by James R Benn
“There was another member of the team taken,” I said, nodding my thanks to the old man who set a glass of beer in front of me.
“Billy, it will be a miracle if he gets Diana back. A miracle,” he repeated.
“If they haven’t left yet, maybe we can stop them,” I said. “Gestapo headquarters is on avenue Foch, right?”
“Yes, past the Arc de Triomphe, about an hour’s leisurely walk,” Kaz said. “Faster with a bicycle, of course. But what could you do there? Think about it, Billy. Any action you take will get Diana killed in a moment.”
“If there’s not many of them, maybe I could surprise them. Sneak inside.”
“Billy, slow down. Listen to yourself. There are only the two of us. As you pointed out, I am in no condition to engage in a fight with anyone. You are suffering from lack of sleep and too much Pervitin, both on top of a bad case of nerves. Don’t deny it. You are perfectly poised to make a terrible decision.” His eyes bored into mine, and I knew he was right. I had to look away.
“I already made a terrible decision, back when I took Lambert to Diana. It’s my fault, Kaz. She’s in a Gestapo cell and it’s my fault.” I drank down the beer and rolled the cool glass against my forehead. I didn’t know what to do.
The telephone rang.
“Allô? Ja, ich verstehe.”
No one paid any mind to Kaz’s shift from French to German. The barman poured a small glass of brandy and set it down in front of Kaz, who nodded his thanks as he listened. Everybody loves a baron.
I couldn’t follow the conversation at all. It was mostly Kaz responding with a yes or no and asking a few quick questions. I figured Remke wanted the conversation in German at his end, since English was obviously out of the question and French might raise suspicions.
Kaz hung up. And sighed.
“Colonel Remke contacted the remaining senior Gestapo agent in Paris and explained he wanted an informant released. He was told there would be no further need for informants since Paris would be destroyed before the Allies could enter, and that all political prisoners were being transported to the Reich,” Kaz said. He took a sip of the brandy.
“He’s got to be able to do something else,” I said, wracking my brain to think what that could be. I watched the four FFI fighters gather up the weapons and leave, their faces lit by determination and long pent-up rage.
“He tried, Billy. He sent his aide with a written order demanding Diana’s release. The aide and his driver were ambushed by the FFI before they got halfway there. His aide was killed, and the driver wounded. He regrets there is nothing else he can do.”
“He’s probably too busy packing,” I said, the words bitter in my throat even as I knew them to be unfair.
“The colonel will not be leaving,” Kaz said. “He has been ordered to remain by his Abwehr superiors and report on conditions until the last. A useless task, he said, and one that was probably aimed at keeping him safe from an investigation into his role in the July 20 plot once he returned to Germany.”
“I bet his bosses were worried he’d talk and implicate them,” I said. Which only made me think about Diana being interrogated by those bastards. I tried to stop thinking about it.
“He said a small detachment of Leclerc’s tanks has crossed into the southern suburbs. German troops are being pulled back, and it may only be hours before the Allies are here in force,” Kaz said, taking another drink. “He thought the Gestapo would pull out at dusk to take advantage of traveling in darkness.”
“How many of them?” I had to ask.
“They have a platoon of soldiers for an escort and some of the Vichy militia still left in Paris to guard three truckloads of prisoners,” Kaz said. “The avenue Foch runs through a wealthy part of town. There are no barricades there, nothing to stop them, and more German troops bivouacked in the nearby Bois de Boulogne. It is an impossible situation, Billy.”
“I can’t just sit here,” I said, running my fingers through my hair, feeling like ants were crawling over me. Despair ate at my gut, and I thought I might be sick. “I have to go.”
“Where?” Kaz asked, but he already knew. “Go then, Billy. I will be here,” he said, drawing a city map closer. It was marked with German positions. “Stay a block north of the Champs-Élysées, there are German strongpoints along the way. See?” I did. “Then stay on the right side of the Arc de Triomphe and go straight up avenue Foch. There are trees on either side that should give you cover.”
I studied the map for a moment, stood, and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Thanks. You should get some rest. Go upstairs.”
“No. Colonel Remke said he would call if there was any unexpected development. I am perfectly fine, Billy. Go.”
I squeezed his shoulder and stopped myself from telling him what a terrible liar he was.
I walked out, taking a route that skirted the Hotel Meurice and kept me on the far side of the Champs-Élysées. Every shop I saw was closed, either looted of anything valuable, or waiting out the final battle. The cafés were open, busy as hell with people gathered for a drink and the latest news. A couple of FFI trucks rolled past, fighters shouting out to people on the street, notes of joy and defiance mingling with the grinding of gears and blue exhaust fumes.
Shots sounded, tiny far-off pop pop pops that could have signaled celebration or mayhem. I couldn’t do much of either. No weapon and no friends other than a Kraut colonel who couldn’t do a damn thing and Kaz, who was wise enough to know there was nothing to be done.
Smoke rose in the sky from somewhere across the river.
One loud explosion sounded, close, but the echoes bounced around, and I had no idea where or what it was.
I saw the Arc de Triomphe in the distance and cut through a side street thronged with people celebrating, a barricade topped by laughing children. People started slapping me on the back, and a woman kissed me, her lipstick tasting of raspberries and blood. I pushed away a bottle of wine and elbowed my way through the crowd, leaving a few choice words in my wake.
I hated seeing the Arch. It was the kind of spot I wanted to stroll by with Diana on my arm, in a Paris free of Nazis, on a breezy summer’s day like this. Instead, she was in a prison cell. I spat on the sidewalk and hurried on.
The avenue Foch was bordered on either side by a green strip of grass and trees, a thin park along the thoroughfare. Kaz was right, it was easy to dart between the trees and hide in the deepening shade.
I crouched behind a tree trunk as two trucks drove by, full of Fritzes headed home. Kaz had been right about the neighborhood too. Big, fancy mansions lined the road, sort of like Beacon Hill without the hill and more room to spread out. I came close to the end of the avenue where most of the homes had their curtains drawn, as if proximity to the Gestapo bred a desire to see nothing of the outside world, and for the world to see even less of you.
I spotted trucks lined up outside number eighty-four, a couple of houses ahead. Kraut sentries stood behind a tall wrought iron fence, beneath red swastika banners hanging limply in the afternoon sun. More trucks were parked behind the fence, and I saw soldiers loading boxes inside them. Smoke drifted up from the rear of the building, probably burning files, the kind of documents that would incriminate the Nazis and their Vichy allies.
I faded back into the trees, working my way closer until I had a good view of the main entrance. A line of hedges gave me good cover as I knelt next to a tree and leaned against it. My legs ached, and my insides felt hollow. When was the last time I had eaten? I had no idea. No idea what day it was, no idea what I could do other than be here and hope Diana somehow knew. Knew I stood witness, knew I would find her. Somehow. Someday.
My body went limp with fatigue. My mind was still racing, still full of zing, but I felt like melting into the ground and resting there forever, even if I couldn’t shut down the thoughts pinging around inside my head. Or the guilt I fel
t in my heart.
I couldn’t afford to nod off. I took the tin of Pervitin out of my pocket and shook the pills into my hand. Three left. I took one and dry-swallowed it. The last one, I promised myself. After this one wore off, there’d be no need, no reason to stay awake. I thought about taking the other two, just for a minute, and opened the tin again. I threw them away.
I settled in, waiting, turning the tin over and over in my hand, the red and blue label mesmerizing as I twirled it. I looked at my watch. A few hours left until dusk. I watched the Krauts behind the fence loading the trucks and tying down the tarpaulin covers. That left the two trucks on the road for the prisoners, unless there was another I couldn’t see. I’d have a good chance of seeing Diana if they brought them out front.
The Pervitin kicked in, and I had a hard time sitting still. I twirled the tin as fast as I could but fumbled it with my shaky hand. I picked it up with my steady left hand and twirled it in the opposite direction. I pressed my cheek against the rough bark of the tree, trying to feel something other than shame and despair. How could I have been so stupid? Why did I leave Lambert with Diana, thinking he was harmless? This is war, and fresh-faced kids were killing one another every day.
I wanted to rage, to scream, to cry out Diana’s name.
But I kept quiet, hiding behind the shrubbery.
Time passed. Kraut guards walked around the trucks a few times. They carried their rifles slung on their shoulders, laughing and joking the way idle soldiers do. On the doorstep of the infamous Gestapo headquarters, they had no reason to be afraid. Fear was their weapon.
A couple of them stopped on their circuit of the parked vehicles to lean against a truck and have a smoke, out of sight of their officers. I began to think about what I could do to damage those trucks, but I didn’t even have that paring knife anymore. I had nothing but an empty tin.
I stared at it. Bright red and blue with white lettering. The colors of the French flag. The British and American colors as well. I twirled it some more and got up from my crouch, moving slowly behind the tree, watching carefully.
The soldaten ground out their cigarettes and walked back to the wrought iron gate.
I weighed my chances. Could I make it to the back of the closest truck? There was only a fifty-fifty chance they’d put Diana on that one, but it gave me the best line of approach. If any one of the guards took a few steps in my direction, I’d be dead.
I waited, hoping for a break, knowing it was useless, crazy at best.
Minutes later, the call came. A voice hollered out something, and I heard the shuffle of boots. Something about essen, which I knew was the Kraut word for chow. It made sense. If they were about to hit the road, they’d feed their men. Maybe they were overconfident, leaving the trucks on the road unguarded, but I doubted they’d be that way for long.
I ran low along the hedge, went through a gap and stayed down as I sprinted across the street. I placed the tin on the truck bed, right in the center, an arm’s length in. The bright colors stood out even in the gloom beneath the canvas top. I darted back to my spot, feeling foolishly hopeful.
Would Diana see the pitiful gesture? Would she know it meant I was close, that I would do whatever it took to get her back? Would she know I was sorry?
Or would she be hustled into the next truck, taken away, and disappear?
I didn’t have long to wait. The guards must have wolfed down their black bread and sausage, since doors slammed open minutes later amid shouts and commands, the starting of engines and the grating sound of iron gates being opened.
A double line of prisoners was marched out, each one with their hands bound. First in line was the man captured along with Diana. An officer trailed him, carrying the suitcase radio used by the SOE. Odds were they’d keep him alive for a while and try to force him to radio London with phony information.
Then I saw Diana, her white dress standing out like a beacon. It was still clean. No bloodstains.
The two lines were marched to the waiting trucks. A guard waded in between them separating the prisoners with his rifle butt, directing the line Diana was in to the first truck.
The one with the tin.
The man in front of her was the first one up, and he extended his arm to help her.
She took it, then froze. For a second or two, that’s all. I saw her fall, her hand going down to the truck bed as if to steady herself. She looked back, scanning the street, her eyes searching, but a guard forced her in, jabbing at her with his rifle.
She’d seen it. She knew.
Maybe it gave her some small hope.
It was foolish, all right, but it created another connection between us, that little tin carrying the weight of our desires. To survive and be together again. Or to die and be together again.
I watched the convoy roll away, the canvas tops tied down tight, marking the beginning of the prisoners’ journey into darkness.
I stood up, brushed myself off, and started walking back.
The bells were still ringing across the city.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The sky was darkening as I walked along the deserted avenue Foch. Distant explosions sounded from across the river, faint glows from fires marked by columns of black smoke. Occasional rattles of gunfire broke out, rising quickly into chattering crescendos and ending as abruptly.
I took my time, wandering down side streets. I stopped to gaze out over the Seine, flowing peacefully as the city waited for its liberation, and Germans waited for death or captivity. I didn’t see any more trucks or half-tracks crammed with escaping troops. The front was nearly here, and most of the Fritzes still in town were stuck for the duration.
There were plenty of them out in front of the Hotel Meurice, where General von Choltitz held sway over the ever-diminishing German real estate in Paris, and where Erich Remke was marooned. For them, the war was nearly over.
Allied tanks were drawing closer. And Paris was intact. Some solace there, for this grand city, but I couldn’t feel it. I knew it, but there was no joy in the knowledge.
I approached Le Royal Bar as Berthe was drawing the blackout curtains. I doubted any German patrols would be coming around to enforce the regulation, but years of habit are hard to break.
“Monsieur Bill-lee, vite, vite,” she said, waving her arms as soon as I was through the door. Worry was etched on her young face, and I followed her to the rear of the bar. “Le baron.”
Kaz was on the floor. He didn’t look good. He lay on a blanket, another one rolled up under his head. His face was pale, and his breath came and went in ragged gasps.
“Kaz,” I said, taking his hand. He didn’t respond. I looked to the half dozen people standing there, most of them armed and some of them sporting bloody bandages. “Does anyone speak English? What happened?”
“Il est tombé,” said a young woman with a German MP40 slung over her shoulder. I had no idea what that meant, which she must have understood from the look on my face.
“Téléphone,” Berthe said, tapping the bar and keeping it simple. “Boche.” Then she made a falling-down motion with her hand.
“The German called and he fell down?” I put my hand to my face like a telephone and did the same falling routine. She nodded and knelt to point at Kaz’s head. I felt behind his ear and found a nasty bump. It was bad enough that he’d had another heart attack, but he’d smacked his head as well.
“Doctor?” I asked.
Everyone shook their head.
“Beaucoup blessé,” Berthe said, pointing to each of the wounded. Yeah, I got that. Many wounded. Too many for the doctors at the makeshift hospital. I noticed the bandages and medical kit on a table and realized the bar was functioning as an aid station, patching up the slightly wounded to lighten the workload down at the Metro station. Weapons and ammunition were stacked up against the rear wall, perhaps from the more badly wounded. S
ince the underground doctors hadn’t done anything for Kaz except give him a cot, this stretch of floor would do just as well.
Pointing to my wristwatch, we worked out that the call had been about fifteen minutes ago.
“Merci,” I said to Berthe and the others. “Merci.”
I sat on the floor next to Kaz, willing his eyes to open. Berthe brought a damp washcloth and dabbed it on his forehead. He didn’t respond.
What had Remke said?
Was it good news, or something so terrible it gave Kaz a shock?
It couldn’t really be either, I thought. Diana was in a truck headed to Germany. What good or bad thing could have happened quickly enough for Remke to call about?
“Snap out of it, Kaz,” I whispered. “Don’t you leave too.”
I put my hand on his chest. I could feel his heart beating. I’d once held a bird between my cupped hands as it fluttered against my palms. That’s what it felt like.
I moved my hand and rubbed my eyes, feeling the bone-deep weariness hiding behind the shivers of drugged energy running through my body. I needed to rest, but it was impossible to still my jangly nerves. I wanted to stop thinking, to stop wondering and worrying about Diana and Kaz, but they were the only things on my mind.
Except for Remke’s message.
I had to find out what it was.
I got up, went to the bar, and took a long drink of water. Berthe brought bread around to the wounded and ripped off a chunk for me. I ate, knowing I had to. I drank some more, then checked the weapons in the back. I took a Sten gun and several magazines of ammo.
No one said a thing. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar as I left.
I wouldn’t have said anything to me either. Unshaven and grim, with pinpoint dark pupils and a haunted look, the image seemed to be of another man. A man on the edge with everything to lose.
About right. I headed for the Hotel Meurice, to the sound of heavy firing across the Seine.
Hurry up, you bastards.