The Bells of Times Square

by Amy Lane

  “You are the only person in the world who would say that about me,” he said.

  Walter nodded, eyes searching his. “So that’s a part of you I have,” he said, his eyes starting to focus, moving cannily in the darkness. “I know you, that you’re loud, and that you’re funny. I know that you growl like a bear when you’re inside me. I know that your cock has a flat spot, right under the piss-slit. Nobody else knows this, right?”

  Nate’s heart lost some of its trouble. “Only you,” he said sincerely. “Come here, Walter. I’m lost and a little lonely. I don’t know . . . I don’t know how my heart should feel after that.”

  Honesty—his whole life spent alone so he never had to use it. With Walter, he had no other way.

  Walter rolled so his face was pressed against Nate’s bare chest. He turned just enough to rest his ear against Nate’s pectoral, and he listened.

  “My heartbeat?” Nate guessed.

  “Beating like fury,” Walter breathed. “That’s amazing. All of that for me.”

  Nate laughed a little, palmed the back of Walter’s head. “Yes,” he said, his heart easing. A man who did not love him? Maybe. But it was looking less and less likely with every breath. “If you knew who I am, knew my faith, knew me, before this little house, you would know how very much I have become for you.”

  “I like it,” Walter murmured. “I like who you are. Who you are with me. Stay like this. Stay like this, and I’ll stay.” He closed his eyes, and they lay, naked, letting the air cool their bodies in the breathless dark. Nate had a moment to hope—to pray even—that the Nazis really would wait until later, before his eyes closed in sleep.

  The room was dark and Nate was naked, and Walter was sitting on his chest, fully dressed, holding his hand over Nate’s mouth.

  “Someone hit our windowsill,” Walter hissed. There was another sound, a short, sharp rap of rocks on wood.

  Nate’s heart raced, and he locked eyes with Walter, then darted his gaze to the window. One of them was going to have to go see.

  Walter took his hand from Nate’s mouth, and Nate whispered, “Let me look. She’s seen me already. Go hide in the closet.”

  Walter opened his mouth to protest, and the next couple of rocks hit the window insistently. There was nothing for it. Walter had thought to bring Nate’s clothes, and he dressed quickly, scanning through the slats of the window for one person, or two, or a platoon of Vichy soldiers ready to tear the house apart with howitzers. Nate longed for his pistol and wished Walter had thought to bring it when he’d gotten dressed. Of course, Nate had the feeling Walter had been dressed when the rocks had first hit the window frame anyway. They had been planning to spend some time outfitting the garage that night, after all.

  Nate was half-terrified, half-relieved when the pale face appeared from the side of the house, distorted through the thin strips of light between the boards. There was no glass left, not in this window, and not for the first time, Nate wondered at Walter, cold and alone, huddling downstairs next to the wood stove in this palace of chilly winds.

  Did he think of this house differently now?

  “My boyfriend is coming tonight,” the woman hissed. “What took you so long to hear me? He’ll be here any minute!”

  “We were sleeping so we might leave tonight,” Nate hissed back unwisely. He was rattled by the question—they were sleeping, but sleeping naked, postcoital, and that was the last thing he wanted a stranger to know.

  “Don’t leave, stupid—hide. If you can just not get caught, I can get you to the signal. There’s a contact scheduled in five days. You two just need to stay out of sight.” So Nate had been right—she did know the resistance who communicated with Hector’s people. And Hector or someone like him would be flying a mission to listen for news in five days. Oh God. He could get them a plane.

  “Well, if your boyfriend was not so excited he took the day off—”

  “What can I say? I’m very good!” She spat the last part with viciousness, and Nate felt badly about baiting her.

  “Do we have time to run to the garage?” he asked, and he could see the negative shake of her head.

  “No. It’s bright as day out—three quarters moon. He’ll see you running. Hide inside—but don’t move until daylight.”

  “I always wanted to be a fish in a barrel,” Nate muttered, wondering if the idiom would translate.

  “I’ll try not to shoot you while I’m fucking a Nazi for my country!”

  “I’m sorry,” Nate said through the slat, immensely contrite. “Thank you.”

  She grunted in a distinctly masculine way. “Ugh, you are far too nice to be an American soldier. You must be a Jew. Is your companion as Jewish as you are?”

  “Not even close, but his French is worse.”

  Her harsh laugh reassured him. “Excellent.” Her voice softened. “Please, American. I have help for you. I will not turn you over to the pigs.”

  Nate tucked his shirt in and rolled up his cuffs, wondering how much of his undress she could see. “If I am alive tomorrow, I will believe you,” he conceded. She rapped sharply on the windowsill and disappeared, and Nate turned to dismantle the bed.

  He met Walter in the closet and shoved the folded—and soiled—linens onto the shelf on top of its more moth-eaten brethren.

  Then Walter surprised him by opening up the plywood door and jumping down into a completely fashioned hole in the floor.

  Nate wrinkled his nose in distaste. “How many insects are down here, do you think?”

  “None,” Walter said softly, matter-of-fact. “See this cloth I’m standing on? I used it to get rid of every creepy-crawly I could see. And look—” he indicated the two stools they’d been using about the house “—someplace to sit!”

  Nate grinned at him. “Next time, we shall have to bring the cards too,” he whispered genially. “Here, let me pull the wood over our heads.”

  This end of the house was elevated slightly by the stairs, so although the crawlspace was made close by the darkness, there was plenty enough room for the two of them to sit. Toward the front room, the boards above them dropped toward the foundation, leaving barely enough space for a man to lie flat. Under the closet, surrounded by water pipes, they were lucky indeed.

  They were stowed neatly, two bugs in the corner of the drawer, when they heard the tromping up the porch stairs and that cheerful, lascivious voice echoing loudly through the house. “Nobody home again? Looks like we shall have to investigate!”

  “Oh, Horst. The only thing you want to investigate is my dripping gash!”

  Nate grimaced and peered at Walter by the thin light through the floorboards. He had his “no bullshit” eyebrow crooked. He might not have understood the banter, but he certainly got the gist. Sadly, it was the most sophisticated thing Horst had to say. The sex noises, loud and uninhibited, started again, and Nate had to give the girl (Horst called repeatedly for Ouida, so Nate was going to assume that was her name) credit: she sounded excited about the whole affair, even though he was reasonably sure she was not.

  Seeing Nate’s grimace, Walter leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Why doesn’t it sound as gross when we’re doing it?”

  Nate shoved his fist in his mouth and manfully tried to hold back his glare. Laughter threatened to choke him, and Walter didn’t look the least repentant. This moment, deadly serious as it was, was suddenly high farce, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to block out the noises and his sudden intense need to guffaw, which would give away their position and probably get them both killed.

  He opened his eyes to the darkness, and Walter winked at him. Nate’s head bumped up against the flooring, even sitting on the stool. He wanted to stretch, but he was afraid of making too much noise.

  He was surprised and moved when Walter crab-walked toward him, setting the stool down close enough for Walter to lean against his side. Nate lifted his arm and wrapped it around Walter’s shoulder, laying his cheek against his lover’s clean, bri
ght-orange hair. The laughter subsided, and the terror too. He closed his eyes, pictured the German officer discovering them, pictured surrendering to death, to the forgiving God he hoped existed, with serenity and grace. He was still afraid—he had so much he wanted to do, so many plans for that utopian moment embodied by “after the war”—but his heart quieted, and he no longer feared breaking into hysterical laughter that would undo them.

  Behind his eyes, the moments with Walter painfully snapped like pictures in his mind, ran like a film, and he found himself thinking about his faith. So, Leviticus says it was wrong. Leviticus also says we can sell our daughters into slavery. I would prefer not.

  Walter shifted against him, and Nate resisted the temptation to hold him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

  Ahava, the love of passion. I would love Walter above any woman as Jacob loved Rachel more than Leah. There is no story that says that is wrong. I would love him as a partner and friend, raya, as my passion and lover, ahava, and bound to him in both loves, I would find dod. The mishkav zakhar we can keep to ourselves. And even that was lovely, ferocious and beautiful, the merging of bodies and hearts. Walter, I need to hear the words from you, tateleh, my faith is bound in words.

  But here, under the obscenity of sex and lusty screaming in their ears, there was no place for words.

  Beside him, he felt Walter’s tentative stretch, and he breathed deeply and silently, straightening his spine from the crouch on the stool. His body ached and cramped, and his breath—which had come easily enough when he was laboring inside Walter’s body—was suddenly ruched under his ribs and contorting his body with pain.

  “Sh,” Walter whispered in his ear. “Getting loud.”

  Across the house, Ouida gave a gasp and a squeal, and Nate took a moment to hope that Horst was at least well-endowed. Not all of that noise should be feigned!

  Can’t breathe, Nate mouthed, and Walter straightened immediately. Nimbly, he hopped off the stool and sat, legs splayed in front of him. He patted his lap gingerly, and Nate took the hint. He got down heavily to his knees and stretched out, resting his head on Walter’s thigh. The cramping in his chest eased, and breath came easier. Walter leaned back on one arm, and then, with the other hand, he began a soothing stroke of his fingers through Nate’s unrecoverable hair. Gentle, sweet, the touch of a lover not a fellow sinner, Walter eased Nate’s fears, his discomfort, his breathing.

  Courtship, love—not words until some woman from France brought them to England. Ahava, raya, dod, it boils down to this: one soul comforting another when ugly death surrounds us. I love you too, Walter. This touch, this is real.

  Later Nate would wonder how much time had passed. Did he and Walter make love for hours or minutes? Why did it feel as though years had passed with Ouida screaming above the floorboards?

  Finally, finally, the noise quieted, and the sharp and acrid odor of tobacco filtered between the floorboards and through the house. Horst must have had more time this evening than the last, because there had been no moment for a cigarette before.

  “So,” Ouida said throatily on an exhale of smoke, “you have this evening off. Will you still have the next one or shall I be alone?”

  Horst’s laugh was low and filthy. “Oh, Ouida. I do not flatter myself that you are ever alone. No. Last time I was here with my dirty little screw, someone dosed the canteen with some sort of poison; the entire barracks got the runs and turned into blithering morons, missing the damned toilets.”

  “Ugh!” Ouida could have won awards as an actress. That sound was pure poetry. “What a hideous idea. True desperation, that.”

  “Yes, well, my commandant wanted his best lieutenant at the barracks for the next night, so my schedule changed.” Horst was preening, bragging to a pretty girl in his bed. If the man would not have been inclined to kill them all without conscience, Nate might have felt bad for the deception.

  “And you are such a man?” Ouida said playing coy. “Such a man that, should all hell break loose, the barracks would stand or fall for you?”

  “I am,” Horst answered smugly. “Just this morning, I found a man skulking at the edges of our barracks.”

  “Oui?” Ouida asked, nothing but casualness in her tone.

  “Oui,” Horst replied, his voice muffled, probably in her flesh.

  “What did you do?”

  “I had him shot, of course!” Horst laughed. “And when we searched the body, we found a Liberator on his person, so it was the right decision!”

  “A Liberator?”

  Nate, lying with his head pillowed on Walter’s leg, struggled to sit upright.

  “What?” Walter whispered.

  Nate shook his head, unable to explain what he was thinking in a whisper. Instead, he sat and stared tensely at the damp brown boards on the underside of the floor.

  “Yes, can you believe that? He comes to spy on an SS office with a one-shot gun?” There was the sound of a man spitting, and Nate’s stomach clenched. “Stupid bastard. We shot him down like a dog.”

  “You didn’t even question him?” Ouida asked, and something about her voice raised the hackles on Nate’s neck.

  She knew him. Oh God, she knew him.

  Horst’s voice sounded like he’d shrugged. “What was to learn? Diarrhea? Moved outhouses? Child’s tricks.”

  Ouida’s laugh was brittle and ugly, and Nate closed his eyes. This was not going to end well.

  “They kept you from noticing the three planes’ worth of guns and resistance soldiers that were dropped in that night,” Ouida said, her voice suddenly frigid.

  “Ouida? Is that a Lib—”

  One shot. A one-shot gun.

  One shot was all a woman needed to undo everything she’d striven for, and to violate the safety of make-believe Nate and Walter had carved from an abandoned house and need.

  Walter jumped against him as the report rang out through the house, followed by the thump of a body. Ouida’s shrieking, sobbing fury was not far behind. Nate stood and pushed against the displaced floorboards, and Walter helped him, both of them sniffing as the smell of gunpowder pervaded the house.

  “What in the hell?” Walter asked, his voice sounding obscenely loud as they pulled themselves from under the floor and out of the closet. “He came, they fucked, they talked, she shot him?”

  “He told her he’d killed someone,” Nate filled in, wondering how much Walter had understood with his limited knowledge of French. “I’m thinking she knew who it was.”

  They treaded quietly but quickly, unsure what they would encounter when they broached the front room.

  A flashlight illuminated the room, giving the forms and shadows a freakish edge. Ouida was standing, naked and debauched, in the middle of the room, the gun still clutched in her hand. Horst—apparently—was on his stomach, as though he’d gone to roll off the couch and had been shot before he could get up. The hole in his head was nearly as big as an orange, shattered bone, gray matter, blood, all of it a mangle around the dead man’s once-plain, high-cheekboned face, and Nate couldn’t look at it for long.

  Instead, he concentrated on Ouida, who was weeping, clenching the gun and grinding it into her forehead.

  “Walter, tateleh,” he said, using English without thinking, “go get her a blanket please. We need to calm her down.”

  Walter glanced sharply at him but trotted down the hall anyway, and Nate took stock of the situation. Of all things, what surprised him was the smell.

  Directly under the smell of the cigarettes and the gunpowder was the smell of the wood stove and the rabbit they’d stored in the cupboard for their next day’s lunch.

  “It’s just as well,” he said to Ouida in French. “He would have smelled our dinner if you’d stayed here much longer. One way or another, the man had to die.”

  “Gerard,” she mumbled brokenly. “We were friends in school. Always, always he followed me and Everard. He was supposed to observe, nothing else. Poor boy.” She dropped the gun then, useless now that s
he’d used the shot. “Poor, poor boy.” Without mercy, she glared at the man she’d killed, close enough to spit soundly on his corpse as his blood saturated the couch cushion and pooled on the floor below. “Pig!” She spat again. “Fucking pig! Your cock was tiny, you fucking pig! It was like screwing my little finger!”

  “Oh, and that is information I never wanted,” Nate said good-naturedly, taking the sheet from Walter and wrapping it around her shoulders. “But here, sweet girl. You need to wrap up and get dressed, and then we need to dispose of the body here in the woods.”

  Ouida shivered in the confines of the sheet and looked up at both of them, seemingly stunned.

  “Why dispose of the body?” she asked. “You two are going to need to leave this place anyway!”

  “Yes, my dear,” Nate said, thinking as fast as he could, “but if he is found fully dressed in the woods, this will be an act of war, and they will search for men, but if they find him naked in this house—”

  “They will know it was me,” she filled in, voice wooden. “I am so stupid. Yes. Yes, I understand.” She shook herself, trying to get her bearings. “You two, take him out into the woods—this is a good plan. With any luck the scavengers,” she spat, “will have eaten most of him before they can find him. I will clean up here. Try to erase your presence.” She scented the air. “Is that rabbit I smell?” Then, absurdly, “I’m hungry. In fact, I’m ravenous. Can I eat some of that?”

  “Really?” Nate asked, incredulous. He met eyes with Walter who was listening to the two of them alertly. “She wants to eat our dinner.”

  Walter’s eyes widened. “Of course. Tell her to make herself at home. Save some for us, since we never got to it. And we’re going to . . .?”

  “Dress the dead man and hide him out in the woods.”

  Walter didn’t spare any surprise for that plan. “Of course we are. Damn it, we should have just stayed there until this whole thing blew over.”