by Lee Jackson
At the first intersection she came to, she entered the crosswalk and trotted across to the café. Her regular waiter greeted her with a smile. Then his eyes rolled up to her hat and he blanched before forcing another smile. “Your regular table, Mademoiselle?”
“No thank you, not today. I think I want something a little farther away from the door. This weather is biting to my bones.”
Struggling to remain calm, the waiter showed her to the table. “I’ll get your coffee,” he said.
“Can you bring one that I can take with me? I promised it to the guard at the security checkpoint.”
“Bien sur. I will bring it right out.” He hurried to the kitchen, where he placed a phone call. “I cannot take delivery today,” he said. When he hung up, he leaned over to catch his breath and then hurried to get Jeannie’s coffee.
Meanwhile, she kept a close eye on the entrance. She had taken a cosmetics case from her bag and checked her makeup. I could use a touchup, but now’s not the time. She had only brought it out to have something to do to keep her nerves calm while she waited for her order. To add reality to her ruse, she daubed her nose with powder.
Other customers came and went but the hour was still early for lunch, so foot traffic was sparse. Then she saw Phillippe. He was bent against the wind, and he had grown a beard, but she recognized him by the gray janitor’s overalls he wore, along with a blue work cap. He lumbered into the café. If he saw Jeannie, he gave no indication. He went to the counter, ordered coffee, and took it to another table.
Presently, two more men entered. They too ordered hot beverages and went to a different table.
The waiter emerged with her order.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I won’t have time to drink it. Let me have both in paper cups.”
The waiter obliged, placing the cups carefully in a paper bag. Jeannie took it, paid him, and headed for the door.
Before she reached it, Phillippe moved ahead of her. “Allow me,” he said, “your hands are full.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” she said. As they emerged, he moved ahead of her. Behind them, the other two men took up their rear.
Just as they reached the curb, the peculiar alternating high-pitch low-pitch whines of European sirens sounded. Jeannie whirled around, fighting panic. Other people along the street also looked about.
Tires screeched at the corner by the café. Two black Mercedes sedans slid to a halt, and a man jumped out of each one. They ran toward Jeannie, one confronting her, the other posting himself behind her. She looked about frantically. Neither Phillippe nor the two men who had been at her back were in sight.
The men from the two Mercedes produced credentials. “Come with us,” one barked. “Gestapo.”
Phillippe rushed down the stairs below the barn’s trap door, his face a mask of fury. When he reached the door at the end of the tunnel, he pounded on it, and when it was opened, he pushed through. Neither looking at nor speaking with anyone, he went to a side table holding several bottles of various liquors provided by the group’s hosts. He poured out a double bourbon and downed it in one swallow.
Amélie, Chantal, and the others watched him wide-eyed. Jacques and Nicolas had trailed behind him in the tunnel and now stood against the wall, arms crossed, heads drooping.
Amélie looked back and forth between the men. “What happened?”
“They took her,” Phillippe roared, slamming his glass down on the table so hard that it shattered in pieces, sending shards flying across the room. “The Gestapo took Jeannie.”
Amélie looked anxiously at Nicolas, who nodded. He motioned her over with his hand. “We received the emergency call from the waiter in a house close by,” he told her, frustration lacing his voice. “The system worked perfectly. We were in the café within three minutes. We ordered our coffee and took our seats. Phillippe was already there. Jeannie ordered hers to take with her. When she left, Phillippe went out in front of her, and we followed behind. We had a car waiting around the corner. Once we had her in there, we were supposed to go pick up her parents, but by the time Jeannie got to the sidewalk, the Gestapo was there and arrested her. We could do nothing.”
While he explained, Chantal had retrieved a broom and dustpan from another part of the cellar and started cleaning up the glass. Phillippe watched her, still burning with anger. Then, his expression softened. He walked over and touched her shoulder. “I’ll do that,” he said, and took the implements from her.
“What do we do now?” Ferrand asked when they had assembled around the oak table.
Phillippe, seated at one end with both elbows on the surface, ran his hands over his head. He held them there, interlocking his fingers, and leaned the chair back while scanning the anxious faces searching his own. “I don’t know. When they took her so quickly, they blew all our contingency plans for getting her out of there. We expected more time. One minute later, and she would have been sitting here with us right now, and her parents too.” Then, in quiet exasperation, he added, “She had the waiter change her order to takeout. If she hadn’t done that—”
He turned to Brigitte. “Get a message to London telling them what happened.” Then to the others, he said, “I’m taking Jacques and Nicolas with me back to the house where we kept surveillance near the café.
“Ferrand, ask the local group to keep up their watch and report anything unusual. Also, tell them to get word to the waiter to do the same thing. He’ll be scared. We’ll pay him if we need to.
“The rest of you, stay low. Regardless of what happens to Jeannie, we still have one other mission to accomplish.” He gritted his teeth and spat out his next words. “We are going to get that Major Bergmann. He’s at the back of what happened this morning, I’m sure of it.” Turning to Ferrand, he growled, “Tell the locals to get me that bastard’s habit patterns. I want to know how often, what time of day, and what part of the cliffs he runs on. We also need their three toughest fighters, preferably some who’ve been blooded in battle.”
Sitting across from Ferrand, Amélie and Chantal glanced at each other. Amélie’s eyes were full of concern. Chantal’s shone with anticipation.
29
“You did what?” Oberst Meier nearly sprang from the seat behind his desk, then caught himself and stood, his anger burning. “On whose authority?”
“On my own as chief security officer,” Bergmann replied, matching Meier’s tone. “I need no one’s permission at this headquarters when the matter is safeguarding state secrets, and I imagine that war planning for the invasion of England is a primary secret at the moment.”
“Your notion of the scope of your authority is grandiose beyond reality. You preempted me, my boss, the chief of staff, and the field marshal himself. You had no right to report anything to the Gestapo without clearing it through me, and I would have sought higher guidance.”
Bergmann regarded him coolly through hooded eyes. “I reported nothing. I merely mentioned to the head of the Gestapo in Dinard, who is a friend of mine, some of the things I’ve seen, and I asked what he thought about them. His actions after that were his own. I made no requests.”
“You manipulated the system,” Meier roared. “Stand at attention.” He came around his desk and leaned over Bergmann, bringing his face close to the major’s. “You’re a petty little man who enjoys stepping on people. That girl has worked for our army since before this headquarters located here back in July. She’s never been a problem, except in your paranoia-ridden mind. You’re seeing threats where they don’t exist. You did the same thing at Dunkirk, and you got our soldiers killed.”
Standing at attention, Bergmann held down his own rage, and his eyes became molten voids. “I do my duty, sir.” He enunciated each word. “May I speak?”
“You’ll speak when I’m ready to listen, Major.” He walked over to his window and viewed the sea in the distance beyond the cliffs. “This is a beautiful place, not spoiled by war so far. It would be nice to think that when the fighting is over and we have won,
that we have not destroyed the land and its cities to the point that they are uninhabitable, or that the people are so hostile that they continue fighting and killing us by other means.
“The Roman Empire figured out that it could not fight its subjugated populations forever. It lasted for centuries by sending out teams to learn about these far-flung cultures and allowing a measure of autonomy.”
“Rome didn’t last a thousand years, as the Third Reich surely will,” Bergmann said tersely.
Meier turned from the window and observed the major coldly. “Study your history better, Major. The lifespan of Rome depends on when you start counting. It became a republic early. An argument could be made that its demise began as power transferred from the people to their rulers and the quest for empire began.”
“Are you questioning the führer’s mode of governing, sir?”
Meier smirked. “Not at all. I just made a historical observation. Now, getting back to pertinent and current details, isn’t expanding the living space for Germans one of the führer’s objectives, and isn’t the French occupation zone already designated for that purpose?”
Bergmann said nothing.
“I asked you a question, Major.”
“I thought your question was rhetorical.”
“It was not.”
“Then you are correct, sir. We’re expecting to start moving German families into France soon. And the French will be moved out.”
“Ah yes, ‘to the conqueror the spoils.’ I suppose you think that migration will happen peaceably?”
“No, sir, I expect implementation of the plan to require extreme force.”
“And where do you expect to get that force in the near term, Major. Germany is spread out over three continents and the Atlantic Ocean. Keeping the people pacified for the moment might be a good thing, don’t you think? Or have you joined the führer’s strategy planning team and thus have greater information.”
Bergmann glanced at Meier, uncertainty in his eyes. He hesitated before responding. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead—”
“Which is why you’re still a major, Major.” Meier started toward the door. “Come with me. We’re taking this upstairs. Now.”
“Sir.”
Meier whirled on him. “What is it?”
“When I asked to speak to you, it was to tell you that the Gestapo was on the way to arrest Fräulein Rousseau.”
Meier’s eyes opened wide, and he stared at Bergmann in disbelief. Then he closed the distance to the door, yanked it open, and stared down the hall to Jeannie’s desk. It was empty.
“You,” he snarled at Bergmann. “Stay here. That’s an order.” Ignoring pain in his wounded leg, he strode through the office section to Jeannie’s desk. “Does anyone know where Rousseau is?” he demanded of coworkers at nearby desks.
“I saw her leave for the restroom several minutes ago,” a clerk volunteered. “Maybe she went for coffee. It’s a little early for that, but she might have decided to take a break after—” She stopped speaking and glanced uneasily toward Meier’s office, where Bergmann could be seen in profile, still standing at attention.
Meier followed her gaze. Then he returned to his office. “Come with me,” he snapped at Bergmann. As the major came through the door, Meier said tersely, “You stay with me until I release you. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
Meier turned to his secretary seated just outside his door. “Let the operations chief know that I’m on the way and it’s urgent, concerning a Gestapo matter. Then call the field marshal’s chief of staff. Let him know that I need to see him, and the matter is pressing.”
He stepped inside his office momentarily, summoned Bergmann to follow him, and set off through the halls at such a rapid pace, despite limping, that the major was challenged to keep up. At the operations chief’s office, Meier left Bergmann waiting in the foyer while he briefed his boss. The brigadier followed Meier to his door and scowled at Bergmann.
“Keep me apprised,” he told Meier.
Moments later, the oberst repeated his actions at the office of the 10th Army’s chief of staff. “I’ll let the field marshal know we’ve discussed the issue and that I’ll be there shortly. We can’t have the SS and the Gestapo pushing us around or we’ll cease to be an effective fighting force.”
Meier set out again, through more corridors, with Bergmann in tow.
“Oberst Meier,” the major said with a mocking quality to his tone. “Do you think the matter of one translator should be elevated to the field marshal?”
Meier spun in front of him so abruptly that the two nearly collided. “So now she’s just one lowly translator.” He pointed a finger in Bergmann’s face. “You exalt yourself, Major. You preempted the field marshal’s authority, and you questioned his judgment as well as that of the chief of staff and the full operations leadership, including mine. Did you think we would let you run over us?”
Bergmann did not respond.
When they arrived at the foyer for Reichenau’s suite of offices, Meier swept past the secretary. “He’s expecting you,” she called after him.
The field marshal stood by his office window when they entered. “Explain to me what’s going on, Herr Oberst. It sounds serious.” He regarded Bergmann with distaste and turned back to Meier. “The chief of staff mentioned something about the Gestapo?”
Meier gesticulated toward Bergmann. “This SS officer sent the Gestapo to arrest Fraulein Rousseau. He said in so many words that we are underestimating a serious security risk. She might already be under arrest.”
Reichenau glared at Bergmann. Then he strode to his desk, lifted the receiver, and dialed his secretary. “Get me the Gestapo chief. I want to speak with him immediately.” After he hung up, he spun on Bergman. “You’ve overstepped your bounds, Major.”
At that moment, the chief of staff arrived. While Meier provided him more detail, the phone rang, and the field marshal took the return call from the Gestapo head.
“I hear you might have Fraulein Jeannie Rousseau in custody,” Reichenau snapped into the phone. “If that’s true, I want her brought to my office immediately—
“I’m not asking. I’m ordering. If she is not in my office within fifteen minutes—
“You will not search her home, her desk, or anything else belonging to her until someone I designate is there to supervise. And you’ll make it clear to your agents that her house and belongings will not be ransacked. Is that understood?
“Good. Then I’ll see you, the arresting officers, and Fraulein Rousseau in my office in fifteen minutes.”
He slammed down the phone. Spinning toward Bergmann, he demanded sternly, “Now, tell me how my judgment and that of my staff is deficient, and why you, a major, feel entitled to exercise my authority without informing me or requesting approval.” He took his seat behind his desk and motioned for the other officers to sit. When Bergmann started for a chair, Reichenau barked, “Not you. Remain at attention. Explain yourself.”
Not having expected this turn of events, Bergmann looked around at the hostile eyes peering at him. “Sir, I’ve voiced my unease about Rousseau for some time. This is not a new concern.”
“You’re obsessed with her,” Meier broke in, “with no reason.”
Reichenau quieted Meier. “Let him speak. I want to hear what he has to say.”
“As the oberst pointed out to me,” Bergmann continued while glaring at Meier, “Rousseau worked as a translator even before our army set up this headquarters, and she continues here to this day.”
“That’s no basis for your suspicions.”
“I won’t dispute that, sir, but confidence in her has been elevated over the months—”
“So, we should torture and prosecute her because she does good work for us?”
“I’m saying that the level of trust accorded Rousseau gained her access to an incredible amount of secret information.”
“Have you heard her inquire for more depth on anything?�
�
Bergmann shook his head.
“Has she queried about material that she should not have? Have you seen her reading any classified documents she shouldn’t?”
Bergmann shook his head. “She only speaks to me when spoken to.”
“And why would that be?” Meier asked sarcastically.
Reichenau shot him a castigating glare and continued with Bergmann. “So, on what basis do you suspect her.”
Bergmann took a deep breath. “Sir, she’s present during sensitive discussions. Many times, the documents left lying around that she can see have higher classifications than she is allowed.”
“So? They have properly marked protective covers.”
“Sometimes those covers are folded back.”
“Have you seen her reading them? Do you think she can take a glance at a document, read it, and comprehend its content enough to communicate it intelligibly elsewhere? I assume since you took this to the Gestapo that you must have had her house watched. Did anything turn up from that?”
Bergmann shook his head. “She had an electrician come by shortly before Christmas. He had been there a week earlier and several weeks before then. The thing is, we can’t trace him.”
“Did you ask her about the electrician?”
Bergmann nodded. “This morning. She said she would get the contact information for me this evening.”
“Then what’s the problem? The man is probably somebody’s cousin’s cousin who does unlicensed work. You know how things go with electrical and other household repairs. If that’s all you have to go on—”
Bergman took a deep breath and exhaled. “Sir, if I may, we’ve been very frustrated in this headquarters because of British success in pinpointing and hitting our ammo dumps, motor pools, troop encampments, convoys, railroad shipments… The list goes on, and it’s not just the locations; it’s also the schedules. How can they know those things?”
“Is it possible that Great Britain has developed other ways of gathering intelligence?” Meier cut in. “What are those tall towers along their coast for? And are you suggesting that a translator in our headquarters can predict when and where our bomber and fighter escort formations are going to attack and get those details to British Fighter Command in time to meet them?” He tossed his head in exasperation. “Maybe you should be concentrating your efforts more broadly instead of zeroing in on one girl.”
