The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” Denise said, heading for a group of newspaper vending machines by the door.

  Jack nodded and bit into one of his sandwiches. Normally, he hated fast food, but right now it tasted like heaven. A moment later, Denise came back. She looked scared.

  “Don’t act alarmed. Look on page ten.”

  As casually as he could, Jack took the paper and opened it, turning the pages slowly and deliberately. When he reached page ten, he stopped and stared. There in the middle of page ten were both their pictures side by side. God only knew where they’d gotten the picture of him. It had been taken at some Ministry function and he looked half in the bag. The picture made him look crazed and desperate. Hell, they probably picked it on purpose. Denise’s looked even worse.

  Underneath was a two-column story about the raid, and their escape. Of course, nothing was mentioned about the shootings and the fire. Leslie was quoted as saying that no expense would be spared to bring the traitors to justice. There was even a reward of ten thousand Reichsdollars for any information leading to their capture.

  “So, how does it feel to have a price on your head?” Denise asked, half-jokingly.

  But Jack was in no mood for levity.

  “Like shit,” he whispered. “How can you joke about something like this!”

  “Calm down. At least it wasn’t on page one. It means we’re not high priority and few people have seen it.”

  “We saw it. Who knows who else has? Some of the people here, maybe.”

  “Nothing we can do about that now. Grab your food and let’s go.”

  Denise laughed softly as she got up, pretending a reaction to something Jack said. They moved through the restaurant nonchalantly. To Jack, it seemed as if every eye in the place was on him, but no one even looked up from their food as they shoveled it in.

  Once in the car, Jack freaked out.

  “We have to get another car! Someone spotted us. I know it.”

  “Jack, cool it, all right! No one recognized us.”

  Denise reached under the seat and pulled out the screwdriver, jammed it into the ignition hole and twisted it. The engine coughed, sputtered a moment, then caught. It quickly settled down into the familiar purr. Jack shook his head, feeling completely foolish.

  “Christ, you’re right. I’m really losing it.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his arm. “So you’re not a born terrorist and thief, so what?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “And you are?”

  “I stole your heart, didn’t I?” she said, smiling again.

  Her gorgeous smile was contagious. In a moment, Jack found himself smiling as the small VW pulled back onto the Hindenburg Highway.

  They reached the city of Jacksonville a little over thirty minutes later and, after getting lost on the interchange in South Jacksonville, crossed the St. Johns River over the Fuller-Warren Toll Bridge. The spires of downtown Jacksonville, what there was of it, loomed ahead. Jack, acting as navigator, double-checked the address book and pulled out a street map of the city.

  “If we get off at the next exit, we’ll be right in the area.”

  Denise nodded and took the first exit, downshifting as they headed down the ramp.

  “Which way?”

  “Right,” he said.

  Taking Riverside, they passed the Blaukreuz building and hung a left onto Edison Street. As they drove, they noticed more than a few boarded-up buildings, a result of the violent riots a year earlier. The blacks of Jacksonville had not gone meekly to their doom. From Edison, they turned onto Park and crossed over the railroad yard. The yard looked busy. Jack could see whole flatcars loaded with tanks on their way to Mexico.

  Soon they turned onto Monroe, a street with small, two-story buildings that all had a quaint, Art Deco look about them. It was obvious this was an old neighborhood. Denise pulled up in front of a tailor shop at 1515 Monroe. The sign said:

  Art’s Custom Tailoring

  Uniforms a specialty.

  “Oh, great, just what we need, a guy that does business with the Nazis.”

  “Art’s okay. His son is one of us. Their favorite tailor is the last place those scheisskopfen would think to look.”

  “Well, let’s get this over with.”

  Jack started to open the door when Denise grabbed his arm. “Hold it,” she said.

  He looked toward the shop and spotted a black uniformed SS officer coming out with a suit bag, headed for a waiting staff car. A short, stocky man followed him out, smiling and talking animatedly. As soon as the SS officer drove off, the tailor’s smile disappeared. He turned and looked straight at Denise, then shook his head. That was all she needed. She put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street.

  “What was that all about?”

  “It isn’t safe right now. He wants us to come back in a couple of hours.”

  “And you got all that from one nod of the head?”

  “After being with Lambda for a while, you get a sixth sense about things.”

  “So, what’ll we do for two hours?”

  “Ditch the car.”

  Again, they drove off. After searching for another twenty minutes, Denise pulled the car into an underground parking garage and parked between a van and an old Nova.

  “With any luck, they won’t spot this car for weeks. Let’s go.”

  Back at the shop, they found the shade on the glass door pulled down and a sign reading “Back at One.”

  “He’s in there waiting,” she said. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Denise put her arm through Jack’s and led him off down the street. It would have thrilled him to feel her close like this, but instead he felt vulnerable—exposed.

  That was the worst part. Anyone could spot them and call State Security, anyone. After wandering around for another half an hour, playing the window-shopping lovebirds, they came around to the shop again. Instead of knocking on the front, they went around the back. A small sign saying “Art’s Tailoring” was affixed to a grimy wooden door next to an overflowing dumpster filled with rotten meat from the butcher next door. Jack thought he would puke as the smell caught his nostrils. And the flies. There were hundreds of them.

  Denise knocked on the door, three quick, two long, just like at Henry’s house. My God, he thought. Was that only yesterday? It felt like a million years ago and their journey had only begun.

  The door opened and Art stood there, smiling broadly.

  “Denise, my love. Come in, come in.”

  Jack followed her into the tiny shop’s back room while Art bolted the door. Jack noticed that the flimsy appearance from the outside belied the stout, steel construction. It would take a squad with a battering ram to get through it.

  “You come so soon? You miss my strudel, ja?”

  Denise hugged the man who, in spite of his small stature, lifted her off her feet.

  “You must be careful, liebchen, the SS in Jacksonville have been put on alert. That man you saw coming out of my shop earlier told me. These idiots think they are so superior, yet they tell a lowly tailor, like me, all their secrets. You see the garbage outside? I throw meat in there every day! It keeps away the curious and smells even worse than they do!”

  He laughed and then approached Jack, his expression turning hard.

  “You are treating my favorite girl right, ja?”

  The man looked fierce, but Jack detected warmth in his eyes that no amount of false hostility could hide.

  “Absolutely,” Jack said. “Although you’ve got to watch her around other people’s cars.”

  Art’s eyebrows shot up and he laughed, a big, brassy sound that filled the room.

  “That’s my little strudel-mädchen,” he said. “Come, I have your accommodations ready.”

  Jack looked to Denise, who smiled and shrugged.

  Art went over to a metal cabinet leaning against the wall and pushed it aside. Underneath was a trapdoor. With surprising strength, the older man reached
down, grabbed hold of an iron ring recessed into the oaken planks, and yanked it up. Jack saw a flight of steps leading downward into what looked like the Black Hole of Calcutta.

  The older man saw Jack’s apprehension and smiled. “It is not so bad. Come.”

  Nodding and smiling, Art descended, flipping a hidden light switch on the way. Suddenly a bright light poured from the hole.

  Jack shrugged. “What the hell.”

  Grabbing Denise’s hand, they followed Art down and into one of the most charming dungeons Jack had ever seen.

  The room took up half the twenty-by-forty-foot basement; the other half was occupied by a furnace and storage. The rest looked like something from a Victoria’s Secret catalog. The queen-size bed had a fancy brass and white headboard with a frilly coverlet trimmed with lace and covered with hand-embroidered pillows. Flanking the bed were Early American-style nightstands, atop which sat oil-filled hurricane lamps that Jack could swear were antiques from the early 1900s. At the foot of the bed lay a mahogany hope chest covered by a large, frilly lace cloth. Against the wall stood a simple dresser and, next to it, a freestanding oval-shaped full-length mirror. The floor itself was covered by an Oriental throw rug.

  Denise was stunned.

  “Art! How on earth did you do this so fast? It’s wonderful!”

  She hugged the older man, who smiled and blushed.

  “It was Wilhelm’s secret place,” he said, the blush deepening. “After what you did for him, I think he would be pleased to know you were here.”

  Denise smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I am sorry about the oil lamps,” Art said, “but we cannot risk having you use electricity when I am supposed to be closed.”

  “It’s okay, Art,” Jack said. “Thank you.”

  Art bowed and began walking up. He stopped halfway and turned.

  “There is food and water in the hope chest and a small chemical toilet in the storage area. Have a good night. I will see you two at oh-six hundred.”

  He turned and climbed out of sight. A moment later, the trapdoor slammed shut and they heard the scraping of the metal cabinet being pushed back into place.

  Jack turned to Denise. “Did I ever tell you I’m a little claustrophobic?”

  “Me too,” she said, coming over to him, a lascivious grin on her face. “And I’ve got the perfect way to cure it.”

  She grabbed him and kissed him wildly. Jack was taken aback for only a brief moment before he enfolded her in his arms.

  The light from the flickering hurricane lamps cast a warm glow in the basement room, enhancing the illusion that they were back in some simpler time, a time free from fear. Jack turned, careful not to wake Denise, and picked up his watch from the nightstand. The watch read 2300. They still had a long night and an even longer trip ahead of them. Denise sighed, stretched, and opened her eyes. She smiled contentedly, reminding Jack of the scene in Gone With The Wind where Scarlett awakens after a night of passion with Rhett.

  “Well, don’t we look like the cat with the canary,” he said.

  “Look who’s talking. You’re the animal.”

  Jack blushed in spite of himself. “You hungry?”

  “I could eat another horse,” she said, grinning.

  “Oh, please.”

  Denise giggled, and taking that as his cue, Jack climbed off the bed, padded over to the hope chest, and lifted the lid.

  “Well, I’ll be. I think your friend is a romantic.”

  “What?”

  Jack gave her a sly look and pulled out a champagne bucket filled with ice and an expensive bottle of Kupferburg Champagne, followed by an old-fashioned picnic basket, the kind one paid hundreds of dollars for at overpriced gourmet shops.

  Inside the basket sat a cold chicken dinner with potato salad, string beans, a loaf of pumpernickel, and crisp dill pickles. For dessert there was apple strudel.

  They attacked the food as if they’d not eaten in days. It tasted magnificent. When they were finished, they lay back sipping the exquisite champagne, cuddled in each other’s arms.

  “I’ve got to ask you something,” he said. “I know the rest of the railroad will probably be dusty attics and junk food. Why is he treating us like visiting royalty?”

  “You remember when he mentioned Wilhelm?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Wilhelm is his son. He and his lover, Jeffrey, tried to help out the Blacks during the rioting. Jeffrey was killed and Wilhelm was captured and would have been executed had it not been for Lambda. We helped break him out and sent him to Canada.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jack said, remembering. “That was last year? August?

  “Yeah. I was down here on vacation when the shit hit the fan.”

  “Vacation?” Jack said, staring into her eyes. The unspoken question hung in the air.

  “I led the team that helped break him out,” she said a moment later.

  Jack shook his head in astonishment.

  “Malloy, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “And I hope I never do,” she said, hugging him.

  “But why all this, and how could he know we would be here? He can’t treat everyone this way.”

  Denise shrugged. “He obviously feels he needs to pay me back. And I think he likes to think of me as the daughter he never had. As to how he knew—” She shrugged again. “The Underground probably got the word out about the massacre. People like Art know to keep their eyes open for refugees.”

  That satisfied him. They lay silently for a while until another question presented itself, one far more important.

  “Where do we go from here?” he said.

  Denise reached over and picked up the map of Avalon they’d taken from the glove compartment of the Blitz and spread it over the bed. She pointed to Ohio.

  “Cincinnati. From there we take 71, pick up 90 in Cleveland and go straight to Buffalo. That’s where things can get dicey. Our contact there is responsible for getting us across the border into Canada.”

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “Nothing’s for certain. Anything can happen between now and then. We have to keep our eyes open and not do anything stupid.”

  “Like stealing people’s cars.”

  Denise punched him in the arm and scowled at him playfully.

  “That was an emergency.”

  “Well, what about now? What do you call sleeping in someone’s basement?”

  “Safe,” she said.

  Jack was used to controlling his own life, at least as much as those Nazi bastards allowed. Here he felt as helpless as a baby and didn’t like it one bit. He wondered whether he was a chauvinist at heart, unable to accept a woman leading the way. But there was really little choice.

  “Listen,” she said, “I know this is all kind of crazy, but you’ve got to trust me.”

  “I do. It’s everyone else I don’t. Hell, look at me. I was sleeping with goddamned State Security and didn’t even know it. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “Like a fool.”

  Jack nodded and took a deep breath, letting the tension flow out of his body.

  “So how do we get out of here tomorrow?”

  “Art will buy us a car. We don’t have to worry about that, at least.”

  “What about the Blitz?”

  Denise shook her head. “Art knows a chop shop across town. It’s already been broken up for parts.”

  “And, now...”

  “And now we stay put.”

  “Why?” he said, snapping at her.

  “Because Art has to arrange new IDs for us. That’ll take another day at least.”

  Jack shook his head. He knew she was right, but he was still frustrated. As romantic as this little boudoir was, he didn’t know if he could stay in it for another thirty-six hours.

  Jack awoke when the light snapped on, flooding the basement with light. Its brightness made him squint. Art came down the steps followed by another man carrying camera equipment.
<
br />   “Good morning, good morning,” he said. “Is everyone decent?”

  Jack turned to Denise, surprised to find the bed empty. In a moment she appeared from the storage area fully dressed. She looked fresh and amazingly well-put-together. Jack didn’t know how she did it. Leslie would take hours to “put on her face.” Jack would have loved nothing better than to rip her face off if it would bring back Curly and the others.

  “I have brought my friend, Roberto,” Art said, indicating the other man, who began setting up his equipment. “He will make you new IDs and travel permits. I am sorry to barge in so early, but there is news.”

  “What is it, Art?” Denise said, sitting on the bed next to Jack.

  “Your pictures are on the TV.”

  “Damn,” Jack said.

  He got up and threw on his clothes, unconcerned with appearances or modesty. Art had more to tell.

  “They have instituted a state-wide search, all the old state borders in the Southeastern sector—Georgia, Alabama, and Louisiana—have been tightened. Everyone going through is being closely scrutinized. There are orders to detain you. If you resist, you are to be shot.”

  “That sounds like Leslie,” Jack said, fuming.

  Art went back into the storage area and returned with a wooden case. He opened it and pulled out bottles of hair dye and bleach.

  “We must change your appearance,” he said.

  “I always did want to be a redhead,” Denise said, smiling. But Jack was still angry. Denise sensed his ire and went to him.

  “It’ll be all right. The important thing is to get to Toronto.”

  He realized she was right, feeling like a fool for letting Leslie get to him.

  “All right, let’s do it.”

  An hour later, Jack looked at himself in the mirror and did a double take. Art had dyed his hair jet black along with his eyebrows. With his naturally blue eyes, it gave him a Black Irish look. Art then showed him how to apply the false mustache. With a minimum of practice, he was able to do it himself.

  Denise looked even more striking. With her hair straightened and then dyed a deep, delicious red, it looked completely natural against her pale, lightly freckled complexion. It also looked a lot longer, hanging below her shoulders in a sexy, soft wave. In addition, Art had shown her how to use makeup differently, making her cheekbones stand out and her face look thinner. She looked like something from a fashion magazine. Jack whistled in appreciation, causing her to smile and blush a color nearly as red as her hair.