The Woman From Saint Germain

by J. R. Lonie

  ‘You are American?’ he asked. Only later, in hindsight, was this question significant. Now it merely unsettled her. Had her mouth again betrayed her? She let it pass, neither confirming nor denying.

  ‘I personally don’t need a passage into Spain,’ she explained. ‘The young man I’m with, he paid for a passage through to Pau. Before the passeurs dumped him, dumped us all, they gave us this address.’

  ‘You are the ones in the party of Silvan?’ the fellow interrupted her.

  ‘Thank God,’ Eleanor said. ‘You must be the guide to take him on from here. If there are any further charges, I’ll pay.’

  ‘Why do you pay for him?’ the suave young man demanded.

  ‘It’s my Christian duty to help a fellow human being in need,’ she replied. ‘He needs to get away from the Nazis and he has no money. I don’t particularly like him. Come to think of it, I don’t like you, either. Why is it any of your business?’

  ‘I suggest you leave Lyon,’ said the young man. ‘Immediately, if you know what’s good for you. Alone.’

  Eleanor’s blood went cold, stilling any protest she could have made about how they owed Henk. This fellow already knew who they were, and she understood how he knew; her cigarettes, her mouth, not to forget his infernal cat. Yes, it’s us, the killers and she the fool, had just confirmed it. At least their eavesdropper in Saint Pourçain had not informed the Germans. She sensed, however, that the result might be the same.

  As casually as she could, she turned to go back to the room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the young man demanded.

  ‘I’m taking your advice,’ she said, calmly. ‘I must get my rucksack.’

  She kept on. The waiter followed her.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he said as she went inside. Immediately, she slammed her hand over Henk’s mouth to stop any question he was about to ask. She ran to the window, pulled aside the blind and the curtain and tried to lift it open but it would not move. Desperately, she beckoned to him. She did not have to explain. He pushed her away and hauled the window up. He grabbed his cat; she grabbed her rucksack. He scrambled out, then helped her.

  They were on a back lane. The suddenness of their need to escape, her surprise that they had escaped, caused her to shake so much she faltered. Which way? Where were they to go? And how?

  ‘I must go to Pau,’ said Henk.

  ‘Let’s get away from here first,’ she replied, regathering her wits. They bolted down the laneway.

  ‘Someone betray us?’ Henk asked, once they were on the street and disguised among people coming and going from work.

  ‘We betrayed ourselves,’ she replied. ‘We can’t trust anybody. We’re on our own.’

  They came to a crossroad. I go this way, she thought, he goes that. She knew she could not – but, really, she didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Henk. ‘I will get help.’ She was horrified to see him run back in the direction they’d come.

  ‘You can’t go back there,’ she cried, but he was gone. She tucked herself into the entrance of a shop that had not yet opened. She felt for her cigarettes and lighter but he had them. In moments, although it felt like a century, Henk returned with two of the workers he had befriended over his cat and the joys of Comrade Stalin. Seeing Eleanor, their friendly faces soured.

  ‘Who the hell’s she?’ one asked. Henk did not understand, although it was clear his comrades were not happy.

  ‘Why are they angry?’ He was mystified.

  ‘Who cares,’ Eleanor snapped.

  ‘Ask them,’ he demanded.

  ‘Who are you?’ they asked, saving her the trouble.

  ‘His moneybags,’ she growled, her French veering towards the Texan variety. ‘Rockefeller,’ she added, spitting out the word with angry pleasure. ‘Are you going to get him to Spain before the Germans catch him? If so, please do. I’m fed up with him.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Henk demanded again. ‘They’re comrades. Do not talk to them like that.’ He turned to the two men. ‘Comrades, please,’ he managed in French. ‘We – ’

  ‘You want to go with them?’ she said to him. ‘Go. Feel free. If you want to come with me, I’m going now. Make up your mind. But if you stay here, those treacherous shits inside will hand you over to the police and they’ll give you to the Germans.’ She’d had enough. She had no idea where this street went, but she was determined to go now. Bugger him.

  Henk looked at Eleanor hurrying away, looked at the comrades. ‘Sorry, comrades,’ he said, then chased after her.

  Whatever the two comrades said to each other, Eleanor had no idea. Nor did she care. One of the men was quickly on their tail. ‘Wait,’ he called out. ‘I will show you. I am Michel.’ Eleanor ignored him, just kept going. Henk shook the fellow’s hand. Only when Eleanor came to the end of the street did she stop. Which way?

  ‘This way,’ said Michel, leading them into a stinking lane. At the end, they reached a slippery clay track that zig-zagged down through the steep bushy slope between La Croix Rousse and the city that spread out below them on the finger of land between the river Saône on the right and the Rhône on the left. Eventually, they emerged from the bare thickets onto a street. Michel pointed to the tram passing only a block away.

  ‘Spain?’ he asked.

  Eleanor nodded. ‘First, I need to find a hotel for us to hide in so I can look for new passeurs south,’ she said. ‘Can you recommend one?’

  ‘You’ll need one that doesn’t talk,’ Michel replied. ‘They’ll take you to the cleaners, and even then, they’ll drop you in the gendarmes’ pocket quick as look at you. The concierges, they’re all on the payroll. Lady, you’ll be safer paying me and the wife to put you up. Won’t be what you’re used to, but sounds like you don’t have much choice.’

  Eleanor translated the offer.

  ‘Thank you, comrade,’ said Henk in French, ignoring any need for a discussion, shook his hand and said in English, ‘We accept.’

  ‘How much?’ Eleanor asked the obvious.

  ‘What would you pay for a hotel?’ Michel asked and when she replied, halving the amount, he laughed. Even this was so high a figure as to be ridiculous. ‘You gotta be a yid,’ he said. ‘That why you’re on the run from the Boches?’

  ‘It’s as good a reason as any,’ she replied, too on edge to see the funny side.

  ‘Come on,’ Michel said cheerfully, his early suspicion forgotten. What Eleanor and Henk’s exact relationship was, he really didn’t care. He led them to the Saône side of the city and into the old city, over the same bridge she and Henk had crossed earlier. He was heading for work in that direction in any case.

  Each side felt they had a bargain.

  *

  When Girard, Bauer and a detachment of police arrived ten minutes later, the Café du Levant was as the Mary Celeste. Cigarettes still smouldered in ashtrays, drinks were half finished, a pot of hot stew sat on the stove. But there were no smokers, no drinkers, no flame from the gas burner and no cook. The backroom was empty.

  ‘The window,’ said Bauer, who pulled the blind back and saw it had been forced open from the inside.

  ‘He was here and he smelled the rat,’ Bauer said. He saw a cup on the floor.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ he mused. ‘There is a table but you put the cup on the floor.’ He sniffed it. A fishy, thin soup.

  Girard was not interested in the cup or what was in it. His indigestion, bad at the best of times, was killing him. Missing their quarry, so close, he would never be free of this Bauer. Worse, he had released two crims in return for nothing.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said curtly. What happened to Bauer’s killer, he no longer cared.

  Bauer, lost in consideration of the cup and its contents on the floor, ignored the summons. He was adding to his computations the fine saucer of milk provided by the young woman in the village for her non-existent cat called Felix. Until proven otherwise, the evidence now suggested that either the young killer or
the American woman with him might be carrying a cat. It would seem a ridiculous thing to lug a cat on your escape across France, but he understood people who liked cats. Wouldn’t he do the same? Rather than automatically assume it was the woman, he left the cat’s ownership open. At this point, calling for Girard to start looking for a young man or an American woman with a cat would still be foolish. They’d think him ridiculous. He’d keep it to himself, until proven otherwise.

  ‘Inspector,’ Girard snapped. He was at the end of his tether with this whole business.

  ‘Tell me,’ Bauer said as Girard shepherded him to the car, ‘if you know your so-called helpers want to trade you in for their pals in jail, you’d want to get out of town quick smart under your own steam, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Train, to the frontier at Cerbère on the line to Barcelona,’ answered Girard. Yes, he then agreed with a sigh, he would put on extra men to check departures south immediately. Yes. Yes.

  ‘How about alternatives?’ Bauer asked.

  ‘Latour-de-Carol’s the only other one this time of year, on the Toulouse to Barcelona line.’

  ‘What about a freight train?’ Bauer asked.

  Girard frowned. ‘Why, when the passenger trains are running and much quicker?’ Besides, searching the freight yards would require the help of the gendarmes, the military police, who considered themselves above dealing with mere criminals.

  ‘This is a matter of state,’ Bauer said, ‘not just another homicide.’

  A request would be better coming from Bauer, Girard said. For this, he would need to see the general of the gendarmerie in person. When they arrived at the building, they were told he was indisposed but would be available later in the day. Girard managed a sneer. Still in bed with his mistress.

  ‘What do you make of this American woman?’ Bauer asked as they drove towards the Perrache station.

  Girard smiled. ‘Why not?’ This was the only interesting twist in the whole affair.

  Bauer laughed. What do they call them in Hollywood films? ‘We say “Gangsterbraut”. Gangster bride.’

  ‘A moll,’ replied Girard drily.

  ‘That’s it,’ Bauer said, impressed. He needed the evidence, and that room hadn’t provided any. ‘Your contacts?’ he asked. ‘Concierges, waiters?’

  ‘Of course,’ Girard agreed airily, without the slightest intention of passing their details on. Whoever this man and woman were, they were gone, and so too, sooner than later, would be this Bauer.

  *

  Bauer joined Kopitcke in the police office above the station concourse for a while. The action by the communists was well over. Rail operations were slowly getting back to normal. Once the whistle was sounded for departure, the next train going south moved a few hundred metres, was locked then searched. Although the French encountered some truculent young men, none had a Wehrmacht combat knife; nor was one reported with a cat. Bauer wondered if this was just too absurd, that he was being played for a fool or, worse, playing himself for a fool. He did not share this doubt with Kopitcke, whom he detailed to go off and read through all the police and gendarme reports in the hours since the killings. He was wasting precious time here. Something wasn’t right, and he didn’t know what.

  OLD TOWN, LYON V

  Towards 9am, Thursday, 11th December 1941

  Eleanor and Henk followed their host into the old town with its narrow, dirty streets and dank laneways that out-stank the gritty air. South, Eleanor figured, at least they were heading south. South, eventually, was Spain. Babies screamed, mothers yelled and children squabbled in houses that sprouted like untidy mushrooms either side of the laneways. She smelt something foul and saw human excrement in the gutter.

  Michel turned out to be a cheerful fellow who chattered away to Eleanor as they walked along. Now he was more human, she saw he was handsome, with dark features and dark, flashing eyes. He was a machinist in one of the modern silk-weaving factories; he’d been up in La Croix Rousse visiting old pals he used to work with. His wife was a cleaner on the railways; his two soldier sons were being held by the Germans. This surprised Eleanor. He didn’t look old enough to have two sons in the army.

  ‘At least they’re alive,’ he said. He didn’t blame the Germans, he blamed the defeatists in the government and the army. ‘They preferred defeat by the Germans to an alliance with the Soviet Union. Comrade Stalin offered. Now look where we are.’

  Once this would have been a red flag to the Republican bull. Now Eleanor bit her tongue. Michel led them in from a back laneway through a silent workshop of dusty, rusting machinery and up two flights of stairs into an ancient tenement. Locomotives shunted freight cars not far away. Coal dust was in the air, on every surface and, by the sound of hawking and coughing, in every chest.

  ‘You’ll be safe here,’ he said. ‘No one sees nothing, no one asks questions.’

  ‘How far is the station?’ she asked and learnt they were across the river from it; the main line from Paris came out of the tunnel not far away.

  Michel opened his front door. Inside, he lit a paraffin lamp that gave off a golden light but also acrid black smoke. They were welcome, he said. The room had a couch, an armchair, a table and chairs and a stove. The bedroom was through a doorway draped with a curtain.

  ‘Half now,’ said Eleanor handing over the francs, ‘half when we go?’

  He took the money.

  His wife came out of the bedroom. She was a petite woman with a face whose lines were a map of her hard life, yet the echo of youthful prettiness was still there in her eyes. She pushed her straggling hair back from her face as her husband told her they had guests for the day at least. She was late for work. Despite having two guests imposed on her, she was welcoming in a French she spoke with a strong Spanish accent. The money her husband showed her helped. She also seemed to Eleanor to be too young to have two boys in the army.

  ‘Excuse me – ’ Eleanor said. She’d almost said ‘madame’; it had been on her tongue. ‘Comrade’ was a step too far. ‘Where is the toilet?’ On the way, they’d stopped for that wretched kitten, not for her.

  The toilet was downstairs, where they’d come in; they all used the washrooms of the old workshop, the wife replied. ‘Do not go now,’ she added. ‘The men from the night shifts are there. You can use the commode.’ Eleanor’s Parisian nose had already smelt that possibility and rejected it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to the woman. ‘You are very kind.’

  The woman excused herself. The man bade them a good morning. He too was going to work.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him for bread,’ Henk said irritably.

  Suppressing her annoyance at being called out for something so obvious, Eleanor managed to ask before Michel disappeared through the door. ‘Add it to our bill,’ she said. Michel laughed. There was only bread and potatoes. They were welcome to the bread.

  ‘On the house,’ he said, gaily pointing to a bread box on the dresser.

  There they found the meagre end of a loaf which, Eleanor thought, looked like a brick. It certainly felt like one as she failed to break off even a crumb. Henk produced his knife and hacked the brick in two. ‘You soak it in water first,’ he said exasperated as she tried to chew on her lump, risking her teeth.

  ‘So, comrade,’ said Henk after they had eaten, ‘who saves whom now?’

  Eleanor laughed. The little shit. ‘We’re not saved yet, sonny,’ she replied. ‘I certainly must look like one of the comrades,’ she grumbled, looking unsuccessfully for a mirror. ‘That’s telling, isn’t it? No mirror.’

  ‘Not necessary,’ said Henk. ‘No vanity.’

  ‘Yet another reason why communism will never work,’ she said.

  He had already shut his eyes. His little cat jumped up onto him and began to wash itself.

  ‘What a cosy little scene,’ Eleanor muttered.

  Secure in his light snoring, she felt she could accommodate herself even to the stinking commode, a torture to take her mind off her discontents, which
were many. The cure was remarkable. She sat in the armchair, put a cushion over a protruding spring, covered herself with her coat and halfway through the Our Father, she was asleep.

  OLD TOWN, LYON V

  Mid-afternoon, Thursday, 11th December 1941

  A baby’s cries woke Eleanor. She was stiff and she was cold and it was dark, but she had slept soundly. Fleetingly, she thought it was the same dream-child that had so disturbed her sleep after her upsetting discovery of Claude’s other family in the churchyard at Auvers-sur-Oise. The cries, however, were coming from next door. There was no getting away from them, and try as she might, there was no getting away from the memory of that day. She had been so distracted by the events of the past few days, she had pushed her anger and confusion aside. Now those children returned to inhabit her every fibre. She felt as heavy as lead so stayed where she was, letting fester whatever poisons were being released in her. Didn’t those children mean she was still the mistress, the only mistress, and blow what Church and state might say about that? She had the wit to realise that if this was her only comforting thought, it was a pretty dismal one. She had never questioned her life with Claude. As his mistress, she had felt, she admitted it, superior. Hers was a love above the everyday and the mundane, a love between two free spirits, the sort of love her readers took delight in because they were bound by children and husbands and housework and jobs, which she, the writer, was not.

  ‘Twaddle,’ she muttered. What she didn’t like admitting was that she was jealous, but she was. And angry.

  She hurled herself out of the chair. Her watch told her it was three, although she wasn’t sure if this was morning or afternoon. She pulled back the rough curtain covering the window. Outside, the day had little light to share. She lit the paraffin lamp. In hope, she ventured down to the washroom. The boilers stood unlit and empty; the faucets delivered only lukewarm water and with a grinding sound that put her teeth on edge. She managed to wash the minimum and refresh her complexion and lipstick.

  ‘I have to get my suitcase from the luggage bureau,’ she said when she came back up. Henk had woken and was playing with the cat.