops,” he whispered. With this bunch, I didn’t worry too much about being found out to be a Yank, but I didn’t want to delay the getaway with a lot of backslapping either. So, we took our place in line as it snaked single-file up the narrow stairs. A few of the FFI lingered behind, tending to the guy with the injured leg. The firing from outside had died down, and I watched for any sign of the Krauts trying to smash through the stout wooden door. My guess was they were clearing the streets for troops moving through Paris on their way back to Germany. Or maybe they simply enjoyed being the boss in the big city and knew it was their last chance.
The FFI guys tried to lift the injured man up, but he waved them off. He sat on the ground, his back to us, head hung down l
ow. Beneath the black beret was a thick head of black hair. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like a lot of these guys on this hot August night. But there was something about him.
I walked over and grabbed his beret.
Marcel Jarnac turned and glared at me, his dark eyes drilling into mine with undisguised hate.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Traître!” Jarnac shouted, wasting no time. He pointed his finger at me, trembling as if in great fear of his life. Which was probably not an act.
Everyone was on edge, fingers on triggers and mistrust in their eyes. Jarnac was injured, a guy these FFI men had risked their lives to save. They were already on his side, if only unconsciously. I was some unknown guy in the crowd, while he was the first one to open his mouth, laying claim to the accusation of traitor.
I should have thought this through much better.
“Américain,” I said, tapping my chest, searching the sweaty faces for any glimpse of understanding. Jarnac accepted help getting up, and I could see he wasn’t as crippled as he’d made out. Sure, he had a gash on his calf, maybe from a ricochet. But he’d been on the ground, bent over, to avoid us spotting him.
Now, he rose up to his full height, hanging on to the shoulder of a young résistant, further cementing their bond. He cut loose with a stream of denunciation, his bony finger aimed at Kaz, then me. I heard the phrase Brigade Saint-Just twice as Jarnac declared himself chef.
He was rapidly becoming the boss of this crowd. Kaz was trying to get a word or two strung together, but everyone was listening to Jarnac. One fighter poked Kaz in the gut with the barrel of his rifle, which convinced him to give up on the debate. We were grabbed roughly from behind, and the fifis went through our pockets.