“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Report to me at once when you find something.”
“Jawohl.”
The agent gave him a crisp salute and clicked his heels before taking his leave.
Sievers leaned onto his desk, squinting his eyes into mere slits in an attempt to recall something that kept escaping his memory. He remained in the same position until his adjutant announced the arrival of his second-in-command; a former, entirely nondescript-looking colleague from the German police, who now went by the very becoming nickname of ‘The Shadow.’
“What’s the news?” Sievers asked, after exchanging a firm handshake with the man.
“I’ve spent the whole evening and night on the tracks, in the exact spot which the husband pointed out to me.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No one appeared. The good news is that we raked the entire length of the tracks from there to the next station with the dogs, and we found no traces of explosives.”
Sievers sighed, looking somewhat disappointed but concerned at the same time.
“Do you think they smelled a rat and decided to cancel their plans?” he asked the man reluctantly.
“Highly unlikely.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Any progress with the woman?”
“No. I was hoping that Laure would be an easier case, to be honest with you. But she’s keeping stubbornly quiet.”
Both went silent for a few moments.
“Where do you think they will strike then?”
“I wish I knew, Jürgen. I wish I knew.”
“Any suggestions then?”
“Tell your men to double, triple, their efforts in interrogating her. The second day is when they usually break. Beat the confession out of her before it’s too late.”
Sievers sighed again and had already placed a hand on the black telephone on his desk when his adjutant appeared in the door, his eyes shining with excitement.
“I’m sorry for the interruption, Herr Standartenführer. A man is here, claiming he knows where the diversion is to take place. He just turned himself in. He’s a British MI6 agent, he says. He declines to talk to anyone else besides you.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Sievers slammed the phone down. “Bring him in!”
Tommy sat in a padded chair, calmly observing the contents of the office and the two overpoweringly bright swastika banners framing the window on the opposite wall. The German in front of him, together with his plain-clothed friend, seemed impatient to receive the information he claimed he had.
“I would like a personal guarantee that you will release Madame Vignon at once, as soon as I tell you everything about the diversion.”
“You’re in no position to trade—” The plain-clothed man started, but the man in the uniform interrupted him with his raised hand.
“You have my guarantee that she will be granted life. I cannot, however, promise you her freedom.”
Tommy nodded and stole a glance at his watch once again. The time was tight, but they didn’t know it yet. If he calculated everything correctly, they would never make it in time to the place that would be blown up to pieces in a mere ten minutes. They had agreed on the time with Arthur when Tommy had handed him the suitcases before his fellow countryman had left for Dijon.
“She isn’t an active member of the Resistance; we only used her as a distraction tactic. She hasn’t told you anything yet because she doesn’t know anything.” One thing Tommy knew how to do well was to lie convincingly. He had learned how to act and pretend ever since high school. “My friend and I organized the whole thing, just like the first diversion. We report directly to MI6 headquarters in London. We are the ones who you need, not these poor Frenchies. They’ve suffered enough at your hands; let them be. Especially her. She’s a lady, after all. It really is a shame what you’re doing.”
The plain-clothed man began to argue with him, but his superior raised his hand once again, stopping him.
“Just name the place.”
Tommy leaned over the map spread out on the desk in front of him, and indicated a tiny spot, watching both men become pale as realization dawned on their faces.
“But it’s… It’s…” The plain-clothed agent looked at his superior helplessly.
“Why are you still here?! Call all the brigades to go there at once!”
Tommy concealed a grin at the commotion he had just caused. Yes, call the brigades. Maybe they will get their share of shrapnel as well. And then, maybe Marcel would forgive him and shed a tear for him on the day of his execution. Tommy would leave this life just like he had lived it: fearlessly and without regret. Yes, call the brigades, call all of them, sir.
Arthur stopped in front of the Soldaten Café, reserved specifically for German officers and the rare Frenchmen who could afford to dine there. He checked his watch and fixed his hat, generously lent to him by the Chief himself, together with a suit and a heavy woolen coat he was also wearing. Now he was a British demolitions expert, dressed as the finest French bourgeois. The suitcase that he carried was made of the finest patent leather, its buckle shining in the sun. Inside, the timing mechanism was already counting down the minutes, previously set up by Arthur in the train station bathroom. A second suitcase had been left in the same station, inconspicuously placed near a pile of luggage, set to blow up later than the first one, just as the train started gaining speed. No one would be hurt, but the damage would definitely stop the wood shipment that the Germans in the Eastern front expected.
Arthur walked inside the café, tipped his hat gallantly to the officers enjoying their lunch and beer, thanked the waiter who offered him a table in the corner, and slid the suitcase under his seat. He ordered coffee, smoked a cigarette, bought “the gentlemen” at the bar a round of drinks, raised his glass and even said “Prost” to their victory, kindly asked the waiter to bring another coffee, and inquired as to where he could make an important call to Paris.
“Outside, Monsieur. There’s a phone booth across the street. We have a city line here only, I’m afraid.” The waiter spread out his hands in a helpless gesture, much to Arthur’s relief.
“Splendid. If I order soup, I suppose it’ll be ready by the time I return?” Arthur got up from his seat, leaving his hat and his coat hanging near his table.
“Most definitely, Monsieur.”
“I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Arthur threw the waiter a glance, inwardly regretting that the Frenchman would become an unwitting casualty, but then regained his composure, reminded himself that the waiter was a collaborator and was eating from the Nazis’ hands, and walked out of place with a resolute step.
He stopped near the phone booth across the street, glanced at the clock on the building in front of him and stepped inside the booth, preparing himself for the deafening blast.
25
The orderly stepped away after unlocking the heavy metal door and assumed his position behind the two visitors. Jürgen Sievers faltered in the entrance of the dark cell, observing the lifeless figure on the floor with a pensive look on his face. Blanche craned her neck from behind his shoulder, scrutinizing the body on the floor with an unhealthy gleam in her eyes. She felt a surge of disappointment shoot through her as the figure moved her arm to cover her eyes from the bright light. Blanche had been hoping to find the prisoner dead.
Sievers cleared his throat and turned to the soldier behind his back, irritation written on his face. “You just left her on the bare floor like that? Give her a blanket or something, for Christ’s sake!”
The orderly clicked his heels and ran along the corridor in search of the needed item.
“Why such mercy?” Blanche voiced her thoughts with unmasked hostility. “You’re going to kill her anyway, aren’t you?”
The look that Sievers shot her made Blanche’s cheeks flare up. She lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze which was full of contempt.
“She deserves to
face her fate with dignity, after all she’s been through,” he replied curtly and refused to speak another word with Blanche until the orderly appeared again, holding a thin woolen blanket in his hands.
“Cover her!” Sievers barked out.
The orderly dutifully obeyed, shaking the prisoner’s shoulder slightly in the hope of waking her up.
A small smile touched the corners of Sievers’ mouth as he searched the prisoner’s face thoroughly, not discovering any damage. The rest of her body would heal; but having a weakness for art and everything refined, most of all Sievers loathed destroying what was pleasing to his eye, and she was indeed a remarkable woman, this Laure Vignon. Even now, barely alive and unable to stand up, she was looking at him with such scorn and defiance, that Sievers couldn’t help but admire such stoicism. Yes, a remarkable opponent indeed.
“I came to congratulate you, Madame Vignon.” He stepped inside the cell but kept a respectful distance, even though she had managed to wrap herself in the blanket; more to keep herself warm than minding her modesty, he thought. Closer up, he noted that her forehead was covered in a thin film of sweat. She had likely caught a fever spending the night naked on the bare concrete on a freezing October night. “You won after all.”
She rubbed her eyes as if trying to remember who he was and what she was doing there.
“I did?” Her voice came in a raspy whisper, and she cleared her throat.
“Yes. Your people not only caused damage to the tracks for which we were fearing, but blew up our Soldaten Café as well. Twelve of our officers died.”
A crooked grin appeared on her face. Sievers forced himself not to smile in response.
“I must say, I never expected you to hold on for so long.”
“Trust me, I didn’t expect it from myself either,” she replied, her eyes closing against her will. “Is it over now? I’m really tired.”
“Yes, it is, Madame Vignon,” he said in a mild voice.
Blanche regarded the woman in the cell with a triumphant sneer. He’ll kill her after all, and it will be her and him again, just the two of them.
“I also owe you an apology,” he continued. “You probably know how we’re all taught in the Reich how blood is above all, and how the German race is superior. I’ll admit, that’s exactly what I said to this young lady, Fräulein Blanche, whose father happens to be German, in order to persuade her that we’re much closer kin to her than the French, and that she deserves better than how her fellow countrymen treated her, and that she’s much better than her fellow French folk simply because of the blood that runs through her veins. You see, it’s rather easy to persuade someone to your side when you ceaselessly repeat that they are superior. Once you separate former allies, you can easily beat them one by one. Everyone wants to belong to the group that holds power. Everyone wants to be superior. However, a desire to be superior and the ability to act superior are two very different things. You read Nietzsche, so you must know what I’m referring to. I don’t want to bore you with my musings as I know that you wish for this to be over with, and I assure you, you’ll have plenty of time to rest soon. I only wanted to apologize for thinking less of you than I thought of Fräulein Blanche, simply because she’s part German. She turned out to be a disappointment. But you… You, Madame, have gained my utmost respect, even though I’m not supposed to say it to you. I had to tell you this though so that you’d know how much I respected you and that I would give anything to have you on my side. But I already know what your answer will be, and I won’t insult you by insisting on it. I would only like to shake your hand, as a farewell.”
He held out his hand. She looked at it for some time and then slowly slid her palm into his.
“Help me up, will you?” she asked, without releasing his hand.
Sievers carefully held her by the elbows as she rose to her feet, still swaying slightly from her injuries and high fever.
“If you respect me as much as you say you do, I would like to die with dignity.” She still held his hand firmly in hers as she spoke with determination, her palm sweaty and burning. “I want to get shot, not hanged, like a common thief. Will you do that for me?”
Sievers grinned, an impish light appearing in his eyes. “I will if you tell me your real name. It would be a shame if you die as Laure Vignon, a factory girl.”
She pondered for a moment, but then nodded and whispered so quietly that Blanche only just heard her as she watched them from the threshold of the room. “Giselle Legrand. My real name is Giselle Legrand.”
Sievers closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head as the recognition shone in his face.
“Karl Wünsche,” he said, at last, chuckling. “That’s the Karl that I was searching my memory for. You killed one of my kin, Mademoiselle Legrand. In cold blood.”
“Not as cold as you think,” she muttered, a dark shadow crossing her features.
“Well… Congratulations, Mademoiselle Legrand. You truly are one of the strongest individuals I have ever met.” Sievers pressed her hand once again and turned to the door, his expression changing. “Orderly!”
The guard appeared in the door, awaiting orders.
“Take her to the backyard and hang her. I don’t need her anymore.”
As soon as the sentry stepped inside the cell to get the prisoner, Sievers tilted his head to one side, a devious grin playing on his face.
“No, not her. That Fräulein over there.” He motioned his head towards Blanche.
Blanche pressed her hand to her chest, stepping away as she gasped.
“No, Jürgen, please!” she cried in horror, watching the guard approaching her with a blank expression. Apparently, he didn’t care much as to who was going to die that day. “I will work better, I promise! I will help you with everything I can—”
“The cell is gone, Blanche,” Sievers stated, his voice cold and sarcastic as he watched the sentry cuff her hands behind her back and her feeble attempts to resist him. “They all scattered. You’ve failed me countless times, and I don’t forgive failures. I have no need of you anymore. There’s no chance that you can infiltrate another cell as those résistants will warn everyone else against you. I’m doing you a favor, really. If they caught you, your death wouldn’t be as easy.”
“Jürgen, please, I’m begging you!”
She continued screaming as the guard led her away, out another door that was locked behind them.
When they were left alone, Sievers turned back to his prisoner, smiling. “Now that is out of the way, we can talk discretely. My offer still stands, Mademoiselle Legrand. Work with me. I’ll release you today; I’ll even secure new papers for you.”
She regarded him for some time, grinning. “I just told you that I killed a man who occupied virtually the same position as you, and you still want me near you?”
“I’m willing to take the risk, Mademoiselle.”
“Execute me and save your life, Herr Sievers. Because you’ll end up just like Karl if you don’t.”
Sievers seemed to think over her words for a few moments but shook his head eventually. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mademoiselle. The world will become too boring without you.”
“You can’t release me either.”
“No, I can’t.”
“What are you going to do with me then?”
He was quiet for a few seconds, and then replied in an odd, hollow voice, “Something you will hate me for, I’m afraid.”
When Giselle recollected herself, the train had stopped. She couldn’t force herself to open her eyes, so she lay motionless and resigned to her fate. When a rough hand picked up her wrist and let it drop lifelessly, she allowed her entire body to go limp.
“This one too.” The voice came out of the void, with a strong German accent; he was saying these words on every stop, freeing the space around her as the train made its way east. “Take her out.”
“Dead?” The voice was that of a Frenchman, soft and soothing to her exhausted soul.
“But what am I supposed to do with the ones who aren’t dead yet?”
“What do you mean what are you supposed to do? Bury them together with the corpses. You can shoot them first if you’re feeling charitable. But, personally, I wouldn’t waste my ammunition on them. They deserve what they get. Communist rats.”
The German spat somewhere on the floor, or maybe on someone’s “nearly dead” body; Giselle couldn’t see which one it was.
“No, Herr Officer,” the Frenchman muttered in a rushed and appalled manner. “That I can’t do. No, I didn’t sign up for that! Communists or not, they’re people, and they’re still—”
“You volunteered for the Waffen-SS, Scheiße! Which means you are to follow your new German commanders’ orders! And your new German commander orders you to take these people out and bury them, and so you will do, or you will join them for insubordination, you hear me?!”
“Allow me to handle the matter, Herr Officer,” another voice said, deep and painfully familiar. “I’ll do it gladly.”
“By all means.” The German snorted with laughter. “Enjoy yourself.”
“I certainly will.”
Giselle winced as strong hands picked her sore body up from the rough floor and forced herself to look at the man who carried her. All she could make out was a German uniform with SS markings. After spending – hours? days? weeks? – in darkness she couldn’t possibly tell who it was. In her worsening state, barely dressed in some thin dress and a blanket that Sievers was kind enough to leave her, having slept on the concrete floor in her cell and then on the hard, wooden floor of the train, that was, of course, unheated, Giselle struggled to regain her normal senses. A feeling of relief washed over her that it would all be over soon.
He carefully laid her out on the ground, right on the snow, and started making his way back to the train to bring more people out. Giselle forced her eyes open to watch his tall frame disappear from view, and turned her head to her left, to see a line of fellow Frenchmen right next to her; unlucky ones who weren’t strong enough to make it to Germany. Or, maybe it was the contrary, and she was the lucky one, for she would be laid in peace on her French soil, in a grave with her fellow countrymen, together with those who had also fought for its freedom.
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 24