by James R Benn
And praying Diana or one of her SOE team was.
My hands were slick with sweat. My feet barely kept their grip on the slanting metal roof. I pulled myself along, fingernails sounding a drumbeat on the zinc.
I heard the squeal of brakes, then an engine gunning. Shouts from below. A truck rolled around the corner, braking again at the front door of the One-Two-Two. Krauts vaulted out of the truck as the Citroën sped out from the side road and pulled up next to it.
I froze. There was no way to get to the skylight in time. As the troops pounded on the door I waited for the skylight to open, for Diana and her people to flee.
A flurry of shouts rose up from below, and the Germans were inside. Two shots rang out from behind the One-Two-Two, then another volley. Someone tried to escape, only to run into the Gestapo waiting for them. I prayed, I pleaded with God to let Diana join me on the roof. We could run away, be safe, wait for the Allies to show up. We could have another day. Another night.
The skylight remained shut.
Shrieks and cries rose from the open windows. I looked below and saw Lambert waiting by the car, leaning against it, gazing at the windows as if he were enjoying the shock, fear, and terror the Gestapo raid spread through the house. I wanted to reach out and strangle him, if only to wash away the guilt I felt for bringing him here.
This was all my fault.
They came out. Soldiers first, then a Gestapo man.
Then Diana. Clothed in a long white dress, a second Gestapo agent clutching her arm. She didn’t resist. There was no point, except to seek a bullet. She was followed by a man I hadn’t seen before. Maybe her radio operator, since one of the Krauts carried a suitcase that was the size of an SOE radio case. He struggled, but it was useless. Maybe he wanted the bullet.
I didn’t want to think about that. Or about where Diana was going. I had to think of something to do.
There was nothing I could do.
Doors slammed. The Kraut soldaten got into their truck, the Citroën roared off, leaving Lambert standing in the street. I started to scramble back, thinking I might be able to get at him. But the second Gestapo car came from around back, pulled up, and let him in. They drove off in the opposite direction, heading uphill to Montmartre. Giving the collaborator a ride home. How thoughtful.
I edged back the way I’d come. Took the stairs down into the kitchen of Le Mistral, palmed a small paring knife, and left by the back door.
I ran.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was uphill all the way, but when you’ve reloaded Pervitin a few times, the hills don’t seem to matter as much. I didn’t let up, despite the pain in my thighs, despite gasping for air, despite my heart thumping against my ribcage.
There were still things I could do. Get back to Kaz, contact Remke, work a deal of some kind. Exchange myself for Diana, anything to get her free of the Gestapo. I didn’t have much time, but I had some, and I’d spend it on Lambert.
I didn’t go around the front, remembering his escape out the rear window. I hustled down the back alley and stood behind the old building that housed Lambert’s tiny apartment. Windows were wide open, and I could hear the soft strains of his violin floating through them.
The last person to have the violin was Jarnac. Had he returned it to his brother? Was he inside, listening to the serenade, celebrating the revenge they’d taken on Diana? I grabbed a garbage can and pulled it over to the low roof of the cottage abutting Lambert’s building, reversing the course he’d taken when he tried to get away from me. I got on it, almost fell off, finally grabbed the rain gutter, and hoisted myself up. I got to Lambert’s window, the violin louder as I drew closer. I snuck a look into the kitchen. No one there, no sound other than the musical notes and the scrape of the horsehair bow over strings.
I eased through the tall window, letting myself down onto the kitchen floor as quietly as I could. The knife came out of my pocket. I stood still, quieting myself, listening for sounds or voices.
The music. Shuffling footsteps from the next room down a high-ceilinged hallway, sweaters and jackets hanging from hooks along the wall. I took two steps closer, listening for any reaction. Nothing changed. A few more careful steps, and I was at the door, looking into a sitting room. Lambert was alone, standing by the window, eyes closed, violin tucked under his chin, delicate hands fingering his precious Italian instrument from the last century.
I was going to kill him. He was a collaborator by any definition, an informer, the lowest of the low. Any Resistance member would shake my hand for it. He’d gotten two agents captured, the third killed. He’d taken away what I loved most in this world when he threw Diana to the wolves.
Fair’s fair.
I half turned and took two steps, the look on his face dream-like as I approached.
I slashed his hand. The bow dropped to the floor, blood splattered across his chest. His eyes opened in shock, his mouth gaping in surprise. He didn’t feel the pain. Not yet.
I cut his other hand as it gripped the neck of the violin. Straight across the knuckles.
He gasped.
I had to hand it to him; even as he backed away, he managed to hold onto the violin, clasping it to his chest as his blood coated it.
“Sit down,” I said, pushing him into an armchair. I took the violin as the pain ate through the shock and he winced, rocking back and forth, cradling his bleeding hands. I tossed him a shirt that had been hanging on a chair and took a seat facing him.
“Please, don’t,” Lambert said, doing his best to wrap his hands. He cringed as I leaned closer. “No more.”
“Tell me why you did it,” I said, setting the violin on the floor. “You didn’t have to.”
“Please, be careful with my violin,” he said, his crazed eyes darting between the knife in my hands and his prized possession on the carpet.
“That fiddle is the least of your worries. Answer me.”
“You tricked me. That woman too. Marcel said I should inform the authorities,” he said, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain.
“The Gestapo, you mean. Weren’t you surprised your big brother told you that? He’s on the other side, isn’t he?”
“Yes, yes, but he said it wasn’t right, what you’d done,” Lambert said. “Please, let me go to the doctor.”
“Wait,” I said, seeing how things weren’t adding up. “When did you speak to him?”
“An hour ago, when he brought my violin back,” he said. “He knows how I value it.”
“No, that wouldn’t have given you enough time. It sure wasn’t enough time for the Gestapo to set up the whole raid on the One-Two-Two. You had to go to them right after you got away. I really did underestimate you, Paul. You’re in this with your brother, aren’t you?”
“No, no,” he said. “Marcel is a patriot, a good Communist.”
“We both know that’s not true. And we both know you went to the Gestapo all by yourself. My guess is that Marcel was delivering information to the Abwehr and passing the same dope on to you to give the Gestapo. That way you double your money, right?”
“What is dope? I do not understand you. Please, it hurts.” He clutched the shirt as best he could, clumsily wrapping it around his hands. Blood welled up, overflowing the split flesh. No matter how hard he tried to staunch the flow at one slash, another ran red rivulets down his arm.
“You understand enough, you bastard,” I said, slapping him hard. “Did I just miss Marcel? Did he come by to congratulate you?”
“Oui,” he spat, the first glimmer of hatred showing in his eyes. “But he will not miss you. He will finish you. And that boche officer, both. You will not live to see the Allies in Paris, believe me.”
“He’s killing other Communists,” I said. “Using the Saint-Just Brigade to murder those who don’t measure up to their definition of a good Red. Why are you part of that?”
<
br /> “He is my brother,” Lambert said, wincing as another wave of pain washed over him.
“There’s more,” I said, holding up the blade. “Tell me. Or else.”
“I will, I will,” Lambert said as he wept. “Marcel came back from Spain broken in spirit, yet he still raised me, took care of me. Ma mère died giving birth to me. Mon père was a pig of a man who beat me. Marcel rescued me and did everything for me, even in his terrible pain. So, I do everything for him. If he wants to kill le Bolchevik, then that is what we do. Better even to have them kill their own, to Renée.”
“That’s quite a sob story. You love your brother,” I said.
“Oui.”
“And you love music. Playing the violin,” I said.
“Do not damage the violin, please,” he said, his eyes caressing the instrument at my feet.
“I’m going to tell you something, Paul. I am going to kill Marcel. Today, tomorrow, whenever and wherever I find him. You will never have your brother again.” I rose, stepping out into the hallway and grabbing some of the clothing hung on hooks. “I’m sure those cuts hurt, but not as badly as you might imagine. Do you know why?”
“What? It hurts, please, I need a doctor.”
“You do,” I said, wrapping a coat around his torso and pulling it tight, tying off the sleeves at his back. I took a belt from a raincoat and tied one ankle to the leg of the heavy armchair, then did the same to the other leg with a cord pulled from the curtains. Satisfied he wasn’t going to run away, I went into his bedroom and returned with a sheet.
“Please, bandage my hands, call a doctor,” he said. I began to rip the sheets.
“I don’t see a telephone,” I said.
“The tabac down the street,” he said, a glimmer of hope in his expression.
“You really need stitches,” I said, pulling the bloody shirt away and stuffing it into his mouth. Blood oozed from the deep cuts, welling up like witch’s tears. “I knew a cop who was cut like that, from the thumb across the back of his hand. Did it to himself with a razor-sharp knife on a fishing boat when a swell hit. Should’ve paid attention, but he had his eye on storm clouds moving in fast. Took them a while to get in since they were tossed around a bit. He’d bandaged his hand, but said he wasn’t worried because it didn’t hurt too much. By the time he got to the hospital the next morning, the doc told him there’d be permanent nerve damage. It’s the radial nerve. Runs up the back of the hand into the thumb and forefingers. His hand was numb, he just didn’t realize it.”
Paul mumbled something through the gag as he studied his hands, both with the same arcing slice.
“Yeah. It’s dawning on you, isn’t it? Don’t worry, you’re not going to bleed to death. But by the time you get out of here, it’ll be too late to heal those nerves. Probably is already, but I want you to have a lot of time to think about it. Your life is ruined. But cheer up, Paul. There’s good news.”
He raised his head to follow me as I used the strips of bedsheet to bind him to the chair even more tightly, hoping it was all a charade, that I was going to call a doctor, that he’d be okay, that his music would once again fill the air.
“The good news is, I’m not going to destroy your violin,” I said. I picked it up and set it carefully on a chair in front of him. “Look at it. I want you to think about what you’ve lost.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I left a whimpering Paul Lambert behind, my rage at what he’d done unabated. It felt better than doing nothing at all, but it didn’t feel great. Whatever happened, at least I wouldn’t have to think about him living free and easy while Diana suffered. Or died.
I grabbed his bicycle from the landing. First stop was the tabac. It was crowded, with people pawing at a fresh stack of Combat newspapers. The headline was something about French troops and Paris, but all I cared about was whether this was a friendly place to ask a favor.
“Telephone?” I said to the mec at the counter.
“Téléphone?” he answered, his brow furrowed as he took in my accent and the rosy spray of blood on my sleeve. I explained as best I could that I was an American and needed to make a call. This set off a flurry of cheers, hugs, kisses, and a bottle passed around to the delight of all, the blood forgotten or perhaps assumed to be boche.
Everyone was celebrating, except me. I wanted to make a damned telephone call. I said something rude, and the men crowding me understood the tone, backing away, and muttering. Bad move. I needed a friendly favor, not an argument.
“Désolé,” I said, holding up my hands to all present. “La guerre.”
That put me back in everyone’s good graces, and I toasted de Gaulle when the bottle came my way. Our comradeship cemented, I managed to get across that I needed to call Le Royal Bar on the rue Saint-Honoré. A telephone book was thumbed through, a few customers telling the mec to hurry up, which he responded to with a few choice words.
In a minute he put the call through and handed me the receiver. He waved for everyone to be silent as I heard a faint voice answer.
“Berthe?” I asked. It was. “Le baron? C’est Bill-lee.”
“Oui. Un moment.” I heard the telephone clatter as she set it down. The crowd gathered in close, and I gave the thumbs up. A muted cheer arose.
“Billy?” It was Kaz. “Where are you?”
“Montmartre,” I said. “They’ve taken Diana. The Gestapo.”
The mention of the dreaded secret police drew a gasp. A few people moved away.
“When?” Kaz said, staying cool. “At the One-Two-Two?”
“Yes. Less than an hour ago. It was Paul Lambert, but that doesn’t matter. Call Remke, see if he can do anything. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Dear God. Yes, yes, I will call the Meurice immediately. Come quickly.”
I left amid cries of bonne chance and vive de Gaulle. I waved as I hopped on the bicycle and pedaled away, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wasn’t sure what Remke could really do. The Gestapo was a law unto itself.
But there was a chance. There had to be a chance. I coasted down the hills, thankful at least for an easier trip out of Montmartre than in.
Bells began to ring. A few at first, and within seconds it seemed as if every church bell in Paris joined in and didn’t let up. It wasn’t marking the hour, this was something else, something joyous. Good news for someone, but not the news I needed. I realized I hadn’t heard church bells ringing at all while in Paris, and now they were unleashed and making up for lost time, the peals sounding from every direction.
I skirted the One-Two-Two club. I couldn’t look at it. Didn’t want to be reminded of how helpless I felt watching Diana being taken away. Going around the One-Two-Two got me lost and dumped me into a roundabout that brought me around the back of the opera house, decorated with swastika banners. The administrative headquarters of German forces in Paris was right across the street with its own banner in black Gothic letters. I couldn’t turn around, it would arouse too much attention. I pedaled on, playing the Parisian.
The sentries ignored me. They were looking at each other, craning their necks to determine where the bell-ringing was coming from, and shaking their heads. I think they knew what it meant. There was only one thing that would wake all those silent bells.
Allied tanks. Leclerc.
As loud as the bells were, it took me a moment to realize there was no shooting. A ceasefire? Or perhaps the Germans were repositioning what combat troops they had left to oppose the armored advance.
Maybe no one wanted to die when the outcome was about to be made certain.
Whatever the reason, I decided to take my chances on the avenue de l’Opéra, a straight shot to my destination. I could have chosen a better way to put that, but I prayed I hadn’t jinxed myself and bent over the handlebars and pumped like hell.
The avenue was deserted. A few people, some of them
armed, stirred at street corners and ventured out a few steps. No marching Germans, no truckloads of retreating troops from Normandy.
Maybe the front was moving on Paris faster than the Krauts could retreat from it. Perhaps they’d gotten out all the combat troops they could. I slowed myself and braked in front of Le Royal Bar, hopping off the bike and dashing inside. Kaz sat at the bar, the telephone in front of him, chatting with Berthe’s grand-père. At the end of the bar, three young men and a woman sat cleaning an assortment of weapons. A couple of pistols, two German rifles, along with several Sten guns. Twenty-four hours ago, it would have been unthinkable to do that in any public place. Things were moving quickly.
Berthe ran up and asked me something, pointing outside.
“She wants to know if that is your bicycle,” Kaz said, his voice weary and low.
“She can have it,” I said, knowing how valuable bikes were when people weren’t allowed to purchase petrol. “The owner won’t be needing it.”
I sat at the bar while Kaz translated for Berthe. She skipped outside, happy enough. Liberation and a new bicycle. Through the window, I could see her working to remove the small yellow license plate, required by the Germans on all bicycles. Good. There was no reason for her to be linked to Lambert’s place.
I looked to Kaz, my question unspoken.
“I got through to Colonel Remke,” he said. “He promised to call back.”
“But what did he say?”
“That he would check with the Gestapo. But it may be difficult since most of them are gone, and the rest are packing up whatever they can steal. He offered to say she was his informant, and that he’d like her back.”